A deep groan was the only reply to this question.
Then the Bohemian’s face paled a little, he looked sharply for a moment at the outlines of the old man’s face, then he said slowly and composedly:
“Then you are Jurand of Spychow.”
“Jurand!” shouted Macko.
But Jurand was overcome at that moment and fainted. Protracted torture, want of nourishment, fatigue of the road, swept him from his feet. The tenth day had now passed since he left, groping his way, erring and feeling his way with his stick, hungry, fatigued and not knowing where he was going, unable to ask the way, during the daytime he turned toward the warm rays of the sun, the night he passed in the ditches along the road. When he happened to pass through a village, or hamlet, or accidentally encountered people on the road, he on
