ten thousand—even this gives you no conception of the number. Thousands of hogs crowding around a swine herd.
And the swine herd sits upon a milestone. He holds a one-string violin upon his knee, from which from time to time he draws two notes, one high and one low, as accompaniment to a song. With the dignity of a royal bard, with the calmness of a ruling prince, he addressed his people—his herd of hogs. Thus Homer spake; thus Ossian sang.
Ah!—
“Stop a bit. Prince,” I begged, addressing the driver of the cart.
“Stop a bit—”
“Eh bien! There's time enough.”
“What are days anyway? What are weeks? Time is merely a stop-watch for people who calculate in an office.”
And the man sitting upon the milestone was saying: Beloved swine, my brethren—Pan Strahinja’s life has now reached its zenith, just as a wanderer reaches the summit of the mountains, or the sun the zenith of the heaven, and the midday had bleached his head. But do not think for
