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Updated: May 19, 2025
There, beyond the smoky black opening of the short tunnel, the church steeple and a corner of the castle peeped for an instant above the grove. John Bogdan leaned way out of the train window and looked at everything with greedy eyes, like a man going over the inventory of his possessions, all tense and distrustful, for fear something may have been lost in his absence.
At the small grille gate stood the wife of the station-guard, Kovacs since the beginning of the war Kovacs himself had been somewhere on the Russian front talking and holding the ticket-puncher, impatiently waiting for the last passenger to pass through. John Bogdan saw her, and his heart began to beat so violently that he involuntarily lingered at each step.
A cripple is a cripple, and Marcsa had engaged herself to John Bogdan, not to the fright that he was bringing back home to her. His melancholy gradually gave way to an ungovernable fury against those people in the city who had given him all that buncombe and talked him into heaven knows what. Marcsa should be proud because he had been disfigured in the service of his fatherland. Proud? Ha-ha!
He was placed, by his father's will, under the tutelage of an energetic, ambitious noble, by the name of Bogdan Bielski. This aspiring nobleman, conscious of the incapacity of Feodor to govern, laid his plans to obtain the throne for himself.
The humpback's eyes flashed. "Marcsa, the beautiful Marcsa! I should say so! She's been made a forelady, though they say she's never had a shell in her hands, but, to make up, the lord's hands have " With a short, hoarse growl John Bogdan flew at the humpback's throat, squeezed in his Adam's apple, pressing it into his neck, and held him in a merciless clutch.
And Marcsa, the beautiful Marcsa whom all the men were vying for, would she be the wife of a miserable day laborer? No, of this John Bogdan was certain, the man sitting on the bench there was no longer John Bogdan to Marcsa. She would not have him now no more than the lord would have him on the coachman's box.
When almost face to face with her Bogdan stood still. "Marcsa!" he repeated in a whisper, his gaze fastened upon her face anxiously. He saw her turn pale, white as chalk, saw her eyes leap to and fro uneasily, from his left cheek to his right cheek, and back again. Then horror came into her eyes. She clapped her hands to her face, and turned and ran away as fast as her legs would carry her.
A box on his right ear and a box on his left ear, and then a good sound kick that was the answer to keep him from ever again trying to make a Socialist of John Bogdan, one of those low fellows who know no God or fatherland. Mihaly moved on the bench uneasily, every now and then scrutinizing his neighbor from the side.
Among the many cripples in the hospital John Bogdan was looked upon as a lucky devil, a celebrity. Everybody knew his story. The visitors to the hospital wanted first of all to see the man who had had himself operated on seventeen times and the skin cut away in bands from his back, his chest, and his thighs.
He wasn't so stupid after all, the humpback wasn't. What Bogdan said infuriated the master. Bogdan let him shout and stared like a man hypnotized at the nickeled hilt of the hunting-knife. It was not until the name "Marcsa" again struck his ear that he became attentive. "Marcsa is in my employ now," he heard the lord saying. "You know I am fond of you, Bogdan.
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