“There are the beautiful things, the beautiful little things—­the flowers, the lichens among the rocks, the lightness and softness on a piece of fur, the far sky with its drifting down of clouds, the sunsets and the stars.  And there is you.  For you alone it is good to have sight, to see your sweet, serene face, your kindly lips, your dear, beautiful hands folded together...  It is these eyes of mine you won, these eyes that hold me to you, that these idiots seek.  Instead, I must touch you, hear you, and never see you again.  I must come under that roof of rock and stone and darkness, that horrible roof under which your imagination stoops...  No; you would not have me do that?”

A disagreeable doubt had arisen in him.  He stopped, and left the thing a question.

“I wish,” she said, “sometimes——­” She paused.

“Yes,” said he, a little apprehensively.

“I wish sometimes—­you would not talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“I know it’s pretty—­it’s your imagination.  I love it, but now——­”

He felt cold. “Now?” he said faintly.

She sat quite still.

“You mean--you think--I should be better, better perhaps-----”

He was realising things very swiftly.  He felt anger, indeed, anger at the dull course of fate, but also sympathy for her lack of understanding—­a sympathy near akin to pity.

“Dear,” he said, and he could see by her whiteness how intensely her spirit pressed against the things she could not say.  He put his arms about her, he kissed her ear, and they sat for a time in silence.

“If I were to consent to this?” he said at last, in a voice that was very gentle.

She flung her arms about him, weeping wildly.  “Oh, if you would,” she sobbed, “if only you would!”

* * * * *

For a week before the operation that was to raise him from his servitude and inferiority to the level of a blind citizen, Nunez knew nothing of sleep, and all through the warm sunlit hours, while the others slumbered happily, he sat brooding or wandered aimlessly, trying to bring his mind to bear on his dilemma.  He had given his answer, he had given his consent, and still he was not sure.  And at last work-time was over, the sun rose in splendour over the golden crests, and his last day of vision began for him.  He had a few minutes with Medina-sarote before she went apart to sleep.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I shall see no more.”

“Dear heart!” she answered, and pressed his hands with all her strength.

“They will hurt you but little,” she said; “and you are going through this pain—­you are going through it, dear lover, for me...  Dear, if a woman’s heart and life can do it, I will repay you.  My dearest one, my dearest with the tender voice, I will repay.”

He was drenched in pity for himself and her.

He held her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers, and looked on her sweet face for the last time.  “Good-bye!” he whispered at that dear sight, “good-bye!”