Beetle legs ran across his face and he woke up. He stretched and got up, threw the tiny insect on the floor and crushed it, still half asleep. Then he looked down over his body searchingly, pleased with the way he could make his arm muscles twitch and jump as he wanted. He rubbed his hairy legs, the dead beetle sticking all the time to one of his soles. Morning lay at his window – a broad glimmer that still held some of the chilly stiffness of dawn. The man started to whistle, but then he stopped short, changing his mind, and pushed his lips indifferently to one side. He looked at himself in a broken piece of mirror. His face was oily with sweat; its round features swelled in the looking-glass, well-fed and well-rested. He wrinkled his flat nose, opened his mouth and gawped into it, nodding as if pleased with his looks or at least with his teeth, which were sharp and crooked and had grown quite irregularly in his big mouth. After putting on his shoes, which were thick with dust, he washed himself noisily in a clattering bucket, splashing the water around himself in a circle as though he were sobering up the ground. On a pinewood table with rickety legs lay a plucked chicken, a bluish wax-yellow heap of skin, meat and fat. In the shadow of this ramshackle piece of furniture the bowels and feathers of his latest loot lay gleaming beside a pool of not yet entirely clotted blood. On his way home from the pub that night he had remembered just in time the long journey that lay ahead of him, and so had trotted back along the dark road in order to cut the throat of a hen in one of the village's coops. The bird had made no sound and had hardly moved when he killed it. The villagers hadn't liked seeing him in their neighborhood, as it was – they had grumbled and sworn behind his back when he, a big sturdy trunk of a body with a thick red head glowing on top, staggered along the roads trampling down all that was growing along them, or annoyed them with his bawling. At times they had even been unjust to this ranting lad who so enjoyed a good laugh, for in the end the rebukes they dared utter and the indignation they voiced would simply bounce off his equanimous temper unnoticed. But many others who had seen him shoe their horses in the blacksmith's yard would make up with him silently because they were filled with sheer admiration at his skill. When the stallions' legs would come smashing down and he just caught them between his hands as though this were a mere trifle, people were totally astounded; the village lads and the kids would have gaped for hours or even days at this man who did his job so brilliantly, had he not often been so terribly coarse and lacking all sympathy and understanding of their amazement. Right now his face was actually melting into a smile, for he was thinking of how he would soon fry and eat the stolen chicken undisturbed, a long way away from the outskirts of the village. Other food had been stuffed into the twill knapsack which he was shouldering now, for it would take him a full week to cross the steppe. And the nearest town, where he planned to be hired by a tradesman, was such a long way off that some tramps and well-equipped travelers had seen nothing but the nodding grass for more than a week before they got there. But he just whistled a saucy little dance tune through his teeth, convinced that this long journey would be no more than child's play to him, a trifle so to speak, no more effort than a spit and a kick. He was already standing on the creaking stairs that sloped steeply between the walls of the house when he suddenly remembered his parents. They were sleeping behind these very walls – his pig-headed, uncaring father and his whining mother – but he was in no mood for a tear-jerking goodbye and therefore climbed down the stairs more carefully to avoid making a noise. The summer day was bright and shiny when he stepped onto the road, which stretched out in front of him quite empty but for some swallows that were flying swiftly to and fro. Summer was flowing around him in soft, warm waves. He did not look around, but strode out, sticking his forefingers through the threadbare lining of his jacket; they looked like little blocks of wood. Then he trotted along more quickly towards the last houses of the village. Suddenly he noticed people running his way in great haste, and he saw flames leaping up high not far from the church, and a column of thick smoke hesitantly screwing its way heavenwards, throwing yellow sparks like seeds over a wide sky. Granaries, stables and barns were all afire; shouts came from different directions all at the same time; children hurried past carrying full buckets, pails and cans. Women, all disheveled, were driving on panting men who were lugging long ladders. He did not make a sound, he just stopped and looked. The big straw hat agreeably shaded his face, which did not show any compassion. As if locked up in his body, which, still almost cool, was like a big wall around him, he quickly stamped on over the crumbling ruts, while the smoke from the fire towered above the low-roofed houses of the village. Suddenly a woman tore herself from a gate that was standing slightly ajar. She was desperate. Bent forward and crying, her arms unexpectedly shooting out of her shoulders, she stopped the faltering man, waving her hands about him wildly, with unrestrained gestures. Her eyes stared out at him from a face that was worn down by sorrow and grief and incapable of self-control. She sobbed, caught him by his hand, leaned her tearful head against his chest, her flaxen hair