"I made the tavern-keeper sympathize with our distress," Yvon answered brusquely, and, in order to put an end to the subject he added: "I am worn out with fatigue; I must rest," saying which he walked into the contiguous room to stretch himself out on his couch, while his son and daughter remained on their knees near the body of little Julyan. The other two children fell asleep, still saying they were hungry. After a long and troubled sleep, Yvon woke up. It was day. Gervaise and her husband still knelt near Julyan. His brother and sister were saying: "Mother, give us something to eat; we are hungry!" "Later, dear little ones," answered the unhappy woman to console them; "later you shall have something to eat." Den-Brao raised his head and asked: "Where are you going, father?" "I am going to dig the grave of my little grandson.... I wish to save you the sad task." "Dig ours also, father," Den-Brao replied with a dejected mien. "We shall all die to-night. For a moment allayed, our hunger will rise more violent than last night ... dig a wide grave for us all." "Despair not, my children. It has stopped snowing. I may be able to find again the traces of the buck." Yvon picked up a spade with which to dig Julyan's grave near where the boy's great-grandfather, Leduecq, lay buried. Near the place was a heap of dead branches that had been gathered shortly before by the woodsmen serfs to turn into coal. After the grave was dug, Yvon left his spade near it and as the snow had ceased falling he started anew in pursuit of the buck. It was in vain. Nowhere were the animal's tracks to be seen. It grew night with the prospect of a long darkness, seeing the moon would not rise until late. Yvon was reminded by the pangs of hunger, that began to assail him, that in his hut the sufferings must have returned. A spectacle, even more distressing than that of the previous night now awaited him--the convulsive cries of starving children, the moaning of their mother, the woe-begone looks and dejectment of his son who lay on the floor awaiting death, and reproaching Yvon for having prolonged his own and the sufferings of his family with their lives. Such was the prostration of these wretched beings that, without turning their heads to Yvon, or even addressing a single word to him, they let him carry out the corpse of the deceased child. An hour later Yvon re-entered his hut. It was pitch dark; the hearth was cold. None had even the spirit to light a resin torch. Hollow and spasmodic rattlings were heard from the throats of those within. Suddenly Gervaise jumped up and groped her way in the dark towards Yvon crying: "I smell roast meat ... just as last night ... we shall not die!... Den-Brao, your father has brought some more meat!... Come, children, come for your share.... A light quick!"