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Updated: June 17, 2025
"They belong to the priest of Glogova," answered Mravucsán. "I'm afraid some one may have been thrown out of the carriage; let us go and see." During this time the number of customers in Mrs.
Gyuri considered Pál Béldi very stupid for not accepting the title of prince when it was offered him. Veronica thought it was better he had not done so, for if he had, the novel would never have been written. Then Gyuri began to question her about Glogova. Was it very dull? Veronica looked at him, surprised. How could Glogova be dull?
But now I begin to fear my brother will be anxious about me." "The priest of Glogova?" "Yes. He is very fond of me, and will be so anxious if we do not return. And yet I hardly know how we are to manage it." "Well," said Mravucsán, consolingly, "we have the horses, and we will borrow a cart from some one." Veronica shuddered and shook her head. "With those horses? Never again!"
But they might have looked for it till Doomsday if Mr. Gongoly had not passed that way. Veronica had quite despaired of finding the ring. "Well, well, my dear," said the nabob of Glogova, shaking back his long gray hair, "never mind, trust in Gongoly, he will find it for you. There is only one way to do it, so in an hour's time they will be making hay in this field."
Then there were the Urszinyis from Kopanyica, two young ladies from Lehota in pink dresses, and Mrs. Müncz from Bábaszék, with lovely golden earrings on. There were so many different kinds of conveyances in Glogova that day, it would have taken a week to look at them all.
Only a few of the more important villagers accompanied him to talk over the state of affairs: Péter Szlávik, the sacristan; Mihály Gongoly, the nabob of Glogova; and the miller, György Klincsok. He began to question them, and took out his note-book, in order to make notes as to what his income was likely to be. "How many inhabitants are there in the village?" "Rather less than five hundred."
'I was in Glogova last year. 'And what the devil were you doing in Glogova? 'Why, the villagers were having a silver handle made here for a wretched-looking old umbrella, which they keep in their church, and the stupid things were afraid to send the umbrella here for fear any one should steal it, though it was not worth twopence; so I was obliged to go there in order to fasten the handle on."
He set to work to get his house in order, so that he could at least be alone. Luckily he had found in the next village an old school friend, Tamás Urszinyi, a big, broad-shouldered man, plain-spoken, but kind-hearted. "Glogova is a wretched hole," he said, "but not every place can be the Bishopric of Neutra. However, you will have to put up with it as it is.
They still had to drive through one wood, and then the little white cottages of Glogova would be before them. But this was the worst bit of the road, crooked and curved, full of ruts and rocks, and so narrow that there was hardly room for the carriage to pass. János turned round and said with a shake of his head: "The king himself would grow crooked here!"
Well, the story runs, that when your fair neighbor was a little child, they once left her out on the veranda of the priest's house. Her brother, the priest of Glogova, was in the church praying. A storm came on, it poured in torrents, and the child would have been wet through and have got inflammation of the lungs, or something of the kind, if a miracle had not taken place.
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