At times, he fancies that he sees Livette under his horse's feet, imploring wildly, with hands outstretched--but he digs his spurs into his horse and rides on. A terrible shriek constantly rings in his ears. He rides toward another spectre that calls him from the farthest point of the horizon.--He says, to any one who cares to listen, that he has come from Egypt, where he was a king, and that he will return there some day, King of Camargue. His disordered mind seems the very incarnation of the wild moor. He fancies that he is flying about in circles with the birds of the swamps that weep in the drizzling rain. The _mistral_ lashes his wings. When the wind blows through his hair, he pities the poor grass of the plains because the _mistral_ is torturing it. All the lamentations of the reeds and swamps, of the river and the sea, are but the ringing in his ears, and their loud wailing is constantly punctuated by a shriek--oh! so heart-rending it is!--the shriek of Livette! As the bell-tower of the church of Saintes-Maries is filled with owls, so his heart is full of the remorse of a Christian; and the curé's kindness to him does not drive it away. When he stands upon the sea-shore, many times he feels an overpowering desire to urge his horse, bleeding beneath the spur, far out to sea, farther and farther, until he vanishes in the direction of the country, vaguely seen in dreams, from which the saints and gipsies come--but something stops him; his destiny holds him back; he belongs to his kingdom. If he has known one hour's peace of mind, it was on a certain morning when, among the usual hideous nightmares inspired by the memory of Zinzara, he had a pleasant dream, in which he saw Livette, dressed in white, with lilies in her hands like the saints in church pictures, smiling and saying to him: "I have forgiven you. FORGIVE YOURSELF." The respite was of brief duration, for the herdsman did not know that excessive repentance is a crime, when it goes so far as to dry up the springs of will-power in a man, when it renders sterile his field of activity, when it bars the way to doing better in the future. Self-pardon, at the proper time, after due penance has been done, is one of the secrets of the wise among men; for, without it, the first misstep would lead to never-ending despair, and would render all courage useless forever. Such was the curé's opinion, which Renaud listened to, in the confessional, without paying heed to it. He suffers, therefore, incessantly, awaiting the hour when his suffering shall be allayed. He is like the camping-grounds abandoned by shepherds and flocks, the _jasses_ of the desert, still black from an old conflagration, and surrounded by briers where rose-bushes once flourished. He is like the aloes that wither instantly in desolation, after the stalk their love has caused to bloom has risen high into the air.