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Some leagues out at sea rose a mountain. I said two prayers, one for my dog and one for myself, and we entered into the mountain there. The gate closed behind us; I started at its clang, and woke. Flaming red sky, the sun there stamping before my eyes; the night, the horizon, echoing with light. Asop and I moved into the shade. All quiet around us.
Eva asks: 'Do you think of me sometimes? I answer: 'Always. Eva asks again: 'And is it any joy to you, to think of me? I answer: 'Always a joy, never anything but a joy. Then says Eva: 'Your hair is turning grey. I answer: 'Yes, it is beginning to turn grey. But Eva says: 'Is it something you think about, that is turning it grey? And to that I answer: 'Maybe. At last Eva says: 'Then you do not think only of me... Asop, lie still; I will tell you about something else instead..."
I let Asop loose, slung my bag over the other shoulder, and set off towards home. It was getting late. Lower down in the forest, I came unfailingly upon my old, well-known path, a narrow ribbon of a path, with the strangest bends and turns. I followed each one of them, taking my time there was no hurry. No one waiting for me at home.
Asop was restless; now and again he would thrust up his muzzle and sniff, in a troubled way, with legs quivering uneasily; when I took no notice, he lay down between my feet and stared out to sea as I was doing. And never a cry, never a word of human voice to be heard anywhere; nothing; only the heavy rush of the wind about my head.
Often in the evening, when I came back to the hut after being out shooting all day, I could feel that kindly, homely feeling trickling through me from head to foot a pleasant little inward shivering. And I would talk to Asop about it, saying how comfortable we were. "There, now we'll get a fire going, and roast a bird on the hearth," I would say; "what do you say to that?"
In "The Hall of Fantasy," we catch some glimpses of Hawthorne's favorite authors: "The grand old countenance of Homer, the shrunken and decrepit form, but vivid face, of Asop, the dark presence of Dante, the wild Ariosto, Rabelais's smile of deep-wrought mirth, the profound, pathetic humor of Cervantes, the all glorious Shakespeare, Spenser, meet guest for an allegoric structure, the severe divinity of Milton and Bunyan, molded of the homeliest clay, but instinct with celestial fire were those that chiefly attracted my eye.
The moon glides up in the north; the rocks cast gigantic shadows. The moon is full; it looks like a glowing island, like a round riddle of brass that I pass by and wonder at. Asop gets up and is restless. "What is it, Asop? As for me, I am tired of my sorrow; I will forget it, drown it. Lie still, Asop, I tell you; I will not be pestered.
And when it was done, and we had both fed, Asop would slip away to his place behind the hearth, while I lit a pipe and lay down on the bench for a while, listening to the dead soughing of the trees. There was a slight breeze bearing down towards the hut, and I could hear quite clearly the clutter of a grouse far away on the ridge behind. Save for that, all was still.
Ah, nothing, nothing. Walking there for restlessness, perhaps, for joy; 'twas her affair. I thought to myself, she had heard Asop in the woods, and knew that I was out. As she came up I rose and stood and looked at her, and I saw how slight and young she was. Asop, too, stood looking at her. "Where do you come from?" I asked. "From the mill," she answered.
It was all over now... The last night in the hut. I sat in thought, I counted the hours; when the morning came I made ready my last meal. It was a cold day. Why had she asked me to come myself and bring the dog? Would she tell me something, speak to me, for the last time? I had nothing more to hope for. And how would she treat Asop? Asop, Asop, she will torture you!
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