He fumbled about with his fingers for the latch of the inner door. How soaked with rain the woodwork was! A second pig began to stir now and emitted a feeble grunt. Then he gave up trying to find the latch; and pressing his two hands against the jambs of the door, he bowed down his head until his forehead rested upon the low wooden lintel. At this moment it was given to him to taste those secret dregs of misery, cold as ice and black as pitch, that lie dormant under the lips of every descendant of Adam.

Here he remained perfectly still, while it seemed to him that the wind was whistling a special little tune, composed for his benefit, through the dripping boards of the pigsty.

“Wishaloog!⁠ ⁠… wishaloog!” whistled the wind.⁠ ⁠… Then all of a sudden he burst out laughing. “A comic King Lear! That’s what I am! There’s nothing tragic about this, Wolf, my friend! What you’ve got to do is to defy omens and fight for your own hand.”

He rose up erect, tightened his fingers round his stick, and straightened his shoulders.