CHAPTER L 



THE FALL OF THE INDIAN ZLATAROG 



EXCITEMENT lends us wings we fly down ! 



There he lies. 



I draw nearer and look in respectful silence 

 at his beautiful horns, his splendid beard, and 

 his strongly-built body in its rough, silvery 

 coat. 



On white sheets he lies this Indian Zlatarog. 

 His coffin is ornamented with stones and purple- 

 coloured flowers triglavroses ! 



His body is still warm, but he lies motionless in 

 death's rigidity, for life has already left him life 

 that is so rare amongst these mountains. The king 

 of the rocks is dead ! 



Black clouds begin to gather overhead, the air be- 

 comes cold, uncannily roars the wind. 



Once more the sun breaks through to kiss his 

 darling who has so often followed him over hill and 

 dale ; blossoms of silver he scatters on the grave and 

 then makes haste to be gone. 



The mountains drape themselves in mourning 



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