blowing into his eyes. Again and again she stammered something in utmost agitation, stamping her felt-slippered feet so violently on the ground that the dust of the road rose in a cloud wide around them. He looked past her and was about to push her aside, but her numb fingers hooked onto the patches of his coat. "I'll die like a dog without you," she wailed. "You can't just go away, you can't leave me! I won't let you go, no, never! You've got to think about me, too!" But he gave her no more than a sound of contempt and disgust. He caught her by the wrist and pushed her so hard that she fell on the ground. He shouted, "What do you want of me? I'm leaving. I owe nothing to you!" "Aren't you ashamed of yourself for shouting at me?" she threw back at him. "In three months' time I shall give birth to your child!" Then something smothered her, choked her who had nothing more to say. It sank like an axe into her brain. Oh, she tried to say more, but in vain, she had no more words for him. Not knowing what to do, she could not find one syllable to help her. But he only answered, "He'll manage without me, the bastard, the brat. I don't need a child from someone like you!" He started to go, but she hung like dead iron from his heavy foot, let him tread on her fingers again and again, threw herself at his feet and cried loudly, every syllable red-hot with hate, "How dare you treat a woman so brutally? You've dislocated my wrists! You've squashed my fingers blue! But I'll smash your skull to pieces with stones and with stakes!" "And I'll give you such a beating, you'll never get up," he said, his voice quiet with forced control. He unlocked her fists which were tearing at his trouser legs, and managed to get out of her way for a moment and run a short distance, while from some of the windows and yards people jeered loudly at him. But this did not upset him in the least, his mind was made up and he would not let them make fun of his decision. He remained obstinate, ignoring any impact from outside. Yet while he was running, the agitated face of the woman flared up behind his back and her coarse, exhausted voice managed to threaten: "If you ever come back, I'll throw vitriol in your face, a whole bottle of it, do you hear? And the other woman you've deceived and left, she'll throw vitriol in your face, too!" And then the weary woman stopped and, groaning, waded through a crunching heap of gravel which lay beside the road, stretched up her body again, and fell down over the edge of the field. Then a strange feeling, unknown to him to this morning, fell like a cloud over his consciousness: without admitting it to himself, he felt somewhat disarmed, frightened of something that was not totally without danger to him, something he would not be able to fight off with his fists. And so he stopped short, suddenly seeing himself with a ripped-up, lacerated face in whose cracks the goddamned vitriol nested, the burnt-out sockets of his eyes staring emptily out of his head. He wanted to go back a few steps and give the woman some soothing words. But a dismissive wave of her hand unchained him, as it were, from all she had just threatened him with, and like after an overly greasy meal he wiped over his lips with the back of his hand and laughed. He threw his twill knapsack over the other shoulder, mumbled something, and strode on, easy-hearted, his fists clenched, submerged and restful in his own heavy blood. He paid no heed to the wretched streets and paths which, scantily shadowed by shrubs and branches, seeped slowly away like gray rivulets into dusty vegetable gardens and disappeared behind wooden gates or wicker fences. He made for a brook, whence a hardly-trodden path led into the steppe. The sun, tearing every single object out of its defensive and defiant silence, had nothing in mind with him, it simply burned down on him, providing unwanted heat. Yellowing rushes and grass, spread like worn-out rags of felt around the gaping veins of the dried-out earth, were but indifferent things in the monotonous landscape around him, from which his eyes would often turn away. For his imagination, which on most other occasions was rather fenced in, and his already heated senses had taken him to the far-off town, to the inns and taverns at which the raftsmen would noisily stop, and to the numerous women whose lazy voluptuousness he had enjoyed. He saw rearing horses, disreputable houses and a bewitching love affair that would while away his time most agreeably, costing him no more than a smile and a promise, a cheap ring left behind as a keepsake, and warm nights in a barn. Then, wide-eyed, he dreamt of the muffled noises in the streets of the town, and once in a while he thought with pleasure of the chicken that he would take out of his knapsack and roast on a quickly-cut spit under the nearest tree. He was utterly unaware of the soft infinity of the steppe that began on the far side of a chain of hills which was gradually getting closer. This endlessness around him, unstirred by anything and unable to appeal to his sense of taste or smell, held no power over him and was no more than a vague, floating apparition in the haze, bereft of any secrets. Far off, some birds were flying upwards, dark specks of dust on the deep blue vault of the sky. For miles around there was no one to see them, and they were none of his business either. He found a dry, gnarled branch that had long ago lost its leaves, dragged it behind him till he came to a tree, and made a fire. Then he roasted the chicken, watching with pleasure how the fat dripped from the pores of the