The Hound of Florence by Felix Salten Page A

sight of a short stretch of road that looked like a piece of ribbon. Lower down it appeared again, winding down the incline, and unrolling across the green plain in a straight line.
    It reminded him of his father who had traveled along that road in a northerly direction. It seemed to him incomprehensible that his father should have left this smiling garden, incredible that anyone who had been born and bred there could have forsaken such a glorious country.
    All his hopes, desires and thoughts darted—nay, flew along that white ribbon unfolding far away in the distance across the green fields. He banished the memory of the day before yesterday, which stirred faintly in his breast. Afraid of meeting Angelica in front of the church of Rovereto, he had kept to sidetracks on the outskirts of the town and thus slipped by the little place unnoticed. Again and again he had felt tempted to go through the center of it straight to the church, to find out whether she were really waiting for him. But he did not think she was, for he felt sure she must be much too frightened to wish to find him; nevertheless, he longed for her beauty and her love, and he felt tormented by remorse for having so light-heartedly whiled away his time with her. He was certain that he had not only distressed her, but given her a terrible fright into the bargain. At last he had shaken himself free of all these thoughts—his longing, his remorse, his hesitation—and had gone on his way, thinking of nothing but his distant goal. And behold, he was now sitting on the edge of the plain, with no desire to think of anything else!
    The sound of trotting horses, the rumble of carriage-­wheels and the murmur of human voices drew ever nearer and nearer. On the strip of road that encircled the hill on which he was sitting, there appeared a troop of horsemen; a string of coaches followed, brought up in the rear by another troop of horsemen. Lucas recognized the Archduke’s cavalcade. It burst upon his vision, with its horses and wagons, like actors appearing on the stage, or mechanical figures within a clock, only to disappear again, where a spur of the hill seemed to swallow up the roadway. But the snorting of the horses, the rattling of the chains, the screeching and groaning of the wheels, and the confused murmur of voices filled the air with life and animation.
    Lucas sprang to his feet and breathlessly waited until the procession once more came into view below. And lo, down in the depths he could see it again, rattling downhill. Enveloped in clouds of dust, it glided along as though borne on the bosom of the clouds.
    â€œThere! . . .” cried Lucas, throwing out his arms to it. “There I am traveling to Verona! To-night I shall be in Verona!”
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    The market-place of Verona was thronged with people. On the cobblestones with which the square was paved, all kinds of vegetables lay piled up in green mounds, tangled masses of chickens tied by the feet cackled and squawked, the bleeding carcasses of bullocks, opened and cut up, gaped to view, while towering above it all a flaming mass of flowers and fruit rose in tier upon tier of gorgeous color.
    The bright rays of the morning sun poured down on this medley of humanity, animals and vegetables. Everything was radiant, bright and warm. The air was full of the scent of flowers, raw meat, oranges and blood, clothes, stagnant water, wet metal, onions and melons. It vibrated with the shrill voices of the crowd, snatches of song, the shouting and crying of children as they played about, harsh discordant whistles, the braying of donkeys under the whip, and the cackling of tied-up chickens. The plashing of the fountain, the marble columns and statues, the lion of St. Mark, soaring above the tumult, the houses, the countless balconies, the flapping of blinds, and the fluttering of clothes hung out to dry at the windows—everything seemed to take a hand in the general