Thousands of people have found there what they sought.”
The pictures were carefully drawn and coloured by hand. The colours had faded a little and the paper had a tinge of yellow, but the charming, variegated effect of the blues, greens, yellows and reds of the people’s clothing and the pure azure of the sky remained; every blade of grass was drawn with love and care.
“That sacred river is the Ganges,” concluded the old man reverently, and turned the handle further. “And this is Zahur, the most beautiful castle in the world.”
Prokop simply glued his eye to the hole. He saw a magnificent castle with graceful cupolas, lofty palms, and a blue waterfall. A tiny figure with a turban in which was stuck a feather, with a purple coat, yellow pantaloons, and a Tartar sabre was greeting with a low bow a lady dressed in white, who was leading by the bridle a prancing horse. “Where . . . where is Zahur?” whispered Prokop.
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Somewhere over there,” he said uncertainly, “where it is most beautiful. Some find it and some do not. Shall I go on?”
“Not yet.”
The old man drew away a little and stroked the leg of the horse. “Wait, nonono, wait,” he said gently. “We must show it him, see? Let him enjoy himself.”
“Turn on, grandfather,” said Prokop. He saw in succession the harbour at Hamburg, the Kremlin, a polar landscape with the Northern Lights, the
