Andreas would have given anything for a breath of wind. The mist had rolled together into clouds, big and small: they hung there motionless, as if from everlasting to everlasting. Andreas once more mounted the path towards the village. The thought of going downhill was repugnant to him: he could not have borne the return uphill with the Finazzer farm ahead. He knew no road on the other side of the valley. If he only had a companion—a farm dog, or some animal. I have thrown that away for ever, he said to himself.

The only thought that came to him was a torment. He saw himself as a twelve-year-old boy, saw the little stray dog following his every step. The humility with which it took him, the first being it met, as its master, the joy, the bliss with which it moved if he so much as looked at it, were past understanding. If it thought its master was angry it would roll on its back, draw up its little legs anxiously, yield itself utterly, with an indescribable expression in its upturned eyes. One day Andreas saw it in front of a big dog in the posture he thought it took only for him, to soothe his anger and win his good graces. His blood rose, he called the dog to him. Ten paces off it became aware of his angry look. And it came creeping on, its tremulous eyes fixed on Andreas’s face. He taunted it for a low, cowardly beast, and under his taunts it crept closer and closer. It seemed to him that he raised his foot and struck the creature’s spine with his heel. The dog gave a yelp of pain and collapsed, still wagging its tail. He turned on his heel and went away. The dog crept after him; its loins were broken, yet it crawled after its master like a snake, its back giving at every step. At last he stopped; the little dog fixed its eyes on him, wagged its tail, and died. He was not sure whether he had done the thing or not—but it issued from him. Thus the infinite touched him. The memory was torture, yet he felt a wave of home-sickness for the twelve-year-old Andreas who had done it. Everything seemed good that was not here, everything worth living that was not the present. Below him he saw a Capuchin tramping along the road. Before a crucifix he knelt. How serene his untrammelled soul must be! With his thoughts Andreas took refuge in the figure, till it vanished at a bend in the road. Then he was alone again.

He could not bear the valley; he climbed up to the wood. He felt better among the tree-trunks. Damp twigs struck his face, he bounded forward, rotting branches crackled under him on the ground.