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The sudden fragrance of rose leaves enveloped him. Round they flew again. While they were still dancing, Boleskey came into the room. He caught Swithin by both hands. "Brother, welcome! Ah! your arm is hurt! I do not forget." His yellow face and deep-set eyes expressed a dignified gratitude. "Let me introduce to you my friend Baron Kasteliz."
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.
"My name," said the Hungarian, "is Boleskey. You are my friend." His English was good. 'Bulsh-kai-ee, Burlsh-kai-ee, thought Swithin; 'what a devil of a name! "Mine," he said sulkily, "is Forsyte." The Hungarian repeated it. "You've had a nasty jab on the cheek," said Swithin; the sight of the matted beard was making him feel sick.
When they had gone up to their room Swithin sought Boleskey. His spirits had risen remarkably. "Tell the landlord to get us supper," he said; "we'll crack a bottle to our luck." He hurried on the landlord's preparations. The window of the room faced a wood, so near that he could almost touch the trees. The scent from the pines blew in on him.
How d'you make that out?" He had a torturing desire to kiss her. "Yes, you are angry," she repeated; "I wait here for papa and Margit." Swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. Once or twice, for his sight was sharp, he saw her steal a look at him, a beseeching look, and hardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. After five minutes Boleskey, Margit, and Kasteliz appeared.
He knew, vaguely, that he was going somewhere with an object; Rozsi's face kept dancing before him, like a promise. Once or twice he gave Kasteliz a glassy stare. Towards Boleskey, on the other hand, he felt quite warm, and recalled with admiration the way he had set his glass down empty, time after time.
Margit rose and, bending over him like a mother, murmured: "He is tired it is the ride!" She raised him in her strong arms, and leaning on her shoulder Boleskey staggered from the room. Swithin and Rozsi were left alone. He slid his hand towards her hand that lay so close, on the rough table-cloth. It seemed to await his touch.
"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?"
Swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was really hungry. Boleskey too was silent, plunged in gloom; Rozsi was dumb; Margit alone chattered. "You will come to our Father-town? We shall have things to show you. Rozsi, what things we will show him!" Rozsi, with a little appealing movement of her hands, repeated, "What things we will show you!"
And Boleskey, murmuring, "She must drink to our country," went out to summon her, Margit followed him, while Swithin cut up a chicken. They came back without her. She had "a megrim of the spirit." Swithin's face fell. "Look here!" he said, "I'll go and try. Don't wait for me." "Yes," answered Boleskey, sinking mournfully into a chair; "try, brother, try-by all means, try."
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