The yellow rose

Not this very minute had he invented this tale, but on that night of pain when the "Yellow Rose" had sat smoothing his pillows and bathing his brow. Then, with his aching head, he had thought out a plan to save his faithless sweetheart.

The judge struck his fist on the table.

"None of your nonsense before me, making fun of the matter."

"I make fun of the matter!" exclaimed the csikós, becoming serious instantly. "I swear before God above, all I have said is true."

He raised his three fingers, and the girl screamed out,

"No, no! Do not perjure yourself! Do not risk the salvation of your soul!"

"The devil take you both, for you are both mad." This was the judge's verdict. "Notary, take down the herdsman's statement regarding the gypsy, who will be charged with committing the crime. As to her whereabouts, that the police must discover. It is their business. You two can go; if necessary, we will summon you again."

Then they let the girl free. She deserved a little fatherly rebuke, and that she got.

The lad remained behind to hear his deposition taken down, and to sign it. The girl waited on the verandah for him to come out, his horse being tethered to an acacia hard by.

The lad, however, first went to the doctor to thank him for his unremitting kindness. The doctor having attended the inquiry, had, of course, heard everything.

"Well, Sándor," he said, as soon as the thanks had been got over, "I have seen many famous actors on the stage, but never one who played the betyár as you did!"

"I did right, didn't I?" asked the lad gravely.

"Yes, indeed, you are an honourable fellow. But say a kind word to the girl if you meet her. Poor thing, she never meant to do such wrong."

"I am not angry with her. May God bless you, sir, for your great goodness."

As he stepped out on to the verandah, the girl stopped him, and seized his hand.

"Sándor, what have you done? Sent your soul to perdition, sworn falsely, told a lying tale, all to set me free! You have denied ever having loved me, that my body may escape the lash, and my slender neck the blow that would sever it. Why have you done this?"

"That is my affair. This much I will tell you; from henceforth, one of us two I must hate and despise. Do not cry, you are not that one! I dare no longer look in your eyes, because I see myself reflected there, and I am worth no more than the broken button that is coming off my waistcoat. God bless you."

With that he untied his horse from the acacia, sprang on to it, and dashed off into the puszta.

The girl gazed and gazed after him, till her sight grew dim from tears. Then she sought till she found the broken button he had cast on the floor. This she placed next her heart.

CHAPTER VII.

But that communication should be stopped was a dire misfortune, not only for the Duke's cattle, but much more so for all the market-goers from Debreczin and Újváros, striving to reach the Onod fair. There stood their carts, out among the puddles, under the open sky, while their owners bewailed the bad luck in the one small drinking-room of the Polgár ferry-house.

Ferko Lacza went off to buy hay for the herd, and purchased a whole stack. "For here we can sit kicking our heels for three days at the shortest!"

Now, by good luck, there was, among those bound for the market, a purveyor of cooked meat, with her enormous iron frying pan, and fresh pork, ready sliced. She found a ready sale for her wares, setting up a makeshift cook-shop in a hut constructed of maize stalks. Firewood she did not need to buy, the Theiss brought plenty. Wine the old innkeeper had, sharp, but good, since none better was to be got. Besides, every Hungarian carries his pipe, tobacco, and his bag of provisions when he gives his mind to travel.

So the time passed in forming new acquaintances. The Debreczin bootmaker and the tanner from Balmaz-Újváros were old friends, while the vendor of cloaks was universally addressed as "Daddy." The ginger-bread baker, who thought himself better than the others because he wore a long coat with a scarlet collar, sat at a separate table, but, nevertheless, joined in the conversation. Later, a horse-cooper appeared; but as his nose was crooked, he was only allowed to talk standing. When the cowherd entered, a place was squeezed out for him at the table, for even townsfolk respect a herdsman's position of trust. The Moravian drovers stayed outside to watch the cattle.

