"That night I slept quietly, nothing disturbed me. Thus I slumbered for many hours like one dead, and was only awakened at last by a feeling of moisture all over my face. I had been lying face downwards, and a rush of blood had come through my nose and mouth and wetted my couch. I arose, douched my face in a large tub of water, and felt that my head was very much relieved. I no longer heard that roaring sound as of a deep sea rolling over me; there was no more whispering and moaning around me; but, instead of that, I heard through the deep stillness of the night the crying of a child. The crying of a child in my own house! I fancied it was but a dream-voice--for was I not deaf?--and that instead of a pursuing, the voice of an enticing spectre was now sounding in my ear. But again the crying of a child penetrated to me from the room where my wife usually slept. What could it be? I walked thither, and lo! I could hear the soft pattering of my own footsteps. I must walk more softly, thought I. And I did walk more softly, and then I also heard distinctly the light cracking of the boards beneath my feet. And through it all the weeping of that child sounded continuously. The door was only closed by a bolt. I slipped it softly aside so that not a sound should be heard. Softly I opened the door. And behold! on the table in the middle of the room was a tiny babe. The night-lamp flung a flickering flame across its face, it could not have been more than a couple of months old. It was wrapped up in fine swaddling clothes, a tiny embroidered chemise covered its little body, and its wee round head was covered by a deep cap trimmed with pearls, from underneath which welled forth tiny little ringlets like fine gold thread. Just like those little painted angels of whom you only see the heads peeping out of the sky." The unknown smiled so sympathetically at the childish simile of the old headsman. Then Peter Zudár's face again grew clouded, he drew his chair closer to his guest's and thus continued: