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Updated: June 10, 2025
"What has the master got to do between you and me? Yes or no? I want an answer. The master has nothing to do with us." Marcsa drew herself up. All of a sudden a remarkable assurance came to her. The color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes flashed proudly. She stood there with the haughty bearing so familiar to Bogdan, her head held high in defiance.
They probably thought that a man with one eye and half a nose was good enough for a peasant girl? Fatherland? Would Marcsa go to the altar with the fatherland? Could she show off the fatherland to the women when she would see them looking at her pityingly? Did the fatherland drive through the village with ribbons flying from its hat? Ridiculous!
A cold, determined quiet rose in him slowly, as in the trenches when the trumpeter gave the signal for a charge. He felt the lord's hand touch his shoulder, and he took a step backward. What was the meaning of it all? The lord was speaking of heroism and fatherland, a lot of rubbish that had nothing to do with Marcsa.
He wasn't so stupid after all, the humpback wasn't. What Bogdan said infuriated the master. Bogdan let him shout and stared like a man hypnotized at the nickeled hilt of the hunting-knife. It was not until the name "Marcsa" again struck his ear that he became attentive. "Marcsa is in my employ now," he heard the lord saying. "You know I am fond of you, Bogdan.
His glance traveled back to the master, and now he noticed that his stiffnecked silence had pulled him up short. "He is gnashing his teeth," it struck him, "just like the tall Russian." And he almost smiled at a vision that came to his mind of the lord also getting a smooth face and astonished, reproachful eyes. But hadn't he said something about Marcsa just then? What was Marcsa to him?
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