The Witch of Prague | Page 8

way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were either at
their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and the place was
as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward, never
pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in the great Ring.
He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed no attention
upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of overtaking
the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, on a sudden,
the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on the one side
by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened front of
the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half- modern Town Hall
with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel which
forms the apse of the chapel in the second story.
One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and
conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his
black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer
emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a
lady pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no
questioning would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked
across the square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black,
already at such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible.
In his haste he found no time to convince himself that no living woman
could have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit,
gaining rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an easy matter
to overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a couple of
hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed the ancient
astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking the third quarter
after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch the sad-faced
apostles as they presented their stiff figures in succession at the two
square windows. When the blackened cock under the small Gothic arch
above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy crow, the
Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, and he could see
the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into the Karlsgasse.
He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the woman he was
following and the object of his loving search seemed now to diminish,
as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and her decreased.

But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, round a sharp
corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, and once more in
the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approaching the old stone
bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned quickly a
third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient house which faces
the little square over against the enormous buildings comprising the
Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical observatory. As he
sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just closing and heard the
sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The lady had disappeared,
and he felt sure that she had gone through that entrance.
He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in Prague,
both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow front. It
is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt apex of one angle
facing the little square, the sides being erected on the one hand along
the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley which leads away
towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages are built out over this
dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior communications of the
dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there is a small door studded
with iron nails which is invariably shut. The main entrance takes in all
the scant breadth of the truncated angle which looks towards the
monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, above that another,
and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, a round and unglazed
aperture, within which there is inky darkness. The windows of the first
and second stories are flanked by huge figures of saints, standing forth
in strangely contorted attitudes, black with the dust of ages, black as all
old Prague is black, with the smoke of the brown Bohemian coal, with
the dark and unctuous mists of many autumns, with the cruel,
petrifying frosts of ten score winters.
He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also
this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night,
wondering who lived within