and the white stumps of birch trees at the side of the road. On its head the horse had a rough sack and was crunching some oats. It had a long, silver mane and a tail which had never been clipped. At its head there stood a little old man with a white beard and silver hair. He also in colouring was coarse and pale, like the covering over the cart. He stamped about, reflecting, saying something to himself and twisting the white mane of the horse in his fingers.
Then he turned round, looking blindly into the darkness, and asked in a trembling voice: “Is that you. Prokop? Come along. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Prokop was not surprised, but only inordinately relieved. “I’m coming,” he said, “but I’ve been running!”
The old man stepped up to him and took hold of him by the coat. “You’re quite wet,” he said reproachfully. “You mustn’t catch cold.”
“Old man,” said Prokop hoarsely, “do you know that Grottup has exploded?”
The old man shook his head regretfully. “And what a lot of people must have been killed! You ran away, eh? Sit down on the coach-box. I’ll give you a lift.” He stumped over to the horse and slowly removed the sack of oats. “Hi, hi, that’s enough,” he mumbled. “We must get along, we’ve a guest.”
“What have you got in the cart?” asked Prokop.
The old man turned round to him and smiled. “The world,” he said. “Haven’t you ever seen the world?”
