"From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God's hand: and he is just."
"Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?"
With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered--"I have no physician."
"This must be one of his delusions," thought Juan; "or else, since he cannot have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see any one else."
He said aloud,--"That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought not to neglect lawful means of cure. Señor Sylvester Areto is a very skilful physician; you might safely place yourself in his hands."
"Only there is one slight objection--my father and my brothers would not permit me to see him."
Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to extract from him some additional information respecting his brother, he turned the conversation.
"When did this malady seize you?" he asked.
"Close the door gently, and I will tell you all. And oh! tread softly, lest my mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out with watching, should wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and my anguish unconfessed to the grave."
Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin's couch.