Juan was so shaken by the disturbing sight that he stood for a moment inactive.
"Don Geronimo, Don Geronimo!" he said, his compassion so deep that it must have assured a man even on the threshold of death.
Don Geronimo could not move his head to see who it was that spoke in pity; he could only roll his eye, even that slight exertion seeming to rend his soul with pain. He did not speak; his great agony had not left him even a groan. Juan cut his bonds and lifted him from the horse, believing him on the verge of death. Don Geronimo lay limp in Juan's arms, staring without sense or thought, it appeared, into his face. His throat constricted, his jaw sagged. Juan believed the door opened to let his soul step out into the mystery.
"I am a dead man, Juan," Don Geronimo said, his voice a husky whisper. "Save yourself from the fire—go!"
"Can you ride, Don Geronimo?"
"I can only die," Don Geronimo answered, bitter for his own weakness, it seemed. "The fire-is near—ride, Juan, ride for your life! Mine is done."
He sank to the ground, closing his eyes, the last of his strength consumed in these words. Juan threw the sheepskin on the horse, lifted Don Geronimo to it in the position he had lain before, and bound him there. The horse was restive; it braced its legs and tugged to break loose, snorting in fear of the fire.
