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Updated: May 19, 2025
The only exception is a hunchback whom he had looked on with contempt, and who now greets him familiarly. The countryside has been transformed by the building of a munition factory. Marcsa, Bogdan's betrothed, works there, and has become the factory owner's mistress. Bogdan sees red, and stabs the man, to be struck down dead himself a moment later.
The train pulled out of the tunnel, the whistle blew, and the dwarf acacias in front of the station-master's hut sent a greeting through the window. Grimly John Bogdan dragged his heavy bag through the train corridor, descended the steps hesitatingly, and stood there at a loss, looking around for help as the train rolled on behind his back.
Whatever the Emperor said or did, whether it was right or wrong, was received with enthusiastic praise and admiration. Dozens of people were always at hand to laud him to the skies. For instance, a book was published during the war entitled, "Der Kaiser im Felde," by Dr. Bogdan Kriegen. The Emperor presented me with a copy when at Kreuznach in May, 1917, and wrote a suitable inscription inside.
And here Julia, even Julia, his playmate, his neighbor, had not recognized him. So deep was John Bogdan sunk in his misery, so engulfed in grim plans of vengeance, that he did not notice a man who had been standing in front of him for several minutes, eyeing him curiously from every angle.
John Bogdan stood stockstill, as if some one had struck him on the chest. It was Marcsa! There was not another girl in the whole country who walked like that. He threw his luggage to the ground and dashed off. "Marcsa! Marcsa!" his cry thundered out over the broad courtyard. The girl turned and waited for his approach, peering curiously through half-closed eyes.
John Bogdan smiled as he recalled the wicked jokes the men had cracked at the officer's expense, how the officer had gone all white and leaned against a tree and carried on like a man who has much more than quenched his thirst. The road glowed in the mid-day sun. The village clock struck twelve.
These were all things that John Bogdan had often discussed with his comrades after severe frays when they criticized the men who had fallen for behaving stupidly and who had had to pay with their lives for their awkwardness. As he strode along in haste up the familiar road to the castle, he was fairly lost in recollections. His legs moved of themselves, like horses on the homeward way.
Bogdan observed the change and saw that her gaze traveled over his shoulder. He let go her hand and turned instantly. Just what he thought the master coming out of the machine shop. His old forester, Toth, followed him. Marcsa bounded past Bogdan like a cat and ran up to the lord and bent over and kissed his hand. Bogdan saw the three of them draw near and lowered his head like a ram for attack.
For Marcsa there was only one John Bogdan, the one that was coachman to the lord of the castle and the handsomest man in the village. Was he still coachman? The lord would take care not to disgrace his magnificent pair with such a scarecrow or drive to the county seat with such a monstrosity on the box. Haying that's what they would put him to cleaning out the dung from the stables.
Yet not always dispersed, if they could find a leader; as the Polish nobles discovered to their cost in the middle of the seventeenth century. Then Bogdan the Cossack, a wild warrior, not without his sins, but having deserved well of James Sobieski and the Poles, found that the neighbouring noble's steward had taken a fancy to his windmill and his farm upon the Dnieper.
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