Finally at two o'clock, out of his mind with rage and pain, and flinging himself half out of the bed until his head struck the floor, Manuel cried: "God condemn your soul to the hottest hell there is. A thousand devils torture you forever, Esteban. God condemn your soul, do you hear?" At first, the air gone out of his body, Esteban went out into the hall and leaned against the door, his mouth and eyes wide open. Still he heard from within: "Yes, Esteban, may God damn your beastly soul forever, do you hear that? For coming between me and what was mine by right. She was mine, do you hear, and what right had you...." and he would go off into an elaborate description of the Perichole.
These outbursts recurred hourly. It was some time before Esteban was able to realize that his brother's mind was not then clear. After some moments of horror, in which his being a devout believer had its part, he would return to the room and go about his duties with bent head.
Towards dawn his brother became serener. (For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation?) It was in one of these intervals that Manuel said quite calmly:
"God's son! I feel better, Esteban. Those cloths must be good after all. You'll see. I'll be up and around tomorrow. You haven't slept for days. You'll see I won't cause you any more trouble, Esteban."
"It's no trouble, you fool."
"You mustn't take me seriously when I try and stop you putting on the old cloths, Esteban."
A long pause. At last Esteban brought out, barely audible:
"I think ... don't you think it would be fine if I sent for the Perichole? She could just come and see you for a few minutes, I mean...."
"Her? You still thinking about her? I wouldn't have her here for anything. No."
But Esteban was not content yet. He dragged up a few more phrases from the very centre of his being: