There was a spreading tree not far off; so he sat down in its shade to read, while Yagna, squatting down and facing him, her hand propping her chin, listened very eagerly, drinking in all his being with greedy eyes. “How do you like this?” he asked after a while, raising his head. She blushed, looked away, and blurted out bashfully: “Can I tell?—It is not a story about kings, is it?” He looked annoyed and read on, but slowly and distinctly this time, laying stress upon every word. He read about fields and cornlands ... about a manor that stood in a grove of birches ... about the son of a Squire who came home ... and a damsel who sat in a garden with the children! And all that was set down in verse, exactly as in the books of pious canticles, and they sounded like a hymn given out by a priest from the pulpit. And she felt a wish to sigh and cross herself and shed tears, the words impressed her so. But the place where they were sitting was fearfully hot. All around them stood the rye, spoiled by tangles of cornflowers and vetches and morning-glory flowers, forming a dense wall, through which no breath of air could pass to cool them. The silence was broken only by the rustling sound of the dangling ears of rye, by the chirping of sparrows in the boughs, and the drone of some passing bee. Yanek’s voice sounded very sweet and melodious; but Yagna, though her eyes were fastened upon him, as upon a most beautiful picture, and her ears did not miss one word he said, yet could not help nodding from time to time, for she felt so drowsy she had much ado to keep awake. Fortunately he left off reading then, looking her straight in the eyes. “Say, is it not truly beautiful?” “Aye, very beautiful; very like a sermon!” His eyes flashed and his cheeks flamed, as he held forth to her about the poem, and quoted many a passage, describing the fields and forests. But she broke in: “Why, every infant knows that trees grow in the woods, that water flows in the rivers, and that men sow the fields; wherefore, then, put such things in print?” Yanek started, astonished and displeased. “I,” she went on to say, “care only for tales of kings, of dragons, of spectres—tales which make one’s flesh creep to hear them, and the heart within one burn like a live coal.... Such tales Roch tells us sometimes: I could listen to him all day, all night!—Have ye any books on such matters?” “Who would read them? Mere trash, mere fables!” he ejaculated, scornfully, and very much put out. “Fables? Why, Roch has read them to us: they are in print!” “Then he read you falsehoods and senseless things!” “What, are all those marvellous tales only falsehoods and made-up stories?” “Nothing more!” “And those about the noonday phantoms too? And those about the dragons?” she asked, more and more disappointed. He was losing patience. “I tell you, all that is mere falsehood!” he said. “But is all false too?—About the Lord Jesus, journeying with Saint Peter?”