“Fabián, bring me some cool water from the well! … Esteban, don't let Cosme gallop the chestnut horse! … The sun, my God, the sun …”

Hipólito panicked. He had not expected this and had never heard a delirious person. All he could think to do was awaken Jenaro, who sat up startled and bleary-eyed on the carpet where he had been sound asleep, his eyelids drooping stubbornly in spite of his astonishment at Santa's incoherent rants. She lay facing the wall, her head buried in the pillows and her frame totally motionless, as if immobilized by the weight of the blankets. Occasionally her blathering ceased, and then she panted as if she were trudging up a steep slope or arriving, fatigued and mewling, from a long journey on foot.

Neither the boy nor the blind man said anything. One might think that Jenaro (now wide awake) was the blind one, to judge by his fixed stare, which seemed directed less at Santa's person than at her words, her wandering nonsense, that acquired an other-worldly resonance in the predawn silence of the darkened house. Hipólito, by the same token, seemed more like the terrified child, moving close to Jenaro, his hand fumbling silently for physical comfort and moral support on top of the boy's tousled head. The two of them sat hushed, their faces turned toward Santa's bed, frightened by the sudden, disturbing disarray of her thoughts and words, which suggested intoxication or madness.

“Could there be a spell on her, patrón?” Jenaro was finally able to ask, very softly.

“Who knows what she has, Jenaro, but it's bad! … Do you think she might die?”

“Do I think she might die?” repeated Jenaro. And after a long, thoughtful pause, he concluded: “Only God knows …”

At that moment, the sick woman interrupted their whispered conversation with a coughing fit. Turning away from the wall she threw off the covers, raised her head, and leaned toward her two anxious caretakers with a searching look. She seemed not to recognize them.

“Santita,” pleaded Hipólito, lunging to her side as if he were not blind, “don't uncover yourself! Tell me what you want …”

“To spit,” stammered Santa, trying to keep it off the sheets.

“Quick, Jenaro, get her something to spit in.”

Jenaro did so, and Santa spit and coughed more, sputtering feverishly and looking at Hipólito, then at Jenaro, then at the long, tremulous flame of the candle that had almost disappeared into the candlestick. Finally, she let herself fall back onto the pillows, briefly tried to fan herself with a handkerchief, and slipped away into her somnolent delirium:

“Oh, this sun … my God!”

“Blood, patrón. Santa is spitting blood!” announced Jenaro, carefully examining the puddled liquid in the dish.

“Get it out of here, Jenaro!” ordered the piano player, as if he couldn't bear to see. And then, in a soliloquy intended for the ears of nobody in particular, he added: “Blood! So she is going to die!”