ahead of him. A March night, cloudy and foggy, envelopes the earth,
and it seems to the watchman that the earth, the sky, and he himself
with his thoughts are all merged together into something vast and
impenetrably black. He can only grope his way.

"Who goes there?" the watchman repeats, and he begins to fancy that
he hears whispering and smothered laughter. "Who's there?"

"It's I, friend . . ." answers an old man's voice.

"But who are you?"

"I . . . a traveller."

"What sort of traveller?" the watchman cries angrily, trying to
disguise his terror by shouting. "What the devil do you want here?
You go prowling about the graveyard at night, you ruffian!"

"You don't say it's a graveyard here?"

"Why, what else? Of course it's the graveyard! Don't you see it
is?"

"O-o-oh . . . Queen of Heaven!" there is a sound of an old man
sighing. "I see nothing, my good soul, nothing. Oh the darkness,
the darkness! You can't see your hand before your face, it is dark,
friend. O-o-oh. . ."

"But who are you?"