He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people, walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: “Now I will get to sleep.” Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him by name, begging him: “Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want you!” Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself: “Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep.” But when he chose a dark room and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless light into his eyes, and said: “Get up; you are wanted.” He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half the night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two, three, four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would be no more silence. He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but someone started up from the pillows, crying out: “This bed is mine!” and he shrank away with despair in his heart. Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five; the night was gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day--another day! He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted passage that seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers; and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing and laughter and merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide and sleep; some little place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave. An open grave, smelling of death and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he could but sleep! “This grave is mine!” It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared at him over the rotting shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out his arms to her. “Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this narrow space and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you, will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh, love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust. Gladys, let me come in here and sleep!” And he would have drawn her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank away, screaming: