He covered his face with his hands, and stood still, in pure unconsciousness, neither hearing nor feeling nor knowing, like a dark sea-weed deep in the sea. With no Time and no World, in the deeps that are timeless and worldless.
Then when his heart and his belly were restored, his mind began to flicker again softly, like a soft flame flowing without departing.
So he wiped his face with his hands, and put his serape over his head, and, silent inside an aura of pain, he went out and took the drum, carrying it downstairs.
Martin, the man who loved him, was hovering in the zaguan.
“Ya, Patrón?” he said.
“Ya!” said Ramón.
The man ran indoors, where a lamp was burning in the big, dark kitchen, and ran out again with an armful of the woven straw mats.
“Where, Patrón?” he said.
Ramón hesitated in the centre of the courtyard, and looked at the sky.
“Viene el agua?” he said.