MAGDALEN
I
MY reader! You, no doubt, know many a well-drawn and many a hideous picture that in glowing colors,—in ruby, blood, gold, jasper,—paints the setting sun. You will forgive me this assumption, nay, perchance, will laud the author for saying briefly: The sun has just set over Prague. . . .
It is Saturday, in the month of May. The scene is in the Fifth Ward.
The sultry day for the first time draws a deep breath after the sun’s decline. Moisture is borne through the air; ill odors, growing more intense, are wafted through the short, arrow, crooked streets. The wretched shops of the pious children of
9
