A Nikolas Story: Part II

That was I. Désmônd Késsler, a young man of twenty, nay, still a child in earnest, strong and firm, hale, apparently with some Icelandic blood in my veins. There I stood, gazing heatedly, with the intensity such that would upstage a thousand stars in the sky, of which she deserved nothing less. She passed along the main thoroughfare, the one which linked all the small shops and bazaars on this shabby little street. The road was cobbled and with a reddish hue, and ancient, austere, a truly noble road if ever there was one! They said it dated back to Roman times, but that was all nonsense, as we knew. As for her appearance, it cannot be dignified with mere words of the language, trifling utterances which demean and doubt the person. My brief intermingling with the divine was abruptly interrupted by the Nikolas, who cried, "I'm too lazy to finish this story!"