The Bishop took his stick, put on his overcoat to hide his well-worn cassock, as well as to protect him against the night breeze which would soon rise, and set out. The sun had almost attained the horizon when the Bishop reached the excommunicated spot. He perceived with a certain heart-beating that he was close to the wild beast's den. He strode across a ditch, clambered over a hedge, entered a neglected garden, and suddenly perceived the cavern behind some shrubs. It was a low, poor-looking hut, small and clean, with a vine nailed over the front. In front of the door an old white-haired man, seated in a worn-out wheel-chair, was smiling in the sun. By his side stood a boy, who handed him a pot of milk. While the Bishop was looking at him the old man uplifted his voice. "Thanks," he said, "I want nothing further," and his smile was turned from the sun to rest on the boy. The Bishop stepped forward, and at the noise of his footsteps the seated man turned his head, and his face expressed all the surprise it is possible to feel after a long life. "Since I have lived here," he said, "you are the first person who has come to me. Who may you be, sir?" The Bishop answered, "My name is Bienvenu Myriel." "I have heard that name uttered. Are you not he whom the peasants call Monseigneur Welcome?" "I am." The old man continued, with a half-smile, "In that case you are my Bishop?" "A little." "Come in, sir." The conventionalist offered his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it--he confined himself to saying,-- "I am pleased to see that I was deceived. You certainly do not look ill." "I am about to be cured, sir," the old man said; then after a pause he added, "I shall be dead in three hours. I am a bit of a physician, and know in what way the last hour comes. Yesterday only my feet were cold; to-day the chill reached my knees; now I can feel it ascending to my waist, and when it reaches the heart I shall stop. The sun is glorious, is it not? I had myself wheeled out in order to take a farewell glance at things. You can talk to me, for it does not weary me. You have done well to come and look at a dying man, for it is proper that there should be witnesses. People have their fancies, and I should have liked to go on till dawn. But I know that I can hardly last three hours. It will be night, but, after all, what matter? Finishing is a simple affair, and daylight is not necessary for it. Be it so, I will die by star-light." Then he turned to the lad: "Go to bed. You sat up the other night, and must be tired." The boy went into the cabin; the old man looked after him, and added, as if speaking to himself,-- "While he is sleeping I shall die; the two slumbers can keep each other company."