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Updated: May 22, 2025
And, in the great halls hung with tapestry and filled with pictures which the conquerors had respected, before those portraits of magnates superb in their robes of red or green velvet edged with fur, curved sabres by their sides and aigrettes upon their heads, all reproducing a common trait of rough frankness, with their long moustaches, their armor and their hussar uniforms Marsa Laszlo, who knew them well, these heroes of her country, these Zilah princes who had fallen upon the field of battle, said to the last of them all, to Andras Zilah, before Ferency Zilah, before Sandor, before the Princesses Zilah who had long slept in "dull, cold marble," and who had been no prouder than she of the great name they bore: "Do you know the reason why, equal to these in devotion and courage, you are superior to them all!
I'd put away my pencil and pad long ago with Murell; now I got them out ostentatiously as I approached. "Good day, gentlemen," I greeted them. "I'm representing the Port Sandor Times." "Oh, run along, sonny; we haven't time to bother with you," Hallstock said. "But I want to get a story from Mr. Belsher," I began.
The door opened and Nadine was there. "Joe," she said. "Dick Andersen says you've been challenged to a frame-up duel by Sándor Rákóczi." Her eyes hurried on to Armstrong. "George, this is ridiculous. Joe has diplomatic " Joe wasn't getting part of this. He broke in. "What do you mean, frame-up, Nadine? We got into a hassle in a nightspot last night." Armstrong said.
All these bitter memories Prince Andras, in spite of the years that had passed, kept ever in his mind one sad and tragic event the burial of his father, Sandor Zilah, who was shot in the head by a bullet during an encounter with the Croats early in the month of January, 1849. Prince Sandor was able to grasp the hand of his son, and murmur in the ear of this hero of sixteen: "Remember!
They've got to know about this so-called underground, and the religious revival stuff out there in Siberia." "You've been discovered," she said hotly. "They can send somebody else." He was still stubborn. "No. There's a leak. If they send somebody else, the same thing will happen. And the next man might not be as much of a potential opponent to such as Sándor Rákóczi as even I am.
They were smart enough to know what Steve Ravick was really doing to Port Sandor, and it hurt them as much as it did the hunters. Dad and Bish seemed to be the only ones present who weren't in favor of going down to Hunters' Hall right away and massacring everybody in it, and then doing the same at the Municipal Building. "That's what I say!" Joe Kivelson was shouting.
"Gentlemen, the code duello provides that the challenged choose the weapons." General Armstrong's face, usually worried, was now dark with anger. "Choice of weapons, eh? Against Sándor Rákóczi? If you will excuse us now, gentlemen, Lieutenant Anderson and I will consult with you in one hour in the Embassy Club and discuss the affair further.
One of the chemists' shops at Port Sandor made me up some fills for it, and while I had never had to use it, it was a handy thing to have in some of the places I had to follow stories into, and it wouldn't do anybody any permanent damage, the way a gun would. "Yes; it's down in my room. I'll get it for you," I said. "Be careful, Bish," Dad said. "That gang would kill you sooner than look at you."
When Dad makes that remark, in just that tone, it's all hands to secure ship for diving. "We've all had to do a lot of thinking, lately," I agreed. "Yes. You know, they want me to be mayor of Port Sandor." I nodded and waited till I got my mouth empty. I could see a lot of sense in that. Dad is honest and scrupulous and public-spirited; too much so, sometimes, for his own good.
Very well known in Parisian society, which he had sought eagerly with an evident desire to be diverted, like a man who wishes to forget, the former defender of Hungarian independence, the son of old Prince Zilah Sandor, who was the last, in 1849, to hold erect the tattered standard of his country, had been prodigal of his invitations, summoning to his side his few intimate friends, the sharers of his solitude and his privacy, and also the greater part of those chance fugitive acquaintances which the life of Paris inevitably gives, and which are blown away as lightly as they appeared, in a breath of air or a whirlwind.
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