The tittle-tattle went on pleasantly and quietly as yet, young Mistress Pundor not having arrived. When she put in an appearance, nobody would get in a word edgeways. But her cart had evidently stuck on the way, at some seductive inn, she having seized the opportunity of travelling with the carpenter, her brother-in-law. He was taking tulip-decorated chests to the Onod fair, while young Mistress Pundor supplied the world with soap and tallow candles. When the herdsman entered, the room was so full of smoke that he could hardly see.

"Then tell us, 'Daddy,'" the shoemaker was saying to the tanner, "for you at Újváros are nearer the Hortobágy inn than we; how did the innkeeper's girl poison the csikós?"

At these words the cowboy felt as if he had been shot through the heart.

"How was it? Well, pretty little Klárika there peppered the stew she was making him with crows' claws."

"I know otherwise," interrupted the ginger-bread baker. "Little Klári put datura in the honeymead—the stuff they use for stupefying fish."

"Well, of course, the gentleman must know best, for he has a gold watch chain! They sent for the regimental surgeon from Újváros to dissect the deceased csikós, and he found the claws in his inside. They put them in spirits, to be produced as evidence at the trial!"

"So you have killed the poor fellow! We didn't hear he died from the poison, only went mad, and was sent up to Buda to have a hole bored in his head, for all the strength of the poison had gone there."

"Sent him up to Buda, did they? Sent him underground, you mean! Why, my wife herself spoke to the very maker of imitation flowers who made those strewn over Decsi's shroud. That is a fact!"

"Now, now! Mistress Csikmak is here with her fried meat, and as she came a day later from Debreczin, she must know the truth. Let us call her in."

But Mistress Csikmak, being unable to leave her frizzling pan, could only give her opinion through the window. She, likewise, buried the poisoned csikós. The Debreczin clerk had chanted over his grave, and the priest had preached a farewell sermon.

"And what happened to the girl?" inquired three voices at once.

"The girl! She ran off with her lover—a cowboy; by whose advice she poisoned the csikós. They are setting up a robber band together."

Ferko Lacza listened quietly to all this.

"Stuff and nonsense. Bosh!" exclaimed the ginger-bread baker, capping her version. "I'm afraid you've not heard right, dear Mistress Csikmak. They caught the girl directly, put her in irons, and brought her in between gendarmes. My lad was there when they took her to the Town-House."

Still the cowherd listened without stirring.

Suddenly, amid great commotion, arrived the above-mentioned laggard—young Mistress Pundor, she foremost, then the driver, lastly the brother-in-law, dragging a large chest. How polite a language is Hungarian, even an individual like the soap-making lady has her title of respect, "ifjasszony" (young mistress).

"Now Mistress Pundor will tell us what happened to the girl at the inn who poisoned the csikós," cried everyone.

"Yes, of course. Dear soul. Just let me get my breath a bit." With that she sat down on the large chest, a chair or bench would have smashed to atoms under her form.

"Did they catch pretty Klári? or has she run away?"

"Oh, my dears, why they have tried her already, condemned to death she is, to-morrow they put her in the convict's cell, and the execution is the day after. The headsman comes to-day from Szeged, and they have taken a room for him at the White Horse, because the folks at the Bull refused him. 'Tis as true as I'm sitting here. I have it from the porter himself, who comes to me for candles."

"And what sort of death is she to have?"

"Well, under the old rule—and richly she deserves it—they would set her on straw and burn her. But seeing she is of the better class, and her father of good family, they will only cut off her head. They generally behead gentlefolk."

"Ah, quit that, mistress," contradicted the ginger-bread man. "Do they heed such things nowadays? Not a bit of it! Why, before '48, if I put on my mantle with the silver buttons, they took me for—a gentleman, and never asked me for toll on the bridge at Pest, but now I may wear my mantle——"

"Oh, drop your mantle with the silver buttons!" said the cloth merchant, taking the word out of his mouth.

"Let the young mistress here tell us what she has heard. What object could the pretty lass have for contriving such a murder?"

