"I shall have to go back," thought Paul. "I have no excuse for remaining here." Presently he went outside the hut and said: "There is no hope, he is quite unconscious."
"Comatose," said the keeper with precision.
"He cannot live more than a few hours and arrangements must be made for transporting the body down to the village," continued Paul; and he longed to add, "And I must stay here all night," but he was ashamed of his untruth.
Moreover he was beginning now to feel the need of walking and a craving to get back to the village. As night fell the thought of sin began subtly to attract him again and drew him in with the invisible net of darkness. He felt it and was afraid; but he kept guard over himself, and he knew his conscience was awake and ready to uphold him.
"If only I could get through this one night without seeing her I should be saved!" was his silent cry. If only some one would detain him by force! If the old man would revive and hold him fast by the hem of his robe!
He sat down again and cast about for some excuse for delaying his departure. The sun had now sunk below the edge of the high plateau, and the trunks of the oaks stood out boldly against the red glow of the sky like the pillars of some gigantic portico, surmounted by an immense black roof. Not even the presence of death could mar the peace of that majestic solitude. Paul was weary and, as in the morning at the foot of the altar, he would have liked to lie down upon the stones and fall asleep.
Meanwhile the keeper had come to a decision on his own account. He entered the hut and, kneeling down beside the dying man, whispered something into his ear. The grandson looked on with suspicion and contempt, then approached the priest and said:
"Now that you have done your duty, depart in peace. I know what has to be done now."
At that moment the keeper came outside again.