Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/84

"They used to say he was a wizard," she murmured reflectively.

"And you believed it?" Anna laughed.

"How was I to know? They even said he was immortal."

"Who said all that?"

"What do you mean? Your own father. He even told me that the old man had traffic with ghosts, that he was born of a stone, and that he was as old as the mountains."

"My father liked to spin a lot of stories," Anna said. "More than once he scared the life out of me with his fantastic yarns. He had a way of making the wildest tale seem true."

"And didn't you believe them?"

"I should say I did! There was one story he used to tell about old Zatchuk that I'll remember to my dying day."

"What was it? Oh, Anna, please tell me," Gertrude begged. "I'd like to hear it."

"All right." Anna sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothed back her hair, and folded her hands just as her father used to do.

"Well, this is the way it was," she began, smiling. "Papa was once coming home late at night from the market. It was a bright night; a moon so full and clear, that it pierced the eye with its glow. The road, like a Milky Way, rolled onward. And the silence was so dense you could almost touch it. My father dozed at the reins; the horses trotted easily along, unguided, over the familiar roads. That's the way Papa used to tell it; I remember it almost word for word."

"Yes?" Gertrude leaned forward, all intent, as eager as a child listening to a fairy tale.

" 'So there I was, dozing at the reins,' he'd say; 'then suddenly I noticed that the horse's hoofbeats were somehow changed. I started up. My horse switched his tail and reared up on his hind legs, snorting fiercely. A cold sweat broke