It was only animals in all their peculiar fearfulness and peculiar savagery that possessed a charm. The soundless, stealthy tread in the total darkness of night; the hidden monsters of the woods; the shrieks of a bird flying past; the wind, the smell of blood, the rumbling in space; in short, the reigning spirit of the kingdom of savage creatures hovering over savagery ... the unconscious poetry!... But I was afraid this bored her. The consciousness of my great poverty seized me anew, and crushed me. If I had only been in any way well-enough dressed to have given her the pleasure of this little tour in the Tivoli! I could not make out this creature, who could find pleasure in letting herself be accompanied up the whole of Carl Johann Street by a half-naked beggar. What, in the name of God, was she thinking of? And why was I walking there, giving myself airs, and smiling idiotically at nothing? Had I any reasonable cause, either, for letting myself be worried into a long walk by this dainty, silken-clad bird? Mayhap it did not cost me an effort? Did I not feel the ice of death go right into my heart at even the gentlest puff of wind that blew against us? Was not madness running riot in my brain, just for lack of food for many months at a stretch? Yet she hindered me from going home to get even a little milk into my parched mouth; a spoonful of sweet milk, that I might perhaps be able to keep down. Why didn't she turn her back on me, and let me go to the deuce?... I became distracted; my despair reduced me to the last extremity. I said: "Considering all things, you ought not to walk with me. I disgrace you right under every one's eyes, if only with my clothes. Yes, it is positively true; I mean it." She starts, looks up quickly at me, and is silent; then she exclaims suddenly: "Indeed, though!" More she doesn't say. "What do you mean by that?" I queried. "Ugh, no; you make me feel ashamed.... We have not got very far now"; and she walked on a little faster. We turned up University Street, and could already see the lights in St. Olav's Place. Then she commenced to walk slowly again. "I have no wish to be indiscreet," I say; "but won't you tell me your name before we part? and won't you, just for one second, lift up your veil so that I can see you? I would be really so grateful." A pause. I walked on in expectation. "You have seen me before," she replies. "Ylajali," I say again. "Beg pardon. You followed me once for half-a-day, almost right home. Were you tipsy that time?" I could hear again that she smiled. "Yes," I said. "Yes, worse luck, I was tipsy that time." "That was horrid of you!" And I admitted contritely that it was horrid of me. We reached the fountains; we stop and look up at the many lighted windows of No. 2. "Now, you mustn't come any farther with me," she says. "Thank you for coming so far." I bowed; I daren't say anything; I took off my hat and stood bareheaded. I wonder if she will give me her hand.