"Perhaps not infallible, but healthy. And yours are ailing."
"Are mine ailing?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"My senses?"
"Yes. And your reason too."
"You know that?"
"Yes, I know it for certain."
It was as though the sick man for one moment doubted himself, while he kept his eyes fixed on the boy's steady, blue eyes and read a strange lucidity in them. But something inside him made him unable or unwilling to overstep a certain boundary which was like a line of suffering in his sick mind, a grievous horizon, an horizon which was too near, which he could not look at from a distance, which had neither light nor darkness behind it, but only mist.
"And what about this?" he asked, pointing with his stick to the dune on which they stood.
"What, Uncle?"
"This, this, underneath us! This moaning and sighing and imploring for help!"
He threw himself flat on the sand; he dug furiously:
"Yes!" he shouted. "Wait! Wait a moment! I'm coming, I'm coming!"
And, rooting with his hands, like an animal, he sent the sand flying around him.
