"And yet, what am I thinking of? I can't prove it, for, after all, the umbrella does not belong to me, but to the Müncz family, for the old man bought it. So only that which is in the handle belongs to me. But can I go to the priest and say: 'Your reverence, in the handle of the umbrella is a check for 200,000 or 300,000 florins, please give it to me, for it belongs of right to me'?"
Then Gyuri began to wonder what the priest would answer. He either believed the legend of the umbrella, and would then say: "Go along, do! St. Peter is not such a fool as to bring you a check on a bank from Heaven!" Or if he did look in the handle and find the receipt, he would say: "Well, if he did bring it, he evidently meant it for me." And he would take it out and keep it. Why should he give it to Gyuri? How was he to prove it belonged to him?
"Supposing," thought our hero, "I were to tell him the whole story, about my mother, about my father, and all the circumstances attending his death. Let us imagine he would believe it from Alpha to Omega; of what use would it be? Does it prove that the treasure is mine? Certainly not. And even if it did, would he give it to me? A priest is only a man after all. Could I have a lawsuit, if he would not give it me? What nonsense! Of course not. He might take the receipt out of the handle, and what proofs can I bring then that it was ever in it?"
The perspiration stood on his forehead; he bit the bed-clothes in his helpless rage. To be so near to his inheritance, and yet not be able to seize hold of it!
"Black night, give counsel!" was Gyuri's prayer. And it is best, after all, to turn to the night for help. Gyuri was right to ask its advice, for it is a good friend to thought. Among the Golden Rules should be written: "Think over all your actions by night, even if you have decided by day what course to take!" For a man has night thoughts and day thoughts, though I do not know which are the better. I rather think neither kind is perfect. For daylight, like a weaver, works its colors into one's thoughts, and night covers them with its black wings. Both of them paint, increase and decrease things—in one word, falsify them. Night shows the beloved one more beautiful than he is, it strengthens one's enemies, increases one's troubles, diminishes one's joy. It is not kind of it; but night is sovereign, and is answerable to no one for its actions. Take things as they come, but do not put aside serious thought when you are seeking the truth. Though, of course, you do not really seek the truth; even if it comes to meet you, you get out of its way. I ought to have said, do not despise the night when you are trying to find the way out of a thing. Night will show you what to do, without your even noticing it. If it can do it in no other way, it brings you gentle sleep, and gives you advice in dreams.
After a time the wind dropped, the music at the "Frozen Sheep" ceased, and Gyuri heard nothing but a rhythmic murmur, and all at once he seemed to be in the woods of Glogova, chasing butterflies with Veronica.
As they ran on among the bushes, an old man suddenly appeared before them, with a golden crook, a glory round his head, and his hat hanging by a bit of string from his neck.
"Are you Mr. Wibra?" he inquired.
"Yes; and you?"
"I am St. Peter."