crisp, brown skin, ate a thick slice of bread, drank, and then continued on his way, for he did not feel at all tired, and did not want to rest until he was deep into the steppe. The sun had already melted a huge portion of the vault of heaven above him and he must have been walking for hours on end when he met a couple of men, tradesmen maybe or tramps, who came up to him whimpering and begging desperately for a little water. "We haven't come across any, anywhere," they murmured so meekly that he could hardly hear what they were saying. "Really, not one puddle of mud. We haven't found one drop of water, not even in the coach tracks or under any stone." But he already knew what to say, that he hadn't any water either because he had thought he would come across a brook on his way. The exhausted tramps looked at one another with uncomprehending, suspicious eyes and finally burst into thin laughter. They merely asked how far it was to the nearest village and seemed pleased when he lied to them that it was no more than an hour or so away. They even touched the broken peaks of their caps when he gave them a sudden grim and unfriendly look, not wishing to be asked a second time. They soon disappeared behind the far side of the hills, little pairs of scissors, swinging to and fro. In front of him the starving steppe spread out wide: under his shoes, which just a few hours ago had sounded like clods of earth hitting the ground, his steps gradually weakened to feeble noises in the monotonous landscape which extended around him over miles and miles. The last trees and shrubs grew sickly out of the broken cup of the ground; he left them behind unheeded. But the brooding heat was everywhere, unrelenting in its torture of his tired limbs. Then it flowed like boiling lye over the land. Sighing, he pulled out an old scarf, wiped the sweat off his neck, took his jacket in his hand. But soon his body grew clumsy and awkward under the sullying rays of the sun, from which he could never escape. The sun pressed him down; there was no protecting or saving himself from it, it bore right through his clothes, through his shirt, through his skin. It set his blood afire and then left it faint behind. It was foolish to scold or to curse it! He couldn't revolt against it, he was like a clod that had no will of its own in the waves of wind that broke against him, laden with heat. He did not eat, he just drank and drank. From the furry hair on his chest the water poured like from a forest. With great effort he sought four large, dry twigs and laid his jacket like a tent over them, then he crept underneath and fell asleep. In his dream, which was a loose, happy sequence of images flickering through him, many women were dancing around him, their cool skin refreshing him pleasantly. A dark golden sun slanted down on him when he awoke. He pulled his jacket away from his face with a good long yawn. Strangely enough, a sticky little insect was sucking his arm. He had never seen the like of it before. He blew it off, wondering how such a tiny animal could exist in these poor surroundings. Then he ate the last of his chicken, smacking his lips and throwing the bones far around him. After some time he licked the last droplets of fat from his hand. He could now breathe more freely because the sun was no longer lying on his straw hat like a red-hot frying pan. He cut himself a walking-stick from a branch and then he set out again walking for many hours, till night glided over the gray fabric of the steppe and darkness shrouded him, and it was as if sleep were building its nest like a little bird behind his exhausted eyes. When morning came, there were a few clouds in the sky. He got up from the ground, chewed a chunk of dry goat's milk cheese and immediately set out again. He had never walked this route before. As a child he had once traveled through these parts, lying under the wicker hood that covered their wagon, but he could no longer remember much about that journey. And since it brought to mind his whining mother, who had often told him of the waste land they had traveled through, he removed the thought of her almost by force – it was tiresome to think of the pitifully decent woman while right now life was pulsing like warm blood through him. He increased his pace, leaning forwards, but it was as if the steppe were becoming his enemy, a spiteful adversary that you had to trample down if you wanted to get rid of him. When he rested again, raven swarms were blowing around him. Here and there, dry clods of earth lay in little heaps on the ground; it looked as if the tramps he had met the day before had used them for pillows, so that they could sleep like kings or at least like lords. There was still some water left in his metal can and the amount was likely to do for the next few days, but how he would have loved to have washed himself in a river or at least in a small brook! No one was around there to feel with him how terribly long an hour was. It was pointless to look around, and after some time he felt put out, strangely embittered even. Granted – it might have been wiser to stay in the village and not to invite evil the way he had done. He could have gone on living with that woman, after all, and the child would not have been a hindrance in any way. Daylight embraced the area more clearly now, but the barren steppe spread like pestilence in front of him. Desperate to hear something at last, he whistled, then yelled up at the infinitely curved blueness of the sky. It was as if the sun wanted to set fire to his straw hat, and sweat dripped from his limbs. The