The car turned into a firm stretch of road and immediately accelerated. Of Daimon nothing was to be seen but the back of his shaggy coat. Prokop sobbed with the coldness of the wind and looked round at the girl. She had twined her hair round her neck and was shivering with cold in her thin clothes. He was sorry for her, and again took the rug and threw it over her. She pushed it away in fury and then he wrapped her up in it from her head to her heels, as if she were a package, and clasped her in his arms: “Don’t move!”
“What are you up to?” threw out Daimon casually from the wheel. “Well. …”
Prokop pretended that he had not heard this piece of cynicism, but the package in his arms began to giggle quietly.
“She’s a good girl,” continued Daimon calmly. “Her father was an author.” The package nodded and Daimon told Prokop a name so famous, so sacred and pure that he was positively aghast and involuntarily relaxed his grasp. The package twisted round and bounced on his lap; from beneath the rug there projected a pair of beautiful, wicked legs, which childishly kicked about in the air. He drew the rug over her so that she should not be cold, but she seemed to regard this as a game, was convulsed with laughter, and went on kicking her legs about. He held her as firmly as he could, but her hands slid out from the rug and played over his face, pulled his hair, tickled his neck and found their way in between his lips. At length he let her go on; she felt about his forehead, found it severely furrowed, and drew back as if she had been burned. Now it was a venturesome child’s hand which did not know what it was allowed to do. It gently and surreptitiously approached his face, touched it, drew away, touched it again, smoothed it and at last timidly rested on his rough cheek. From the rug there came the sound of deep breathing.
The car slid through a sleeping town and shot into the open country. “Well,” said Daimon, turning round, “what do you think of our comrades?”
“Quietly,” whispered the motionless Prokop, “she’s asleep.”
L
The car drew up in a dark, wooded valley. Prokop made out in the half light some large towers and slag heaps. “Well, here we are,” muttered Daimon. “This is my mine and forge; that’s nothing. Out you get!”
“Am I to leave her here?” asked Prokop softly.
“Who? Ha, ha! your beauty. Wake her up, we’re stopping here.”
Prokop carefully stepped out of the car, carrying her in his arms. “Where am I to put her?”
Daimon unlocked the door of a desolate-looking house. “What? Wait, I’ve got a few rooms here. You can put her. … I’ll show you.”
He turned on the light and led him along a number of cold passages through some offices. Finally he turned into a room and switched on the light. Prokop found himself in a repulsive, unventilated room containing an unmade bed. The blinds were drawn down. “Aha!” said Daimon, “evidently some friend of mine has spent the night here. It’s not very beautiful, eh? Well, put her down on the bed.”
Prokop carefully deposited the heavily breathing package. Daimon was walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands. “Now we’ll go to our station. It’s on the top of the hill, about ten minutes away. Or would you rather stay here?” He stepped over to the sleeping girl and lifted the rug so that she was uncovered as far as the knees. “She’s beautiful, eh? It’s a pity I’m so old.”
Prokop frowned and covered her up again. “Show me your station,” he said shortly. A smile trembled on Daimon’s lips. “We’ll go.”
He led him through the yard. There were lights in the factory, and
