centuries to see. . . . Oh, could one but have wings! Winged spirit, what do thy wings help thee do save quit everything? Have neither home nor sleep? Launch out into the void to play with space and steep thy breast in nothingness? If I had been given a miracle, I should be saved. If I had been given to know truth, I should clasp it so hard! And if the tiniest of divine sparks were to fall upon me, would I not be as a chapel in which burns a lamp eternal? Were the Burning Bush itself to speak to thee, it could not save thee. But thine eyes are inflamed and thou wouldst recognise God in the bush, aye, even in the nettles, whereas I am deaf and blind and unable to see miracles! What you lack is an Egyptian prison that you might be saved by faith. But who could fetter thee, winged spirit of atheism?”
“Do you remember,” said Boura, “last year, in connection with the imprint, your saying: ‘Perhaps a god has passed by here, and one might follow him’?”
“No, no,” replied Holecek, “one cannot find God by applying the methods of the detective force.”
“By no method at all. One can only wait till God’s axe cuts our roots. Only then will we come to understand that we are only here through a miracle and then we will remain fixed forever in wonder and in proper balance.”
“And you . . . your roots. Are they already cut?”
“No.”
A man rose from a table in the corner and walked towards them. A big, strong man, with a broad face, red hair, an open and thoughtful expression. He stood in front of them, head slightly to the side, and was contemplating Boura as if from afar.
Boura was astonished:
“What’s the matter?”
The man made no answer. His eyes gave an odd impression of drawing nearer, becoming more attentive, more penetrating, more searching. Suddenly he spoke: “Are you not M. Boura?”
Boura rose.
“I am.”
“Have you not got a brother?”
