Suddenly, whether the snow had filled them up or for some other reason,
the footsteps ceased. All became even, level, smooth, without a stain,
without a detail. There was now nothing but a white cloth drawn over the
earth and a black one over the sky. It seemed as if the foot-passenger
had flown away. The child, in despair, bent down and searched; but in
vain.

As he arose he had a sensation of hearing some indistinct sound, but he
could not be sure of it. It resembled a voice, a breath, a shadow. It
was more human than animal; more sepulchral than living. It was a sound,
but the sound of a dream.

He looked, but saw nothing.

Solitude, wide, naked and livid, was before him. He listened. That which
he had thought he heard had faded away. Perhaps it had been but fancy.
He still listened. All was silent.

There was illusion in the mist.

He went on his way again. He walked forward at random, with nothing
henceforth to guide him.

As he moved away the noise began again. This time he could doubt it no
longer. It was a groan, almost a sob.

He turned. He searched the darkness of space with his eyes. He saw
nothing. The sound arose once more. If limbo could cry out, it would cry
in such a tone.