approached him with wavering step: “She is my Antigone,” said he. A weak smile twitched Jiří’s lips. He stretched himself and placed his arms under his head. . . .
Then he saw a bit of Italy: a golden country, burnt by the sun. The air in motion. The Apennines. Rocks everywhere. Veined stones all around him. The view was open only in one direction: there, towering sharply against the azure sky, a cypress stood out,—black, sad, disconsolate. . . .
That flashed by. . . . “Rather would I see you lying dead in a coffin, than here alive,” thus his own words now were dinning in his soul, and he kept repeating them to the slender maiden who drooped her head to one side.
“Was I not a fool last night? Did not the girl secretly laugh at my words?” the thought suddenly passed through his brain. And thus through his soul flashed scenes, pictures and words without logic or connec-
