“And how is it that you are a Brandenburger and yet speak the Czech language?”
“I am a Czech of Kladsko on the Bohemian borders. I am serving in the army, by God’s will, my second year now—.”
“He is a pious man,” thought Suk to himself. “Without a doubt he is of the Helvetian confession,” and he expressed this conjecture aloud. The Prussian confirmed the surmise.
“And what is your name?” “Jan Koláčný.”
“And here we are talking—what would our masters say to us?”
“Why, are we doing something wicked?”
“To be sure, we are fellow countrymen, both Czechs. When will such a meeting as this occur again?”
The conversation lagged. Suk saw through the mist which was gradually growing lighter the silhouette of the Prussian soldier in his spiked cap resembling a bishop’s mitre. He was standing beside an old thickly crowned bushy beech. After a pause, Suk began, “It’s very cold to-day—.”
“It is. Come here and get warm.” Koláčný urged as genuinely as if he stood on the threshold of his snow-covered mountain cottage.
“Where?”
“Here to me. I have a full bottle—”
Suk stood rigid. Suspicion was awakened. Some
