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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Whose house is that?" asked Gyuri, turning round. "The owner is on the box-seat beside you." "Really? Is it yours, Veronica?" She nodded her head. "There is a small farm belonging to it," said Father János modestly. "Well, we won't take it with us, but leave it here for your brother, shall we, Veronica?"
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?
"I have thought it well over," he went on aloud, "and there is no other way of managing it; I must marry the girl." Sztolarik got up from his chair, and came and stood in front of the young man, fixing his eyes on him. "But supposing you could get at your inheritance without marrying Veronica?" Gyuri could not help smiling.
The bell-ringer still went on tolling the bell, so Sztolarik called up to him: "Stop tolling, you fool, can't you? Show us which way the Srankós' maize-field lies." The bell-ringer pointed to the right. "You run on in front, Gyuri, and try and get out of her what is the matter with her."
They passed a small chapel in the wood, and Veronica explained that a rich innkeeper had once been killed there by robbers, and the bereaved widow had built this chapel on the spot. "Perhaps out of gratitude?" suggested Gyuri. "Don't be so horrid," exclaimed Veronica.
To his other nephews and nieces he sent lots of presents, so that the Gregorics family, who had never liked the younger brother, came at last to the conclusion that he was not such a bad fellow after all, only something of a fool. Little Gyuri himself was sent away to school after a time; to Kolozsvár and then to Szeged, as far away as possible, so as to be out of reach of the family.
There was an end to all his plans for adopting the boy, giving him his own name, and leaving him his fortune. No, no, it would cost Gyuri his life; they would kill him if he gave them the chance. But he did not intend to give them the chance. He trembled for the child, and hardly dared to love him. He started a new line of conduct, a very mad one too.
He heard faint sounds of music proceeding from the "Frozen Sheep" in the distance, and some one on his way home was singing a Slovak shepherd's song. Gyuri lighted a cigar, and sat down to smoke it and think things over.
"Yes, sir, I have been nervous lately." "And they don't let you go out at such times?" "Why, I no, I may not go out at such times." "But the doctor takes you with him sometimes the doctor or Gyuri?" asked the detective. "Yes." "I haven't had him out with me for weeks," interrupted the attendant. He seemed particularly anxious to have the "for weeks" clearly heard by this inconvenient questioner.
Poor little Veronica was trembling like a leaf in her hiding-place. She shut her eyes like a criminal before his execution, with a sort of undefined feeling that the blow would be less painful so. What would he answer? "I think I love her," answered Gyuri, again in that uncertain voice. "She is so pretty, don't you think so?" "Of course.
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