Bára. Lišaj, who had bounded after Jacob, did not know what to do for joy when he saw Bára again.
When Jacob saw where Bára had slept he was almost ready to burst into sobs, and so to cover up his tears he went to the grave of his dead wife. The huntsman sat down on the bier. Bára played with Lišaj, but all the while she was conscious that the huntsman never took his eyes from her. She blushed and then paled and her heart pounded more violently than it had throughout the night when she had been wholly alone in the tomb.
“And is there no one beside your father in the entire village who would have looked after you here?” the huntsman asked after a while.
“Besides Elška and my father there is no one. Father came. Elška cannot come, and there is no one else who loves me that much. Excepting you, Lišaj, isn’t that so?” And she gazed into the eyes of her dog. “And then everyone’s afraid to go near the cemetery at night,” she added.
“I marvel at your courage as I marvelled at your strength. Almost every day I have told my mother about you,” said the huntsman.
“Oh, you still have a mother, sir?” Bára asked in gentle tones.
“Yes, an aged mother. We live together high up on the hill three-quarters of an hour’s distance from here, in the forest. I am a huntsman. My mother has wished for a daughter and would like to see me
