Yet he knew himself detached from them, inactive, incapable,
because he could not see with the eyes of the body. The great essential
thing to him was that one thing he had lost. A man might be a cripple and
still direct the great concerns of life and the business of life. He
might be shorn of limb and scarred of body, but with eye sight still
direct the courses of great schemes, in whatever sphere of life his
purposes were at work. He might be deaf to every sound and forever dumb,
but seeing enabled him still to carry forward every enterprise. In
darkness, however, those things were naught, because judgment must depend
on the eyes and senses of others. The report might be true or false, the
deputy might deceive, and his blind chief might never know the truth
unless some other spectator of his schemes should report it; and the
truth could not surely be checked, save by some one, perhaps, whose life
was joined to his, by one that truly loved him, whose fate was his.
His brain was afire. By one that truly loved him! Who was there that
loved him? Who was there at one with him in all his deep designs, in all
he had done and meant to do? Neither brother, nor sister, nor friend, nor
any other. None of his blood was there who could share with him the
constructive work he had set out to do.
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