yet she smiled. Her smile this time belonged to one alone, it was genuine and came from the heart, it was the reflection of her whole being, of her whole life, but of a life which already flickered in the socket. Krista knew it, Venik guessed it too well, and cried out “Krista, Krista, we shall yet tell one another all.”
“Salute the hollow tree,” said Krista, “I wished to have found thee there, thou hast been beforehand with me—’tis better thus.”
The carriage stopped before Krista’s door, Venik lifted her in his arms, bore her to her chamber, there laid her on her bed and Krista still sought his face with her hand. And her own face was smiling, though now her eyes grew cold, and fixed; her whole being already ceased to speak, and she moved no more. Venik again knelt by her side but she was already speechless.
The public dispersed from the theatre, many walked up and down before Krista’s dwelling and spoke about her and about the violin player, and over Prague the news flew like wild fire that Krista was dead.
The storm now emptied itself out of the theatre into the town and as it enlarged its area, diminished somewhat of its tragic force and vehemence.
“It was a stroke,” some whispered. “She fell unfortunately,” said others. But it never occurred to anyone that there was any connection between
