The man opened the corners of the handkerchief, and showed a waxen leg as livid as the leg of a cadaver and on it was painted a festering sore. The heat had softened it and made it shiny, as if moist with sweat.
"Don't you see it's melting?"
And Colas stretched out his hand to feel it.
"It's soft. If you go on walking, it'll drip on to the road."
Aligi repeated:
"I can't ride. I made a vow to go on foot."
And, not without anxiety, he examined the leg by raising it to the level of his oblique eyes.
On this scorching road, amid this dust, under this great strong light, nothing sadder could be imagined than this emaciated man and that livid thing, repugnant as an amputated limb, which was to perpetuate the memory of a sore on walls already covered by silent and motionless effigies of so many infirmities visited upon human flesh through all the centuries.
"Hey, there!"
And the horses resumed their trot.