anyone to shame. Of course he was only a messenger, and did not know the contents of the letters he carried, but the expression in his eyes, his smile, his bearing, seemed also to convey a message, however little he might know about it. And K. shook him by the hand, which seemed obviously to surprise him, for he had been going to content himself with a bow.
As soon as he had gone—before opening the door he had leaned his shoulder against it for a moment and embraced the room generally in a final glance— K. said to the assistants: “I’ll bring down the plans from my room, and then we’ll discuss what work is to be done first.” They wanted to accompany him. “Stay here,” said K. Still they tried to accompany him. K. had to repeat his command more authoritatively. Barnabas was no longer in the hall. But he had only just gone out. Yet in front of the house—fresh snow was falling— K. could not see him either. He called out: “Barnabas!” No answer. Could he still be in the house? Nothing else seemed possible. None the less K. yelled the name with the full force of his lungs. It thundered through the night. And from the distance came a faint response, so far away was Barnabas already. K. called him back, and at the same time went to meet him; the spot where they encountered each other was no longer visible from the inn.