When Franz regained consciousness, the outside world seemed like a continuation of his dream: he felt himself to be in a tomb where barely a single ray of sunshine, like a look of pity, could penetrate. He reached out and felt stone. He sat up and found that he was lying, wrapped in his burnous, on a bed of dry heather, soft and sweet-smelling.

His visions had all ended and the statues, as though they had been no more than mere figments risen from their tombs during his sleep, had fled when he awoke.

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