"Yes, I am a farm hand at the priest's."
"Where is you cap?"
He felt his head, looked at me and asked:
"Why do you care about the cap?"
"Just so. It is night, and you will be cold."
He remained silent. Then he muttered unwillingly:
"What does it matter about the cap as long as one's head is saved?"
The ravine became deeper, the stream sounded clearer, and night rose from the underbrush.
My soul was unclear, yet I felt happy, and I wished to speak with the young man.
"Have you only one exile here?" I asked.