the air, and yet this little dog had found him. But what evidence can a little dog give? You have been lucky, and ought to be glad. You have shot a fox, and no one can prove that it was you who did it.’
This example failed to raise Martin’s spirits. He felt a great loathing for man-killing man.
‘Men are beasts,’ he murmured between his teeth, ‘beasts!’
They were drawing near to the village.
The young buds of the willows were pressing towards the light, and the trees bent over the mirror of the water, as if they could not gaze enough at their own beauty. The waterfowl were darting hither and thither on the river as though they were intoxicated; children’s shouts came from afar. And with all this young, warm, spring atmosphere there was a sound in the air, broken and weary, but persistent—the tolling of the knell. ‘The knell,’ quaked Martin and ducked involuntarily, as if a breaker were going to swamp him.
The bell rattled on, it sounded like a broken piece of crockery. Martin remembered his dream, when the unknown corpse and Jurko Prohabac were see-sawing on his heart. They seemed to be calling out with nasal voices: ‘Ding dong, ding dong.’