scorched, ashy earth lay naked under the dogged heat that seemed to know no bounds. The lack of color was tiring to his eyes, which would have been more than happy with the sight of even a little crippled tree. But the stubborn, impetuous lad would not admit even to himself this first humiliation. He was still thinking of the pleasures that awaited him in the town, and a lusty shudder ran down his neck. The dreariness that was locking him in was not invincible, nor was it inescapable, he thought. And he himself, calmly relying on his bodily strength that had proven itself so often, was by no means a worthless thing, thrown away in the steppe and forgotten. He walked along as well as he could, and then fell asleep by the side of the road, lying there on the ground like an earth-colored sack. When he awoke, he felt hunger sucking inside his body, a sensation that was completely new to him. His teeth tore greedily at a crust of bread, which he gulped down, looking around furtively, for his loneliness weighed heavily on his senses, closing in around him like a wall. A long way away he made out a vertical line, a shadow, which soon turned into a man who was drawing nearer and nearer. Attention! This was something new, at last. He sat down again, awaiting the stranger, and took a drink from his metal can. The sun was now shining right into the face of the dark-skinned newcomer. Neither said a word. The stranger was staggering like a drunken man, one of his hands buried deep in his pocket. Although he was bare-footed and ragged, he did not seem to be frightened. He came nearer, till he was within two or three steps' distance from the lad. "Have you got some water? Anything to drink?" he shouted, giving the man squatting in front of him an imploring and at the same time threatening look. The latter stood up and said indifferently, no, he hadn't any. What more should he say? He acted as though he were there all alone, rubbing his flat nose for a while, seemingly at ease. What exactly did he want of him, he then inquired, and it sounded like a reproach, although he hadn't actually meant to provoke the stranger. Why was he looking at him like that? He'd be better off going, did he understand? But the man came up close to him, throwing words in his face that were sharp like pebbles. Cried that the other was lying, for he had just seen him drink out of a can. He answered flatly that it had been the last of his water, there wasn't anything left. And he didn't have to account to him whether there was any more in his bag or not, did he? It was high time he were off! Was that clear? But before he could think twice, the stranger quite unexpectedly took a step back, groaning and laughing like a madman, and pulled a revolver out of his pocket, and suddenly a sense of utmost danger came over him. He flung himself on the crazy man, threw him down on the ground and tried to snatch the weapon from him. The man doggedly defended himself and, with every blow and kick and grab and bite, the struggle grew fiercer. He landed a crashing blow on the stranger's jaw, but the man couldn't be tamed by it, he ran against him again at once, panting, his head ducked deep between his shoulders. Like dogs they fought each other, fell crashing down, their hands clinging to the weapon, their shrill screams piercing the other's ears. Their bodies bashed into each other, braced up against the other man's resistance. They felt the weapon's edges hard and hot in their hands. A shot roared between them. The stranger sank down on his back, and his face, suddenly quite pale, lost its hold and coherence, and a wretched, forlorn expression settled down upon it. Revolver in hand he stood there, with bared teeth, unexpectedly relieved and suddenly laughing without realizing it. Time was buzzing around him in tiny fragments that he could only untangle very slowly. He was already looking around for his knapsack, beating the dust off his torn trousers. But then his eyes caught the groaning man who was writhing with pain at his feet. Mildly curious, he stepped forward. Seeing that there were only a few scratches on the back of his own hand, which just tingled a little, something like joy surged up in him. He stared at the suffering man, hesitated, stepped back ready to go. But then he stopped, his eyes wide open. It was as if it weren't his own legs that were carrying him, but those of some other man. Time passed in silence and full of sorrow and helplessness. The loud beats of his heart were all he could clearly perceive. The stranger was breathing heavily, mumbling something he couldn't understand. Blood poured out from beneath his shirt, clotting darkly on the sparse tufts of grass. He hesitated again, then bent down to the wounded man. Deep in his heart he felt growing distress. What was the meaning of this? The creature that lay there in front of him stretched a little and immediately flinched, a mere bundle of limbs whose pain was surely deep and akin to death. He had never seen such loneliness, never been aware of the inescapable nature of death. Full of anxiety, he looked around. He would have liked to call out to someone, but the monotony of the steppe lay like sand on his tongue. And so he bent down over the whimpering man and begged him to let him open his clothes. Feverishly he removed the stranger's belt, tore open his jacket and shirt, and then saw the circle of gunpowder around the wound in his side, from which blood seeped red incessantly. He pressed his clumsy fingers against the open wound, wanting to stop the blood as well as he could, but the suffering man screamed like a madman with pain. The lad then pulled the metal can out of his sack and tore a piece of cloth from his shirt. This he wetted a little, then used it to wash out the wound. Next he held his metal can close to the groaning lips. The wounded man took a few sips, oh, how he savored it! The other smiled happily, but he was also a little confused, for what had happened a short while ago was now so remote, and this man in front of him a poor victim. He shuddered. Like a man sinking deeper and deeper into a swamp he hastily shouted something, and all of a sudden he knew, almost achingly, that this man must not die – not at any price! Couldn't he hear him, he stammered. He would get better, yes, very soon. