He cannot speak, but he brings forward the thin arm from which rags hang down and drip; and his imperfect hand, as torturing to the mind as discordant chords, points to the place of his heart.

I see that heart, buried in the darkness of the flesh, in the black blood of the living--for only shed blood is red.

I see him profoundly, with my heart.

If he said anything he would say the words that I still hear falling, drop by drop, as I heard them yonder--"Nothing can be done, nothing." I try to move, to rid myself of him.

But I cannot, I am pinioned in a sort of nightmare; and if he had not himself faded away I should have stayed there forever, dazzled in presence of his darkness.
This man said nothing.