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Prokop it was as if they were passing through the quiet countryside in which he had spent his childhood, but it was very foggy and the light from the lantern penetrated no further than the side of the road, beyond which there was a silent and unknown land.

“Hohohot,” cried the old man, and the horse turned off the road right into that veiled, silent world. The wheels dug into soft grass. Prokop made out a shallow valley, on each side of which were leafless thickets, between which was a beautiful meadow. “P-r-r-r,” cried the old man and slowly got down from the coach-box. “Get out,” he said, “we’ve arrived,” He slowly undid the traces. “Nobody will come after us here.”

“Who?”

“ The police. There must be order but they always want all sorts of papers  and permits  and where you are coming from  and where you are going. It’s all more than I can understand.” He unharnessed the horse, saying to him quietly: “Keep quiet and you shall have a piece of bread.”

Prokop stepped down from the cart, numbed by the journey. “Where are we?”

“Over there where there’s that hut,” said the old man vaguely. “You will sleep it off and be all