Little by little he grew better. Nacha's presence was a powerful tonic. Every afternoon they went out together for a walk to Palermo, to the Zoological Gardens, to Lezama Park. In a few months Monsalvat had recovered from his seriously weakened condition.
But while his general health improved, his eyesight grew steadily poorer. Newspapers were now quite beyond him. He could read nothing but books in large type, and then only with the help of a magnifying glass. One morning he had to admit that even that had become impossible. The objects in his room had receded, and came forward only to meet his outstretched hands. He was living in a mysterious, all-enveloping, and constantly deepening dusk. Up to that moment he had paid small heed to this trouble, believing it would pass with the rest of his ill-health. But on that morning the cruel thought came to him in all its horror—night was falling on his life! He was alone in a vast solitude, cut off from the world, from his friends, from Nacha. The realization of what was happening to him taxed all his resources of courage. As he searched the depths of his soul for the needed help, the world seemed to grow small, as ephemeral as a glittering bubble. After all, this last and greatest catastrophe was but a trifling detail in the universal tragedy! The ideas he had lived by lost their significance too in the slow, throbbing ache of this new pain. Death had already claimed a part of him!
He had mentioned to Nacha on several occasions that his sight was dim, and she, from her own observations had been well aware of it. Quite recently he had taken to leaning on her arm when they went out walking. But he could speak of this trouble only so long as he thought it unimportant. Now he was afraid to speak of it. Doing so might make it worse! He would say nothing; and when it had passed, he would remember his fears and confess them to Nacha. But would it pass? Monsalvat tried to use the power of suggestion on himself, fill his mind with hope, not so much for the sake of the hope itself as to be able to live, to go on living. How face the prospect of endless night? How endure the touch of Death's hand on living eyes?
But when Nacha came to his room one morning she understood what had happened. She did not utter a word; but Monsalvat felt that she had sensed his fear, his certainty! As she stood beside him, emotion mastered him for the moment. Holding out his arms to her, he drew her to him.
"Nacha!" His voice broke and he made a quick gesture, hinting at the cause of his distress.
"Don't feel so badly about it. We'll go to the doctor's this afternoon. Surely they will get well...!"
But her eyes filled with tears and, though he could no longer see her, she hid her face.
Nacha had already spoken of her fears to Torres, who called on his friend and watched him intently. He gave Nacha little encouragement. This had prepared her somewhat for an unfavorable report from the specialist. But she had spent the interval between Torres' visit and this call at the clinic in a state of increasing anxiety. Whenever she was with Monsalvat she could not keep her eyes away from his, as though her own clear sight must somehow summon his vision from the depths into which it had retreated.
The specialist made a long and thorough examination, and shook his head. There was no hope——
"Your case is not so serious, brother!" he said to Monsalvat. "I'll give you some drops which will improve your general eye condition a little."