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Updated: May 13, 2025
He awoke, and fell to dusting it. The little tables round us began to fill. One of the bandsmen played a czardas on the czymbal. Two young Frenchmen, talking loudly, sat down at the adjoining table. They were discussing the lady who had been at the concert that afternoon. "It's a bet," said one of them, "but there's the present man.
By a dim light they groped their way up some stairs into a large room, into which the moon was shining through a window bulging over the street. A lamp burned low; there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent, as of rose leaves. In one corner stood a czymbal, in another a great pile of newspapers. On the wall hung some old-fashioned pistols, and a rosary of yellow beads.
He spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. A long, vibrating twang quavered through the room. Swithin turned and saw Rozsi sitting at the czymbal; the notes rang under the little hammers in her hands, incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody.
On and on he went, fierce and solemn, and with the rise of his voice, all those faces-fair or swarthy seemed to be glowing with one and the same feeling. Swithin felt the white heat in those faces it was not decent! In that whole speech he only understood the one word "Magyar" which came again and again. He almost dozed off at last. The twang of a czymbal woke him.
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