Some chilly evening, as the shadows thicken, he shambles out of the town, and seeks the limekiln in the ploughed field, where, the substratum being limestone, the farmer burns it.

Near the top of the kiln the ground is warm; there he reclines and sleeps.
The night goes on.

Out from the broken blocks of stone now and again there rises a lambent flame, to shine like a meteor for a moment and then disappear.

The rain falls.

The moucher moves uneasily in his sleep; instinctively he rolls or crawls towards the warmth, and presently lies extended on the top of the kiln.