August!—It was bleak. The man sat on the trunk of a tree; he was without the thrill of life.
The pastor spoke to him.
“Do you want anything?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?”
A flash passed over the face.
“Yes.”
The pastor’s voice grew stern.
“You will go down tomorrow with the herdsmen. You are the peasant Staehli: they are your people; you are one of them. You have been all your life in exile; now you are on your natural soil. The voice of race will awaken in you—you will find yourself.”
The man listened, agonized with the intensity of concentration; the words cut like sharp stones into him.