Obeying a spirit of humility, he related his history to all men,
and they would flee from him and cross themselves. In villages
through which he had passed before, the good people bolted the
doors, threatened him, and threw stones at him as soon as they
recognised him. The more charitable ones placed a bowl on the
window-sill and closed the shutters in order to avoid seeing him.
Repelled and shunned by everyone, he avoided his fellow-men and
nourished himself with roots and plants, stray fruits and shells
which he gathered along the shores.
Often, at the bend of a hill, he could perceive a mass of crowded
roofs, stone spires, bridges, towers and narrow streets, from
which arose a continual murmur of activity.
The desire to mingle with men impelled him to enter the city. But
the gross and beastly expression of their faces, the noise of
their industries and the indifference of their remarks, chilled
his very heart. On holidays, when the cathedral bells rang out at
daybreak and filled the people's hearts with gladness, he watched
the inhabitants coming out of their dwellings, the dancers in the
public squares, the fountains of ale, the damask hangings spread
before the houses of princes; and then, when night came, he would
peer through the windows at the long tables where families
gathered and where grandparents held little children on their
knees; then sobs would rise in his throat and he would turn away
and go back to his haunts.
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