Was that it? Were those the feet, there, emerging faintly from the distance? Yes, there was something about them. Yes! Memory was in travail. Yes, yes, yes! No! How could he be sure? Ice ran down into his empty eyes. The footfalls were already passing. They were gone, swallowed up already by time and space. Had that been that _cachorra_? Nothing in his life had been so hard to meet as this insidious drain of distrust in his own powers; this sense of a traitor within the walls. His iron-gray hair had turned white. It was always this now, from the beginning of the day to the end of the night: how was he to know? How was he to be inevitably, unshakably, sure? Curiously, after all this purgatory of doubts, he did know them. For a moment at least, when he had heard them, he was unshakably sure. It was on an evening of the winter holidays, the Portuguese festival of _Menin' Jesus_. Christ was born again in a hundred mangers on a hundred tiny altars; there was cake and wine; songs went shouting by to the accompaniment of mandolins and tramping feet. The wind blew cold under a clear sky. In all the houses there were lights; even in Boaz Negro's shop a lamp was lit just now, for a man had been in for a pair of boots which Boaz had patched. The man had gone out again. Boaz was thinking of blowing out the light. It meant nothing to him. He leaned forward, judging the position of the lamp-chimney by the heat on his face, and puffed out his cheeks to blow. Then his cheeks collapsed suddenly, and he sat back again. It was not odd that he had failed to hear the footfalls until they were actually within the door. A crowd of merry-makers was passing just then; their songs and tramping almost shook the shop. Boaz sat back. Beneath his passive exterior his nerves thrummed; his muscles had grown as hard as wood. Yes! Yes! But no! He had heard nothing; no more than a single step, a single foot-pressure on the planks within the door. Dear God! He could not tell! Going through the pain of an enormous effort, he opened his lips. "What can I do for you?" "Well, I--I don't know. To tell the truth--" The voice was unfamiliar, but it might be assumed. Boaz held himself. His face remained blank, interrogating, slightly helpless. "I am a little deaf," he said. "Come nearer." The footfalls came half way across the intervening floor, and there appeared to hesitate. The voice, too, had a note of uncertainty. "I was just looking around. I have a pair of--well, you mend shoes?" Boaz nodded his head. It was not in response to the words, for they meant nothing. What he had heard was the footfalls on the floor. Now he was sure. As has been said, for a moment at least after he had heard them he was unshakably sure. The congestion of his muscles had passed. He was at peace. The voice became audible once more. Before the massive preoccupation of the blind man it became still less certain of itself. "Well, I haven't got the shoes with me. I was--just looking around."