The clock downstairs struck five. The dog was still howling. The peasant
was almost insane. He rose to go and let the dog loose, so that he should
not hear him. He went downstairs, opened the hall door, and stepped out
into the darkness. The snow was still falling. The earth was all white,
the farm buildings standing out like black patches. He approached the
kennel. The dog was dragging at his chain. He unfastened it. "Devorant"
gave a bound, then stopped short, his hair bristling, his legs rigid, his
muzzle in the air, his nose pointed towards the manure heap.

Saint Anthony, trembling from head to foot, faltered:

"What's the matter with you, you dirty hound?" and he walked a few steps
forward, gazing at the indistinct outlines, the sombre shadow of the
courtyard.

Then he saw a form, the form of a man sitting on the manure heap!

He gazed at it, paralyzed by fear, and breathing hard. But all at once he
saw, close by, the handle of the manure fork which was sticking in the
ground. He snatched it up and in one of those transports of fear that
will make the greatest coward brave he rushed forward to see what it was.

It was he, his Prussian, come to life, covered with filth from his bed of
manure which had kept him warm. He had sat down mechanically, and
remained there in the snow which sprinkled down, all covered with dirt
and blood as he was, and still stupid from drinking, dazed by the blow
and exhausted from his wound.

He perceived Anthony, and too sodden to understand anything, he made an