And they went off through the snow.
The others sang and played and played cards for ever so long and ‘twas late when Maarten took his star and, with a “Good-night till next year,” pulled the door behind him.
It was still light outside, but the sky hung full of snow; above, a grey fleece and, lower, a swirl of great white flakes, which fell down slowly swarming one on top of the other.
He plunged deep into it.... It was still so far to go; and his house and his pines, he had left them all so far behind.
He was so old, so lone; it was so cold; and all the roads were white ... all sky and snow. In the hollow lay the village: a little group of sleeping houses round the white church-steeple; and behind it lay his mountain, but it was like a cloud, a shapeless monster, very far away.
Above his head, stars, stars in long rows. He stood still and looked up and found one which he saw every evening, a pale, dead star, like an old acquaintance, which would lead him—for the last time, perhaps—back to his mountain, back home.
And he trudged on.
There was a light in the three narrow pointed windows of the chapel and the bell tinkled within. He went to rest a bit against the wall. What a noise and what a bustle all the evening ... and the gin! And those rough chaps had looked at him so brutally. In there, it was still; those windows gleamed so brightly; and, after the sound of the bell, there came so softly a woman’s voice:
“Venite adoremus....”
Then all was silence, the lights went out. And he fared on.