hospitality.

"I have no bed," said he.

"I am somewhat of a soldier and I can sleep sitting," the Roman
answered. "We shall build a fire."

"I have no fire."

"Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends. I think
thou wilt find a bottle of wine."

"I have no wine."

The Roman laughed.

"Now I see why thou art so somber and dislikest thy second life. No
wine! Why, then we shall do without it: there are words that make the
head go round better than the Falernian."

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all alone. And again
the sculptor started speaking, but it was as if, together with the
setting sun, life had left his words; and they grew pale and hollow, as
if they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down,
drunk with the heavy lees of weariness and despair. And black chasms
grew up between the words--like far-off hints of the great void and the
great darkness.

"Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me, Lazarus!"--said
he. "Hospitality is the duty even of those who for three days were dead.
Three days, I was told, thou didst rest in the grave. There it must be
cold ... and that is whence comes thy ill habit of going without fire
and wine. As to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly.... The
lines of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting: they
are like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an earthquake.
But why dost thou wear such ugly and queer garments? I have seen
bridegrooms in thy country, and they wear such clothes--are they not
funny--and terrible.... But art thou a bridegroom?"

The sun had already disappeared, a monstrous black shadow came running
from the east--it was as if gigantic bare feet began rumbling on the
sand, and the wind sent a cold wave along the backbone.

"In the darkness thou seemest still larger, Lazarus, as if thou hast
grown stouter in these moments. Dost thou feed on darkness, Lazarus? I
would fain have a little fire--at least a little fire, a little fire. I
feel somewhat chilly, your nights are so barbarously cold.... Were it
not so dark, I should say that thou wert looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it
seems to me, thou art looking.... Why, thou art looking at me, I feel
it,--but there thou art smiling."

Night came, and filled the air with heavy blackness.

"How well it will be, when the sun will rise to-morrow anew.... I am a
great sculptor, thou knowest; that is how my friend