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The sun rose slowly over the great bulk of the Carpathian mountains lying along the horizon, weird giant shapes in the early morning
mist. It was still very quiet in the village. A cock crowed here and there, and swallows flew chirping close to the ground, darting swiftly about preparing for their higher flight. Janci the shepherd, apparently the only human being already up, stood beside the brook at the point where the old bridge spans the streamlet, still turbulent from the mountain floods. Janci was cutting willows to make his Margit a new basket.
Once the shepherd raised his head from his work, for he thought he heard a loud laugh somewhere in the near distance. But all seemed silent and he turned back to his willows. The beauty of the landscape about him was much too familiar a thing that he should have felt or seen its charm. The violet hue of the distant woods, the red gleaming of the heather-strewn moor, with its patches of swamp from which the slow mist arose, the pretty little village with its handsome old church and attractive rectory Janci had known it so long that he never stopped to realise how very charming, in its gentle melancholy, it all was. [...]
Reprint of the detective novel starring Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian police.

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