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“Brothers!” said the Hungarian, refilling, “your healths!”

The youth tossed off his wine. And Swithin this time did the same; he pitied this poor devil of a youth now. “Come round to-morrow!” he said, “I’ll give you a shirt or two.” When the youth was gone, however, he remembered with relief that he had not given his address.

‘Better so,’ he reflected. ‘A humbug, no doubt.’

“What was that you said to him?” he asked of the Hungarian.

“I said,” answered Boleskey, “‘You have eaten and drunk; and now you are my enemy!'”

“Quite right!” said Swithin, “quite right! A beggar is every man’s enemy.”

“You do not understand,” the Hungarian replied politely. “While he was a beggar–I, too, have had to beg” (Swithin thought, ‘Good God! this is awful!’), “but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German? No Austrian dog soils my floors!”

His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasant fashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice. “I am an exile–all of my blood are exiles. Those Godless dogs!” Swithin hurriedly assented.

As he spoke, a face peeped in at the door.

“Rozsi!” said the Hungarian. A young girl came in. She was rather short, with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair. She smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyes glanced from one man to the other. Her face was round, too, high in the cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up at the corners. With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and called, “Margit!” An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders, large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin described to himself afterwards as a “pudding” nose. Both girls, with little cooing sounds, began attending to their father’s face.

Swithin turned his back to them. His arm pained him.

‘This is what comes of interfering,’ he thought sulkily; ‘I might have had my neck broken!’ Suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes, half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, “Rozsi!” the door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed by a sense of soft disturbance.

“Your daughter’s name is Rosy?” he said; “we have it in England–from rose, a flower.”

“Rozsi (Rozgi),” the Hungarian replied; “your English is a hard tongue, harder than French, German, or Czechish, harder than Russian, or Roumanian–I know no more.”

“What?” said Swithin, “six languages?” Privately he thought, ‘He knows how to lie, anyway.’

“If you lived in a country like mine,” muttered the Hungarian, “with all men’s hands against you! A free people–dying–but not dead!”

Swithin could not imagine what he was talking of. This man’s face, with its linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and great black wisps of beard, his fierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. He seemed to be suffering from some kind of mental dog-bite. His emotion indeed appeared so indecent, so uncontrolled and open, that its obvious sincerity produced a sort of awe in Swithin. It was like being forced to look into a furnace. Boleskey stopped roaming up and down. “You think it’s over?” he said; “I tell you, in the breast of each one of us Magyars there is a hell. What is sweeter than life? What is more sacred than each breath we draw? Ah! my country!” These words were uttered so slowly, with such intense mournfulness, that Swithin’s jaw relaxed; he converted the movement to a yawn.

“Tell me,” said Boleskey, “what would you do if the French conquered you?”

Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he grunted, “The ‘Froggies’? Let ’em try!”

“Drink!” said Boleskey–“there is nothing like it”; he filled Swithin’s glass. “I will tell you my story.”

Swithin rose hurriedly. “It’s late,” he said. “This is good stuff, though; have you much of it?”

“It is the last bottle.”

“What?” said Swithin; “and you gave it to a beggar?”