The narrow passes were covered with snow, probably about twelve feet deep, and the penetrating, frosty air froze the window panes in the heated room. It was almost midnight, and yet faint lights flickered from the snow mounds everywhere, and in every house the inmates were on their knees awaiting in prayer the advent of the holy Christmas festival, as is the custom in Catholic countries, or, at least, as was general in those times. That night a figure moved slowly down from the heights of Brede toward the village. The wanderer seemed to be very tired or sick; he groaned heavily and dragged himself with extreme difficulty through the snow.
Half the way down he stopped, leaned on his staff, and gazed fixedly at the lights. Everything was so quiet, so dead and cold; one could not have helped thinking of will o' the wisps in cemeteries. At that moment the clock struck twelve in the tower; as the last stroke died slowly away, soft singing arose in the nearest house and, spreading from house to house, ran through the whole village:
A little babe, a worthy child,
Was born to us today,
Of Mary Virgin undefiled;
We all rejoice and say:
Yea, had the Christ-child ne'er been born,
To lasting woe we'd all been sworn,
For He is our salvation.
O, thou our Jesus Christ adored,
A man in form but yet our Lord,
From Hell grant us Redemption.
The man on the mountain slope had sunk to his knees and with a trembling voice made an effort to join in the song; it turned into nothing but loud sobbing, and large hot drops fell on the snow. The second verse began; he prayed along silently; then the third and the fourth. The song was ended and the lights in the houses began to move. Then the man rose laboriously and slunk slowly down to the village. He panted past several houses, then stopped in front of one and knocked on the door softly.
"I wonder what that is!" said a woman's voice inside. "The door is rattling, and there's no wind blowing!"
He knocked louder. "For God's sake, let in a half-frozen man, who comes out of Turkish slavery!"
There was whispering in the kitchen. "Go to the inn," answered another voice, "the fifth house from here!"
"In the name of our merciful God, let me in! I have no money."
After some delay the door opened. A man came out with a lighted lamp. "Come right in," he then said; "you won't cut our heads off." In the kitchen there were, besides the man, a middle-aged woman, an old mother, and five children. All crowded around the newcomer and scrutinized him with timid curiosity. A wretched figure! Wry-necked, with his back bent, his whole body broken and powerless; long hair, white as snow, fell about his face, which bore the distorted expression of long suffering. The woman went silently to the hearth and added some fresh fagots. "A bed we cannot give you," she said, "but I will make a good litter of straw here; you'll have to make the best of that."
"God reward you!" answered the stranger; "indeed I am used to worse than that."