t wan light which throws into relief the
mournful reality of objects which are blurred into spectral forms by the
night, did not awake the children, so soundly were they sleeping. The
caravan was warm. Their breathings alternated like two peaceful waves.
There was no longer a hurricane without. The light of dawn was slowly
taking possession of the horizon. The constellations were being
extinguished, like candles blown out one after the other. Only a few
large stars resisted. The deep-toned song of the Infinite was coming
from the sea.

The fire in the stove was not quite out. The twilight broke, little by
little, into daylight. The boy slept less heavily than the girl. At
length, a ray brighter than the others broke through the pane, and he
opened his eyes. The sleep of childhood ends in forgetfulness. He lay in
a state of semi-stupor, without knowing where he was or what was near
him, without making an effort to remember, gazing at the ceiling, and
setting himself an aimless task as he gazed dreamily at the letters of
the inscription--"Ursus, Philosopher"--which, being unable to read, he
examined without the power of deciphering.

The sound of the key turning in the lock caused him to turn his head.

The door turned on its hinges, the steps were let down. Ursus was
returning. He ascended the steps, his extinguished lantern in his hand.
At the same time the pattering of four paws fell upon the steps. It was
Homo, following Ursus, who had also returned to his home.

The boy awoke with somewhat of a start. The wolf, having probably an
appetite, gave him a morning yawn, showing two rows of very white teeth.
He stopped when he had got halfway up the steps, and placed both
forepaws within the caravan, leaning on the threshold, like a preacher
with his elbows on the edge of the pulpit. He sniffed the chest from
afar, not being in the habit of finding it occupied as it then was. His
wolfine form, framed by the doorway, was designed in black against the
light of morning. He made up his mind, and entered. The boy, seeing the
wolf in the caravan, got out of the bear-skin, and, standing up, placed
himself in front of the little infant, who was sleeping more soundly
than ever.

Ursus had just hung the lantern up on a nail in the ceiling. Silently,
and with mechanical deliberation, he unbuckled the belt in which was his
case, and replaced it on the shelf. He looked at nothing, and seemed to
see nothing. His eyes were glassy. So