, and the red
sun appeared behind the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.

Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, stooping and looking
for any traces, and saying to his dog: "Seek old fellow, seek!"

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and
from time to time shouting, uttering a loud, prolonged familiar cry
which soon died away in that silent vastness. Then, he put his ear to
the ground, to listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and so
he began to run and shout again. But he heard nothing more and sat
down, worn out and in despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave
Sam, who was as tired as himself, something to eat also; then he
recommenced his search.

When evening came he was still walking, having traveled more than
thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home,
and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the
snow and crouched in it with his dog, under a blanket which he had
brought with him. The man and the dog lay side by side, warming
themselves one against the other, but frozen to the marrow,
nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept, his mind haunted by visions and
his limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars,
and his spirits so low that he was ready to weep, while his heart was
beating so that he almost fell with excitement whenever he thought he
heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he ALSO was going to die of cold in the midst
of this vast solitude. The terror of such a death roused his energies
and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn, falling
down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam, who was
limping on three legs. They did not reach Schwarenbach until four
o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty, and the young man made a
fire, had something to eat, and went to sleep, so worn-out that he did
not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, the unconquerable sleep
of exhaustion. But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name: "Ulrich," aroused
him from his profound slumber, and made him sit up in bed. Had he been
dreaming? Was it one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of
disquieted minds? No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry,--which
had entered at his ears and remained in his brain,--thrilling him to
the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly, somebody had cried out, a