“The Great Carbuncle,” cried a peevish voice behind them. “The Great Humbug! If you have found it, prithee point it out to me.”
They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about his person. Though its radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he I turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. “Where is your Great Humbug?” he repeated. “I challenge you to make me see it!”
“There,” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the illuminated cliff. “Take off those abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it!”
Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the Cynic’s sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze at an eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But scarcely had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in very truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view ail objects through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him forever.
