“Soul on its back? That is good!”
“A man's no use,” cried Harz, “if he's always thinking of what others think; he must stand on his own legs.”
“He must not then consider other people?”
“Not from cowardice anyway.”
Sarelli drank.
“What would you do,” he said, striking his chest, “if you had a devil-here? Would you go to bed?”
A sort of pity seized on Harz. He wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted. What link was there between him and this man; between his love and this man's love?
“Harz!” muttered Sarelli; “Harz means 'tar,' hein? Your family is not an old one?”
Harz glared, and said: “My father is a peasant.”
Sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with a steady hand.