PYRRHULA PYRRHULA
The climb to the top of the ridge cost him all his breath. The slope, overgrown in yellowed grass, was so steep, that when he bent down, he could touch the path before him. Each step lifted him up, appreciably, as if he were on a staircase, or a ladder. When he glanced down into the valley, he saw that the cabin, which they had left just about an hour before, was distant and small — as can happen only in high mountains. The wind chased away the clouds, and the side of the mountain, overgrown in sparse, wind-buffeted beeches, was drenched in sunlight. Michal took a deep breath before the next step. He looked up above himself, where in the rays of the sudden sun glittered the tensed calf of his wife Věra. That’s how she is. A competitive animal, a mare who can’t walk along
