boisterousness of his
humour.

At the commencement of this chapter I have said that on this particular
morning, our first in Prague, I was standing before the doors of the
Teyn Kirche, beneath the story of the Crucifixion as it is told there in
stone. My reason for being there will be apparent directly. Let it
suffice that when I entered the sacred building I paused, thinking how
beautiful it was, with the sunshine straggling in through those
wonderful windows which in bygone days had looked down on the burial of
Tycho Brahe, and had in all probability seen John of Nepomuc standing in
the pulpit. Their light illumined the grotesque old organ with its
multitude of time-stained pipes and dingy faded ornaments, and
contrasted strangely with that of the lamps and candles burning before
the various altars and shrines. Of all the churches of Europe there is
not one that affects me so deeply as this famous old Hussite building.
With the exception, however, of myself and a kneeling figure near the
entrance to the Marian Capelle, no worshippers were in the church. I
stood for a moment looking round the building. Its vague suggestion of
sadness harmonised with my own feelings, and I wondered if, among all
those who had worshipped inside its walls since the days when the German
merchants had first erected it, there had ever been one who had so
strange a story to tell as myself. At last, having screwed my courage to
the sticking point, I made my way down the nave between the carved,
worm-eaten pews, and approached the figure I have referred to above.
Though I could not see her face, I knew that it was Valerie. Her head
was bent upon her hands and her shoulders shook with emotion. She must
have heard my step upon the stones, for she suddenly looked up, and
seeing me before her, rose from her knees and prepared to leave the pew.
The sight of her unhappiness affected me keenly, and when she reached
the spot where I was standing I could control myself no longer. For the
last few weeks I had been hard put to it to keep my love within bounds,
and now, under the influence of her grief, it got the better of me
altogether. She must have known what was coming, for she stood before me
with a troubled expression in her eyes.

"Mr. Forrester," she began, "I did not expect to see you. How did you
know that I was here?"

"Because I followed you," I answered unblushingly.

"You followed me?" she said.

"Yes, and I am not ashamed to own it,"