the
mountain, a curse so strong that it kept even the fishes and the birds
away. He fell to considering the life he was leading. He had lost his
name, both Christian and surname, and was no more now than No. 65, a
name written in figures, instead of in letters. He was no longer obliged
to pay taxes. He had forgotten his age. He had ceased to be a man,
ceased to be a living being, but neither was he dead. He was nothing but
something grey moving on the mountain and being terribly scorched by the
sun. It burned on his prison garb and on his head with the close-cropped
hair, which in days long passed had been curly, and was combed with
a tooth-comb every Saturday by his mother's gentle hand. He was not
allowed to wear a cap to-day, because it would have facilitated an
attempt at escape. And as the sun scorched his head, he remembered the
story of the prophet Jonah, to whom the Lord gave a gourd so that he
might sit in its shade.

"A nice gift, that!" he sneered, for he did not believe in anything
good; in fact, he did not believe in anything at all.

All at once he saw a huge birch branch tossed about in the surf. It was
quite green and fresh and had a white stem; possibly it had fallen off a
pleasure-boat. He dragged it ashore, shook the water off and carried it
to a gully where he put it up, wedged firmly between three stones. Then
he sat down and listened to the wind rustling through its leaves, which
smelt of the finest resin.

When he had sat for a little while in the shade of the birch he fell
asleep.

And he dreamed a dream.

The whole mountain was a green wood with lovely trees and odorous
flowers. Birds were singing, bees and humble-bees buzzing, and
butterflies fluttering from flower to flower. But all by itself and a
little aside stood a tree which he did not know; it was more beautiful
than all the rest; it had several stems, like a shrub, and the branches
looked like lacework. And on one of its branches, half hidden by its
foliage, sat a little black-and-white bird which looked like a swallow,
but wasn't one.

In his dream he could interpret the language of the birds, and therefore
he understood to some extent what the bird was singing. And it sang:

Mud, mud, mud, mud here! We'll throw, throw, throw here! In mud, mud,
mud you died, From mud, mud, mud you'll rise.

It sang of mud, death, and resurrection; that much he could make out.

But that was not all. He was standing alone on the cliff in the