resonant baritone of Frýbort. He was sitting on the bed and singing:
“When I was taking home my Márinka — —”
Zelenka looked despairingly and imploringly at his singing comrade, and began to say his lesson half aloud.
But Frýbort paid no attention and, the guitar hung on his shoulder by the green ribbon, he kept on harping and singing of how he took his Márinka home.
CHAPTER III.
Early Sunday morning, while Špína still lay sleeping, and Zelenka diligently studied in bed, Vavřena and Frýbort were already seated at the little table. They were re-reading and again dis cussing the paper which the Hanák had com posed a little time ago, and which Vavřena had corrected. They were whispering softly, so that nothing of what they said could be understood. Besides, Zelenka was so fully occupied with his studies, that he did not pay the slightest atten tion to his colleagues and their mysterious dis cussion.
“It must be; they would laugh at us!” insisted Frýbort. “The physics are unanimously with us.”
A stream of golden light was pouring into the room, heralding a beautiful Sunday. The bells from the church began to peal as if in celebration of the day, and their serious, pleasing sound vibrated far through the clear, bright air. Shortly afteward the more piercing sound of the college bell resounded. Scarcely had it begun to ring, when Vavřena, completely dressed, took his hat and cane, to carry which was the privilege of all philosophers, and hurried away.
“What is the matter. .” inquired Miss Elis, when the remaining students came into her room for breakfast. “Mr. Vavřena went away so hurriedly that he did not even wait for breakfast.”
“Perhaps he went for a walk, to enjoy such a beautiful morning,” replied Frýbort.
After a little while they too departed.
It was about nine o’clock. In the large hall of the college, philosophers of both classes were assembled for the “exhortation.” There were more than three hundred of them. Hum and buzz of the many voices resounded through the spacious meeting place, here softer, there louder. They spoke both German and Bohemian. There was an unusual stir to-day, and almost every body discussed the same topic. Nobody knew who began it, who threw the spark among them, but the fire spread. After all, it was quite natural. April was nearing its end, and first day of May was coming. Formerly this day was celebrated in a most gay and hilarious manner.
The philosophers had from time immemorial celebrated that day according to certain customs and as somewhat of a privilege. It was called “majales”, the May festival, and was fervently awaited the whole year round not only by themselves, but also by the girls, and, in fact, by the whole town. But two years ago the bishop’s commissary in the name of the bishop of Hradec for bade this festival. This was the third year in which May first was to be spent without noise, music, and general gayety. It was this the sons of the Muses were now discussing.
Around Frýbort, who stood near the window opposite the door, assembled the largest crowd, and the debating was the warmest. The door opened, and Vavřena entered. Catching sight of Frýbort, he went directly toward him. In order to avoid pushing through the crowd, Vavřena ascended the platform, and went past the professorial cathedra. There he suddenly stopped; stooping, he picked, as if surprised, a paper which lay there, and began to read it silently.
“Look, Vavřena found something there!”
“What have you?” called out many voices.
“It is adressed to you.”
Many flocked around the cathedra.
“Let’s see! Let’s see!” they cried loudly.
“Read it!” demanded others.
“Silence!” commanded Frýbort. “Vavřena will read it.”
The philosophers became silent and Vavřena, standing behind the cathedra, began to read in a clear, resonant voice a proclamation to all the auditors of the philosophical school. An unidentified writer was reminding them of the ancient custom and privilege of the May festival. He painted it again in live colors, in order to bring its beauty to the memory of all; he called upon the honor and reputation of the student body, and at last challenged them, that they unanimously, unitedly, fearlessly, and solemnly celebrate the “majales” as formerly, renew the ancient privilege, and thus preserve the honor of the an cicnt “philosophy.”
Loud cries of approbation and agreement a rose. Scarcely had Vavřena descended from the cathedra, when the professor of theology, a tall, lank Piarist, entered the room. His countenance was serious and stern; his small, penetrating eyes immediately noted the unusual buzz and commotion.
Having seated himself, he took out of his notes a paper. Opening it, he anounced in his monotonous, shrill voice, that before he began the services, he would read to the gentlemen a communication from the bishop’s office.
A low murmur arose in the rear like the sound of an approaching storm. The professor began to read the paper, the gist of which was that the bishop again forbade any noisy celebration on the first of May.
Before the professor ended, the storm broke out. Growling, hissing, scraping the floor with the feet, discourteous and insurgent voices, blows of the philosophical canes upon the desks—all this filled the hall with an infernal din. The professor’s voice was lost in the clamor like a captain’s call to his rebel sailors during the tumult of a storm.