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Awkwardly, painstakingly, he continued to wash the wound, then, pushing his knapsack under the suffering man's head, sat down beside him. He looked out over the steppe, which seemed to him to have changed. Far away a few birds were sailing in the sky. He longed for some miracle, some unexpected rescue operation. What else could save this poor wretch lying there? He made a mental effort to find a solution, for he had never learned how to cut a bullet out of a wounded man's flesh, and once again he uncovered the wound, which was not bleeding so heavily now. Only then did he notice that the sun had almost completely set and that evening was flowing in fast, pouring out darkness over the boundless expanse. He grasped at a sensation that was already fading in him, a feeling that seemed to be fleeing, and so he asked the man if his wound was still hurting so badly. In a futile effort the other man mumbled something between his dry lips. He hadn't meant to kill him, he cried in despair. He would help him, yes, by all saints, he would help him as well as he could. But silence stuck in his neck like a knife and he shivered, having covered the stranger with his own coat. Night was falling now, an infinitely loaded roof that pressed down heavily on top of him. He sat there, his hand in the hand of the wounded man; sleep would not come to him. At one point he softly lit a match, shining it at the pain-stricken face. The sky was partly overcast and as he sat there motionless, he gazed in wonder at the flickering stars which, it seemed, he had never seen so clearly before. When dawn came at last, the stranger was asleep, having calmed down a little after all. He wetted the man's lips with his fingers. They trembled when they touched the rough, bitten skin. Time seemed unspeakably long before the blazing sun rose above the horizon. The soft dew of dawn had fallen on the grass, and he bent down and breathed in its sparse sweetness as he rested his face on it. But its coolness gradually faded as he rubbed the wet shimmer off his hands. Crouching forward, he fell asleep. The stranger's eyes were open and staring at him when he awoke. Filled with consternation, the lad jumped up and took his hand, which was shaking with fever, and the shining eyes reflected his unredeemed expectation. Filled with apprehension, he asked the man if he was feeling just a little better and if the pain in his wound was still so unbearably strong. Yes, the answer came in an effort, he had slept. Slept, indeed? He had really slept, then? But that was incredible, wonderful, yes, quite wonderful . Maybe he would like to drink a little water? And he immediately passed him the can. "Some water, yes?" he asked again, a little bit on his guard. The wounded man drank greedily, writhing with pain and whispering miserably that he would perish there. This stirred the lad to the depths of his soul, he yelled at him, No, he wouldn't die, not in a long while, he was just being cowardly, and weak! When he had calmed down again, he humbly offered to carry him all the way home, or at least as far as the town. "My sister lives in the next town," the stranger replied. "Ah, your sister lives in the next town, does she? Very well; in the next town, you say," he repeated and nodded, lost in thought, for it seemed to him they would never, ever get there. But then he reflected: it couldn't be so unthinkably far away, after all. Straightening up, he felt his body strong and reliable beneath his shirt. He swallowed some crumbs of bread that he had found in his sack, then asked if there were a spring not too far away, and if there weren't any farmsteads near by. The answer was unambiguous: even if he strode out steadily, it would take him two days before he got to a well, and farmsteads – no, there weren't any for miles and miles around. The huge jaws of the steppe opened up around the two men, the earth already scooped out wide by the light of day. A sudden gust of wind passed over them, and rare flights of birds cut weird symbols into the air. The man's suffering frightened him now, as did his groans and his silence and the way he seemed to be swallowing down his pain with his spittle. So he asked him if he wasn't hungry and if he would let him give him just a little bit of soaked bread. The other man shook his head, whimpering and murmuring something unintelligible. He suddenly felt as if the moment desperately needed some cheering up, and so all that terrible fear that had gathered in him reached out for consolation: he was so much stronger than he had ever realized; they couldn't just stay there, anyway, and he was going to take the wounded man on his back at once. A sensation that had long ago faded away smoldered up in him again, made him stop short. But then he asked the stranger if his sister had a room where they