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 earth would open and above the noise of the tempest would be heard the words of the Lord: I take you back to myself, weak and miserable creature; there was no purity in you and you set free evil forces. Loved one. I will make you a bed out of nothingness.

Prokop began to tremble beneath the crown of thorns of the universe. And now human suffering was nothing and had no value; he was a tiny, shrivelled up, trembling bubble at the bottom of an abyss. Good, good; you say that the world is infinite, but if I could only die!

In the east the sky began to go pale. The road and the white stones could already be seen clearly. Look, here were the marks of wheels in the dead dust. Prokop picked himself up, numb and cold, and started to walk. Downhill, towards Balttin.

He went on without stopping. Here was a village, an avenue lined with blackberries, a little bridge over a dark and silent river. The mist disappeared and the sun began to shine through; again a grey and cold day, red roofs, a herd of cows. How far might it be to Balttin? Sixteen, sixteen kilometres. Dry leaves, nothing but dry leaves.

A little after mid-day he sat down on a pile of pebbles; he could go no farther. A peasant’s cart approached; the driver drew up and looked at the exhausted man. “Can I give you a lift?” Prokop nodded gratefully and sat down next to him without a word. Later the cart drew up in a little town. “Here we are,” said the peasant. '“Where exactly are you going?” Prokop got down and went on by himself. How far might it be to Balttin?

It began to rain, but Prokop could go no farther