After another half hour he found that the contented snuffles and grunts of the animals in the barn were inspiring him with bitter reflections on the happiness he might have found as, say, an ox. So he got up, put on his coat, and went outside. The sky had cleared, and it was much colder, the air so still that every tiny sound rang out sharply. There would be frost on the ground in the morning. He went over to the stone wall which separated the sheepfold from the rest of the fields behind the barn and sat down. After a few minutes his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and the stars overhead began to assemble themselves into familiar patterns. To the east, the jagged edges of the mountains were blocking off the bottom sections of late-rising constellations. Between the mountains and the stars and his conscience he was feeling very, very small. When he heard footsteps heading towards the barn he assumed it was Rodrigo. “Over here,” he called in Spanish. The footsteps turned, shuffled in his direction.
