As the day was Sunday, all this floating population was afoot. Bells were sounding the letting out of high mass when Maurice arrived. He passed a procession of women coming home with prayer-books in hand, while the men devoted themselves to bowling, and from each public-house sounds of guitars and harmonicas issued forth with the smell of cooking. Maurice ate for a modest sum in a shabby-looking osteria, in company with noisy comrades. Instead of profiting by the daylight and leaving abruptly--night in November falls so fast--he lingered improvidently, as if he preferred the vulgarest noisiness to solitude. He could not make up his mind to cross the frontier. It was the material symbol of his break, and he clung desperately to his love. Even in this smoky room, whose deafening noise, by keeping him from thinking, allayed his misery, it seemed to him he still lived in distant communication with Edith. A little before the gorges of Gondo, with its roaring cascades, he came upon the stone that marked the dividing line between the two countries. Once past it, he was conscious of a shadow that fell across his heart, before even he could pick out the bit of thin earth between the rocks where the path led. Raising his head, he could see the last rosy light fading from the sky. Night, which came upon him much sooner than he had counted on in his itinerary, prevented him from taking the short cut by which the long climb round Algoby is avoided. He arrived very late and tired at the village of Simplon, where he had supper and got some rest. When he took up his journey again complete darkness and silence waited for him outside the inn door. He accepted them as the natural companions of his dreary voyage. He was fulfilling a duty: outward conditions mattered little to him. Had he not killed his happiness with his own hands, and must not murderers expiate their sins? The moon was on the wane, and did not show herself till eleven o’clock, as he neared the summit of the path. In the moonlight he could see that he was alone in a deserted and desolate amphitheatre, covered with snow that made all objects look alike. He could not even hear the sound of his own footfalls. His shadow kept him company fitfully, now lengthening out, now growing thin, appearing and disappearing. Out of breath and with weary limbs, he searched the horizon for some sign of the hospice. Could he have passed it farther back without noticing it? He was so tired he could not judge of distances any more. And, after all, what was the use of so much effort? He had only to let himself sink down by the roadside. In the snow he could sleep or die with equal ease. It would be the end of thinking, of tramping. “Edith!” he murmured aloud.