He
would never again be able to do more than hobble about on
crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was a cruel blow to the
old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith in his saints,
and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and reproaches of
them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had she
known that such blasphemies were being committed under her
roof.
"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!" cried
Juan; "only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and
there was that whole box of candles I paid for with my own money
last month, and burned to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very
sheep-shearing! He may sit in the dark, for all me, to the end of
time! He is no saint at all! What are they for, if not to keep us from
harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no more. I believe the
Americans are right, who laugh at us." From morning till night,
and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he slept
little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and
grumbled and groaned.
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