aine, "a boy sleeps soundly."

With the back of his hand he knocked against the window gently. Nothing
stirred.

He knocked louder twice. Still nothing stirred. Then, feeling somewhat
uneasy, he went to the door of the inn and knocked. No one answered. He
reflected, and began to feel a cold shudder come over him.

"Master Nicless is old, children sleep soundly, and old men heavily.
Courage! louder!"

He had tapped, he had knocked, he had kicked the door; now he flung
himself against it.

This recalled to him a distant memory of Weymouth, when, a little child,
he had carried Dea, an infant, in his arms.

He battered the door again violently, like a lord, which, alas! he was.

The house remained silent. He felt that he was losing his head. He no
longer thought of caution. He shouted,--

"Nicless! Govicum!"

At the same time he looked up at the windows, to see if any candle was
lighted. But the inn was blank. Not a voice, not a sound, not a glimmer
of light. He went to the gate and knocked at it, kicked against it, and
shook it, crying out wildly,--

"Ursus! Homo!"

The wolf did not bark.

A cold sweat stood in drops upon his brow. He cast his eyes around. The
night was dark; but there were stars enough to render the fair-green
visible. He saw--a melancholy sight to him--that everything on it had
vanished.

There was not a single caravan. The circus was gone. Not a tent, not a
booth, not a cart, remained. The strollers, with their thousand noisy
cries, who had swarmed there, had given place to a black and sullen
void.

All were gone.

The madness of anxiety took possession of him. What did this mean? What
had happened? Was no one left? Could it be that life had crumbled away
behind him? What had happened to them all? Good heavens! Then he rushed
like a tempest against the house. He struck the small door, the gate,
the windows, the window-shutters, the walls, with fists and feet,
furious with terror and agony of mind.

He called Nicless, Govicum, Fibi, Vinos, Ursus, Homo. He tried every
shout and every sound against this wall. At times he waited and
listened; but the house remained mute and dead. Then, exasperated, he
began again with blows, shouts, and repeated knockings, re-echoed all
around. It might have been thunder trying to awake the grave.

There is a certain stage of fright in which a man becomes terrible. He
who fears everything fears nothing. He would strike the Sphynx. He
defies the Unkno