He sat down beside her without looking at her.
“What is the matter with you?” she said, approaching her face to his. “Don’t grieve,” she added, taking his hand and laying hers upon it on the bed.
Jorge pushed her hand away coldly and rose abruptly to his feet, with set teeth. He felt an impulse of brutal anger, and was about to leave the room, afraid of himself, afraid of committing a crime, when he heard her voice speaking to him in sorrowful accents,—
“What is this, Jorge? What is the matter with you?”
He turned round and saw her half sitting up in bed, her dilated eyes fixed upon him and anguish depicted on her face, down which two tears rolled silently. He fell on his knees beside the bed, caught her hands in his, and broke into sobs.
“What is this?” asked the voice of Julião at the door of the bedroom.
Jorge rose to his feet, very pale.
Julião led him into the parlor, and standing before him with folded arms and a terrible look upon his face,—
“Are you mad?” he said. “You are aware of her condition, and yet you yield to your feelings in this way before her?”
“I could not control myself.”