His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head.

There must be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered.
"Have you any plans for the future, Merle ?" he was asked the day he was discharged as cured.
"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade." "And where are you going to now ?" was the next question.
"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder.
"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good hand at your work to please him, my good fellow." "I am a good hand," replied Merle.
The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring themselves into a focus.

In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams war and rage along their stony channels.

But when Jean Merle returned to it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge.
He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the friendless man who bore his former name.

It had a fascination for him, this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest.