alking like a hunter, bent and looking for
any traces, and saying to his dog: "Seek, old fellow, seek!"

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and
from time to time shouting, uttering a loud, prolonged cry, which soon
died away in that silent vastness. Then, he put his ear to the ground,
to listen; he thought he could distinguish a voice, and so he began to
run, and shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, worn out
and in despair. Towards midday, he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as
tired as himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his
search.

When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than
thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home,
and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the
snow and crouched in it with his dog, under a blanket which he had
brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, warming
themselves one against the other, but frozen to the marrow,
nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept, his mind haunted by visions and his
limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars,
and his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with grief, while his
heart was beating so that he almost fell with excitement, when he
thought he heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the midst
of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his
energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending towards the inn,
falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam,
who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until
four o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty, and the young man
made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he
did not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an unconquerable sleep.
But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name: "Ulrich," aroused him from his
profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it
one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds?
No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry,--which had entered at his
ears and remained in his flesh,--to the tips of his sinewy fingers.
Certainly, somebody had cried out, and called: "Ulrich!" There was
somebody there, near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he
opened the door