Vendulka was interrupted in her tearful soliloquy. Her aunt had stopped short, and Vendulka, who was following on her heels, was obliged to stand still also. The old woman drew a whistle from her knapsack and put it to her mouth; it gave a sound so soft that every one would have taken it for a bird piping his gentle midnight call in the top of a tree. Long-drawn echoes answered from the distance. Her aunt was delighted.
‘Old Matouš is still on the watch,’ she whispered, ‘he knew I should come, even if it rained stones. He can depend on me. But now we must be quick and not keep him waiting longer.’
The old woman quickened her pace so that it was all Vendulka could do to keep pace with her. They reached a steep piece of rock, thickly wooded; Vendulka thought they would skirt it, but Martinka began to climb, holding herself upright; her niece scrambled after her. A sudden turn brought them to an opening in the rock, from which the shadowy form of a man appeared. It was old Matouš, who had been lying down in the grass, waiting for the arrival of his laggard carrier; he was now raising himself.
When he had heard a noise in the bushes,
