“No. I haven’t.”
“Then I’ll show you—wait.” He put the nosebag away and, without hurrying, began to undo the covering on the other side. Then he threw it back, revealing a box into which had been inserted a spyhole covered with a glass. “Wait a moment,” he said, looking for something on the ground. He picked up a small branch, squatted on his heels over the light, and lit the wick, all this slowly and seriously. “Now, burn nicely, burn,” he said to it, sheltering it with his hands. Then he placed it inside the box, lighting it up. “I use oil,” he explained. “Some of them have carbide . . . but that carbide hurts the eyes. And then one day it explodes and there you are; besides, you might hurt somebody. And oil, that’s like in a church.” He bent down to the little window, and peered through it with his pale eyes. “You can see nicely,” he whispered, delighted. “Have a look. But you must bend down, so as to be . . . little . . . like a child. That’s right.”
Prokop stooped down to the spy-hole. “The Grecian Temple in Girgent,” began the old man, “on the island of Sicily, dedicated to God or to Juno. Look at those pillars. They are made so carefully that a whole family can eat on each stone. Think what work that means! Shall I go on turning?—The view from the Mountain of Penegal in the Alps at sunset. Then the snow is lit up with a strange and beautiful light, as it’s shown there. That’s an Alpine light and that other mountain is called Latemar. Further?—The sacred city of Benares; the river is sacred and cleanses the sinful.
