We went back.
The sky was heavy and a storm raged all night.

The front of a neighbouring house was illumined and flared like a bonfire at every flash of lightning.

Gasping, and tired of tossing on my bed, I arose, lighted a candle, opened the window and leaned out.
The night was dark, and as silent as slumber.

The lighted candle threw my huge shadow on the opposite wall.

From time to time a flash of lightning blinded me.
I thought of the man whose early life was spent here and who filled half a century with the clamouring of his grief.
I thought of him first in these quiet streets, playing with the village boys and looking for nests in the church-steeple and in the woods.