Berm. By God, Señor de Mejia, I am sure that I shall go out of this house either an idiot or a madman!
Laz. When do you calculate that I shall suffer the decisive attack—the last: that of eternal night; that which surrounds us with blackness for ever? How easily it is known that I have been a poet, eh? Eternal night, eternal blackness! Is it not true? However, say—when? What term do you allow me? A year? three months? or is it immediately? Candidly. You see, now, that I still hear, and understand, and even speak poetically. Eternal blackness, eternal night! However, let me know—let me know. A year, eh?
Berm. It is readily perceived that you are a poet. You plunge into the regions of phantasy. You see, your nervous system is shaken, somewhat shaken. I don’t deny it; but I make myself responsible for your cure; do you want more?
Laz. We are coming to the point. As for my cure, I am ready to believe that. But the decisive attack—when? I have such a feeling these few days past, that I think it will be very soon.
Berm. Ravings, ravings! these are ravings.
Laz. Precisely. Ah! you have said it—ravings. Come, an effort. Will it be to-morrow, will it be to-day?
Berm. Neither to-day, nor to-morrow, nor within twenty years, if you keep your senses.
Laz. If I keep my senses! You are ingenious. “I shall not lose my senses if I keep my senses.” Naturally.
Berm. A good sign: now we are joking.
Laz. Yes, I am very quiet. At first I felt a wave of blood roll through my brain; then a wave of ice, which spread through all my being. And now—well—quiet—tired, a little tired, nothing more.