"Hunger attacketh me," said Zarathustra, "like a robber. Among forests and
swamps my hunger attacketh me, and late in the night.

"Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it cometh to me only after a
repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hath it been?"

And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man
appeared, who carried a light, and asked: "Who cometh unto me and my bad
sleep?"

"A living man and a dead one," said Zarathustra. "Give me something to eat
and drink, I forgot it during the day. He that feedeth the hungry
refresheth his own soul, saith wisdom."

The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra
bread and wine. "A bad country for the hungry," said he; "that is why I
live here. Animal and man come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy
companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than thou." Zarathustra
answered: "My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to
eat." "That doth not concern me," said the old man sullenly; "he that
knocketh at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and fare ye well!"--

Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trusting to the path
and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker, and
liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned,
however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and no path was any
longer visible. He then put the dead man in a hollow tree at his head--for
he wanted to protect him from the wolves--and laid himself down on the
ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in body, but with a
tranquil soul.