sang in his trembling voice and the horse thrust its beautiful silver head through the door and rubbed its nose against the old man’s coat.
“Come in, come in,” he said, “and lie down.”
The old horse ambled into the shed, scratched with its hoofs the opposite wall and knelt down. “I’ll find a place between you,” said the old man, “he’ll breathe on you and you’ll be warm. So.”
He sat down quietly near the door. Behind him could still be seen the glow of the dying fire, and the pale blue eyes of the horse, turned on him. The old man muttered something to him, nodding his head. . . .
Prokop closed his eyes in bliss. “Why . . . why, it’s my old father,” he said to himself. “God! how old he’s grown! His neck’s become scraggy
“Prokop, are you asleep?” whispered the old man.
“No,” answered Prokop, trembling with love.
The old man began to sing gently a strained and quiet song: “Lalala hou, dadada pan, binkili bunkili hou tata. . . .”
Then Prokop fell into a sweet and healing sleep, free from all dreams.
