series of days, before him, eight weeks of bliss, and the boy weeps with joy as he sees the sparkling spires on the church towers he knows so well . . . I know that face . . . I see by its faint resemblance that it is myself sixteen years ago. . . .
No, reader, I will not write here an elegy on my bygone youth,—it was only a sigh, and enough of it. Here, in this abominable place one has, indeed, nothing but sighs and recollections.
The coach passed Vysočany. It slowly ascended a serpentine road. The two ladies protected themselves with parasols against the burning rays of the sun. Jiří was sitting opposite them, his hat pulled down over his brow, and leisurely smoking a cigarette. Lucy had just taken off the heavy veil from her face, and her blue eyes looked timidly around her.
The coach was still climbing the hill, Towards the left towered, like a phantom in
