They both jumped out of the carriage. Hans knelt on the ground and took the gasping¹ dog in his arms:

 

“Give me your pocket-handkerchief,” he said.

 

Not receiving it at once, he looked up, impatiently.

 

Finn did not stir.

 

He stood leaning over the dog and looking into its glazed² eyes with a great, deep, strange glance. He was not thinking whether it was an animal or a human being, whether it could be saved or whether he himself could do anything....

 

[235]“Finn!”

 

He did not stir. He was staring into the great face of death. The door of the dark house was flung open and he stared and stared into the darkness. His soul was filled with a devout³ awe⁴. He felt nothing, saw nothing, but life expiring before his eyes.

 

Hans looked at him speechlessly, terrified at the expression in his face, which he did not know how to interpret, and grew more and more agitated⁵.

 

“Give me your pocket-handkerchief, Finn.”

 

Finn started. He looked up and handed him the handkerchief:

 

“I didn’t think of it,” he said.

 

Hans did not reply. In a little while, the dog was dead and he flung it in among the trees in such a way that Finn could have struck him.

 

They got into the carriage and drove on[236] in silence. Finn thought of nothing but what he had seen and did not suspect his friend’s agitation⁶. Then, suddenly, he told the coachman to pull up:

 

“You mustn’t mind, Hans,” he said. “I am going to get out.... I can go home by myself.... I want to be alone for a little.”

 

Hans jumped out of the carriage and walked away without saying good-bye. Finn took no notice. He let the coachman shut the door, shrank into a corner and drove home.

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