no idea he was so attached to him. If what I fear should happen
Mercedes. How is your uncle?
Pepito. He suffers greatly, but says nothing. Sometimes he calls out 'Teodora' in a low harsh voice, and sometimes 'Ernest'; and then he tugs violently at the sheets, and lies quiet again as a statue, staring vacantly into space. Now his brow is bathed in the cold sweat of death, and then fever seizes him. He sits up in bed, listens attentively, and shouts that he and she are waiting for him. He tries to jump out of bed to rush at them, and all my father's entreaties and commands barely suffice to restrain him or soothe him. There's no quieting him. Anger races hot through his veins, and thought is a flame. It is shocking, mother, to see the bitter way his lips contract, and how his fingers close in a vice, with head all wild, and pupils dilated as though they drank in with yearning and despair every shadow that floats around the chamber.
Mercedes. How does your father bear it?
Pepito. He groans and breathes of vengeance. He, too, mutters the names of Teodora and Ernest. I hope to God he will not meet either, for if he should, small chance there is of restraining his fury.
Mercedes. Your father is a good man.
Pepito. Yes, but with a temper
Mercedes. It is not easily aroused, however. But when he has cause
Pepito. With all due respect, he's then a very tiger.
Mercedes. Only when provoked.
Pepito. I don't know about other occasions, but this time he certainly has provocation enough. And Teodora?
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