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It
is
only
Hell
that
is
real
.
”
Sarria
caught
him
by
the
arm
.
“
You
are
a
fool
and
a
child
,
”
he
exclaimed
,
“
and
it
is
blasphemy
that
you
are
saying
.
I
forbid
it
.
You
understand
?
I
forbid
it
.
”
Vanamee
turned
on
him
with
a
sudden
cry
.
“
Then
,
tell
your
God
to
give
her
back
to
me
!
”
Sarria
started
away
from
him
,
his
eyes
widening
in
astonishment
,
surprised
out
of
all
composure
by
the
other
’
s
outburst
.
Vanamee
’
s
swarthy
face
was
pale
,
the
sunken
cheeks
and
deep
-
set
eyes
were
marked
with
great
black
shadows
.
The
priest
no
longer
recognised
him
.
The
face
,
that
face
of
the
ascetic
,
lean
,
framed
in
its
long
black
hair
and
pointed
beard
,
was
quivering
with
the
excitement
of
hallucination
.
It
was
the
face
of
the
inspired
shepherds
of
the
Hebraic
legends
,
living
close
to
nature
,
the
younger
prophets
of
Israel
,
dwellers
in
the
wilderness
,
solitary
,
imaginative
,
believing
in
the
Vision
,
having
strange
delusions
,
gifted
with
strange
powers
.
In
a
brief
second
of
thought
,
Sarria
understood
.
Out
into
the
wilderness
,
the
vast
arid
desert
of
the
Southwest
,
Vanamee
had
carried
his
grief
.
For
days
,
for
weeks
,
months
even
,
he
had
been
alone
,
a
solitary
speck
lost
in
the
immensity
of
the
horizons
;
continually
he
was
brooding
,
haunted
with
his
sorrow
,
thinking
,
thinking
,
often
hard
put
to
it
for
food
.
The
body
was
ill
-
nourished
,
and
the
mind
,
concentrated
forever
upon
one
subject
,
had
recoiled
upon
itself
,
had
preyed
upon
the
naturally
nervous
temperament
,
till
the
imagination
had
become
exalted
,
morbidly
active
,
diseased
,
beset
with
hallucinations
,
forever
in
search
of
the
manifestation
,
of
the
miracle
.
It
was
small
wonder
that
,
bringing
a
fancy
so
distorted
back
to
the
scene
of
a
vanished
happiness
,
Vanamee
should
be
racked
with
the
most
violent
illusions
,
beset
in
the
throes
of
a
veritable
hysteria
.
“
Tell
your
God
to
give
her
back
to
me
,
”
he
repeated
with
fierce
insistence
.
It
was
the
pitch
of
mysticism
,
the
imagination
harassed
and
goaded
beyond
the
normal
round
,
suddenly
flipping
from
the
circumference
,
spinning
off
at
a
tangent
,
out
into
the
void
,
where
all
things
seemed
possible
,
hurtling
through
the
dark
there
,
groping
for
the
supernatural
,
clamouring
for
the
miracle
.
And
it
was
also
the
human
,
natural
protest
against
the
inevitable
,
the
irrevocable
;
the
spasm
of
revolt
under
the
sting
of
death
,
the
rebellion
of
the
soul
at
the
victory
of
the
grave
.
“
He
can
give
her
back
to
me
if
He
only
will
,
”
Vanamee
cried
.
“
Sarria
,
you
must
help
me
.
I
tell
you
—
I
warn
you
,
sir
,
I
can
’
t
last
much
longer
under
it
.
My
head
is
all
wrong
with
it
—
I
’
ve
no
more
hold
on
my
mind
.
Something
must
happen
or
I
shall
lose
my
senses
.
I
am
breaking
down
under
it
all
,
my
body
and
my
mind
alike
.
Bring
her
to
me
;
make
God
show
her
to
me
.
If
all
tales
are
true
,
it
would
not
be
the
first
time
.
If
I
cannot
have
her
,
at
least
let
me
see
her
as
she
was
,
real
,
earthly
,
not
her
spirit
,
her
ghost
.
I
want
her
real
self
,
undefiled
again
.
If
this
is
dementia
,
then
let
me
be
demented
.
But
help
me
,
you
and
your
God
;
create
the
delusion
,
do
the
miracle
.
”
“
Stop
!
”
cried
the
priest
again
,
shaking
him
roughly
by
the
shoulder
.
“
Stop
.
Be
yourself
.
This
is
dementia
;
but
I
shall
NOT
let
you
be
demented
.
Think
of
what
you
are
saying
.
