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Solitude, wide, naked and livid, was before him. He listened. That which
he had thought he heard had faded away. Perhaps it had been but fancy.
He still listened. All was silent.
There was illusion in the mist.
He went on his way again. He walked forward at random, with nothing
henceforth to guide him.
As he moved away the noise began again. This time he could doubt it no
longer. It was a groan, almost a sob.
He turned. He searched the darkness of space with his eyes. He saw
nothing. The sound arose once more. If limbo could cry out, it would cry
in such a tone.
Nothing so penetrating, so piercing, so feeble as the voice--for it was
a voice. It arose from a soul. There was palpitation in the murmur.
Nevertheless, it seemed uttered almost unconsciously. It was an appeal
of suffering, not knowing that it suffered or that it appealed.
The cry--perhaps a first breath, perhaps a last sigh--was equally
distant from the rattle which closes life and the wail with which it
commences. It breathed, it was stifled, it wept, a gloomy supplication
from the depths of night. The child fixed his attention everywhere, far,
near, on high, below. There was no one. There was nothing. He listened.
The voice arose again. He perceived it distinctly. The sound somewhat
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