’HOLLOA，master!canyoutelluswherethefightislikelytobe？’
Suchwerethewordsshoutedouttomebyashortthickfellow，inbrowntop-boots，andbareheaded，whostood，withhishandsinhispockets，atthedoorofacountryalehouseasIwaspassingby。
Now，asIknewnothingaboutthefight，andastheappearanceofthemandidnottemptmegreatlytoenterintoconversationwithhim，Imerelyansweredinthenegative，andcontinuedmyway。
ItwasafinelovelymorninginMay，thesunshonebrightabove，andthebirdswerecarollinginthehedgerows。Iwaswonttobecheerfulatsuchseasons，for，frommyearliestrecollection，sunshineandthesongofbirdshavebeendeartome；yet，aboutthatperiod，Iwasnotcheerful，mymindwasnotatrest；Iwasdebatingwithinmyself，andthedebatewasdrearyandunsatisfactoryenough。Isighed，andturningmyeyesupward，I
ejaculated，’Whatistruth？’