"Your hand is as hot as fire," said the girl at last, "and it throbs and beats as if there were a little hammer inside; and your step is uncertain. Do your wet clothes hinder you, or are you ill?"
"Oh! child--ask me no questions."
"But you frighten me. Trust me and let me know about your troubles."
The blind man stood still for a moment and pressed his hand over his eyes.
"They burn and ache like live coals! My God, my God! grant that I may not be discouraged."
The little girl was overcome with grief at seeing him stand thus wringing his hands in a convulsion of pain, as he pressed them to the aching sockets.
"Oh! poor, poor man--and I cannot help you. If I could cure you by tearing out my heart, oh! how gladly would I do it."
"Your words are balm, they have a wondrous healing power. Come, now I can go on again."
"Wait a little while--I will fetch some water and bind you up afresh," said the child, and she would have gone to the river, but he held her firmly.
"No--not an instant more. Let us hasten onwards--every moment is of importance. Think of my poor brethren."