could look after him, and how old his sister was, yes, how old? He waited for the answer impatiently and when it failed to come, he became restless. "Can't you hear me, you coward?" he cried. "Can't you hear me, my friend?" The wounded man whined that he wasn't deaf, he had heard him all right. His sister had a house where they would be in good keeping. She would certainly take them in, seeing how much he was suffering. His sister was young, much younger than himself, and she had a two-year-old child. For a moment a lecherous smile lingered on his lips as he thought of a woman's voluptuous arms and breasts, imagined her inviting smile that needed no words to make a man understand. But then he was filled with disgust at himself, flung his foul, haunting thoughts like decaying dirt from his consciousness, and stuttered that they must be off - forward march, one, two! There was no time to waste, but first he would dress the wound again. – It was nothing, really. He pretended to be full of confidence and even gave himself airs. The stranger babbled his thanks which he couldn't just wave aside; he felt embarrassed as though he had been caught at something, tried to stammer a few words and avoided the man's eyes, looking away at the road leading through the steppe. Then, with great difficulty, he loaded the sore body onto his back, until it finally hung there, heavily. At first, the heavy load did not hinder him much. But soon he felt irresistible exhaustion in every limb, and he had not walked far at all when it overcame him. With such humiliating weakness he had not reckoned. Sweat ran down his forehead, collecting in his brows and dripping between his eyelids so that he could hardly see and had to take care not to lose his way. The wounded man's body lay like a hot millstone on his back. And thus hindered and weighed down earthwards he swayed on, encouraging himself, and starting when he stumbled over a clod of earth. He wanted to talk himself out of this terrible fatigue, wanted to forget it, and so he looked out for a tree or another human being. But in the end he had to admit to himself that he had overrated his bodily strength, which was leaving him much faster than he had expected it to. So he laid the softly groaning man down by the side of the road to take a few deep breaths without the heavy load on his back. Having wiped the sweat out of his eyes, but still hampered in his movements, he found some words of consolation for the suffering man, for today he had seen how very small and lost he himself was in the infinity of the steppe. When he wetted again the piece of cloth he had torn from his shirt, he did not know that it was sheer humility he felt when he discovered a brass necklace round the stranger's neck. It was not worth one single glass of brandy, to be sure, but it must have some secret meaning. For a little while he held it in his clumsy fingers, turning it this way and that, but, cheered up for the first time by the deep, wide blue of the sky, he foolishly felt that its color might rub off on his face, and stroking his chin he looked at his fingers in surprise because not a trace of it was clinging to them. To quench his terrible thirst he ate some dry crust, the wounded man lying motionless at his feet. Once again he lifted him onto his back and walked along the pale strip of winding road which seemed to flutter in the wind. Silence lay dull in his ears, and he heard nothing but his own gasps now and then. Once, a frail, crippled tree appeared in front of his strained eyes, its branches stretched out like spider's legs, but it was a long way from the road. The worn-out path stretched out endlessly before his eyes, as though it had been traced round and round the globe, round something eternal. Who, he wondered, had trodden it flat, for there was no-one to be seen in this deserted land. People? Wolves? Or was it the biting winter wind? He would have liked to run for a while, had it not been for that clumsy heap of limbs clinging so desperately to his back. He tripped and fell down, swearing. A sharp-edged stone had got into his knee, but he didn't feel very sorry for himself, he wasn't going to attach even the slightest importance to this accident. He merely sucked the blood from his knee and continued on his way, stumbling and swaying and anxiously holding his companion like a child in his arms. But he couldn't keep this up for long, and soon he had to sit down again and rest. Again he desperately stole a little bit of the road, and again his breath became exhaustingly hot, and he had to stop to ask the wounded man if he did not want some water. Bitterness lay dry in his throat, and he felt terribly hungry. So his hand snapped almost automatically at a piece of bread and threw it into his mouth. But with all this toil nothing was achieved, and the darkness of evening was drawing inevitably closer and closer. He was worried about the stranger and dressed his wound, although he was actually afraid of it, and then sleep threw him down beside the other man. During the night he awoke and thought of the brass necklace round his companion's neck. He wondered if his mother had hung it there. As if freed at last from the dark shaft of a well, words came trembling off his lips. Somewhere in him there was a heart. Very early the next morning he woke the man, who was whimpering in his sleep, and told him hurriedly that they must be off at once. The surprised man begged for something to eat. Yes, sure, there was still some bread and goat's milk cheese and a bit of dried meat left. He could have it all, every bit of it.
