A certain sadness fell upon me, born partly of our talk, partly of the poignant beauty of the night. We came to the Cantine de Proz, fast asleep in its lonely valley, and so we went on and on, our souls tuned to music and poetry by the song of the stars and the beauty of the night: But slowly a change stole over us. For a long time I was only dimly conscious of it, in a puzzled way, in myself. Why was it that my spirit stood no longer on the heights? Why did the moonlight look cold and metallic? Why had the rushing sound of the river got on my nerves, like the monotonous crying of a fretful child? Why did our frequent silences no longer tingle with a meaning which there was no need to express in words? Why was my brain empty of impressions as a squeezed sponge of water? Why, in fact, though everything was outwardly the same, why was all in reality different? "Oh, Man, I'm so hungry!" sighed Boy. "By Jove, that's what's been the matter with me this last half-hour, and I didn't know it!" said I. "I feel as if I could form a hollow square, all by myself." "I only wish there were something to form it round." "But there isn't--except a few chocolate creams I bought in Aosta because I respected their old age, poor things." "Perhaps even decrepid chocolates are better than nothing. Let's give 'em honourable burial--unless you want them all to yourself, as you did the chicken at the 'Déjeûner,' and the room at the Cantine de Proz." "Oh, you _must_ have thought I was selfish! But truly, I don't think I am. It wasn't that. Only--I can't explain." "You needn't," said I. "I was 'kidding'--a most appropriate treatment for a man of your size. What I want is food, not explanations." The chocolates, which proved to be eighteen in number, were fairly divided, Boy refusing to accept more than his half. We each ate one with distaste, because the celebrated "Right Spot" was not to be pacified by unsuitable sacrifices; but presently it relented and demanded more. Appeased for the moment, the Spot allowed us to proceed, but incredibly soon it began again to clamour. We ate several more chocolates, though our gorge rose against them as a means of refreshment. Still Bourg St. Pierre, where we were sooner or later to sleep, was far away, and for the third time we were driven to chocolate. It was a loathsome business eating the remaining morsels of our supply, and we felt that the very name of the food would in future be abhorrent to us. The night had become unfriendly, the Pass a _Via Dolorosa_, and the last drop was poured into our cup of misery at Bourg St. Pierre.