"Ah, 'tis a very strange business. One murder leads to another. A while ago, a rich Moravian cattle-dealer came here buying cattle. He had much money. Pretty Klári, there, talked it over with her lover, the cowherd, and together they murdered the dealer, and threw him into the Hortobágy. But the horseherd, who was also sweet on the girl, caught them at it, and so first they divided the stolen money between them, and then poisoned the csikós to put him out of the way."

"And what about the cowherd then, has he been caught?" inquired the bootmaker excitedly.

"They would if they could, but he has vanished utterly. Gendarmes are searching the whole puszta for him, and a price is set on his head. They have stuck up his description, as I have read for myself, a hundred dollars to whoever catches him alive. I know him well enough too!"

Now, had Sándor Decsi been sitting there instead of Ferko Lacza, great would have been the scene, for here was the moment for a real effective bit of drama. To fling his loaded cudgel on the table, knock the chair from under him, and shout out, "I am the herdsman on whose head they have set a price. Which of you wants the hundred dollars?"

Then the whole worthy company would have taken to their heels and fled, some to the cellar, some up the chimney.

But the cowboy was of a different temperament, and had been used all his life to act with care and caution. Besides, his work among the cattle had impressed upon him the imprudence of catching the bull by the horns.

So leaning his elbows on the table, he asked calmly, "Would you then recognise the herdsman from the description, mistress?"

"Why not indeed! How could I help knowing him? He has bought my soap often enough to be sure!"

"But, dear me, ma'am," said the horse-cooper, who desired to display his knowledge, "what use can a herdsman have for soap? Surely, all cowboys wear blue shirts and breeches which never need washing, because the linen has been first boiled in lard!"

"Deary me! Sakes alive! Did you ever! So soap is only wanted for dirty clothes, is it? A cowboy never shaves, does he? Perhaps he always wears as long a beard as a Jew horse-cooper?"

Everyone shrieked with laughter, much to the discomfiture of the snubbed intruder.

"Now, need I have exposed myself to that?" grumbled the unhappy man.

"You don't happen to know the name," continued the herdsman, in a quiet voice, "of that cowboy, mistress?"

"Not know his name! It has but just slipped out of my mind. 'Tis on the tip of my tongue, for I know him as well as my own child."

"Is it Ferko Lacza?"

"Yes, yes, that's it. Why, you've taken it out of my mouth. Perhaps you know him yourself?"

But the herdsman refrained from announcing that he knew him as well as his father's only son. Quietly knocking out the ashes from his pipe, he refilled it, rose, and propped up his cudgel against the straw-bottomed chair to show it was engaged, and no one else might occupy it. Then, relighting his pipe at the solitary candle burning on the middle of the table, he left the room. Those remaining made remarks about him.

"Surely something heavy as lead is weighing on that man!"

"I don't like the look of his eyes!"

"Could he know aught about the csikós' murder, think you?"

Again the horse-dealer committed the offence of meddling in the discussion.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "permit me to make the humble observation that yesterday, when I was on the Ohát puszta, buying horses, I there saw the murdered and poisoned Sándor Decsi, looking as fresh and blooming as a rosy apple! He lassoed the colts for me. This is as true as I live!"

"What? And you let us sit here telling lies to one another?" stormed the whole assembly. "Here, clear out; get away!"

No sooner said than done, they seized him by the collar and flung him out of the room.

The chucked-out traveller, smoothing his crumpled hat, spluttered and swore, till he found a moral to fit the case.

"Now, need I have exposed myself to that? What is the good of a Jew speaking the truth?"

Meanwhile, the cowherd going to the cattle proposed to the Moravian drovers that they should go inside for a change and drink a glass of wine; he would watch the cows. The chair with the stick beside it was his.

While he watched he picked up a bit of "poor man's peat," stuffing it up his coat sleeve. What could he want with it?

CHAPTER VIII.

We remember the tale of the Hungarian landowner who, finding it advisable to go abroad after the Revolution, chose free Switzerland as a temporary place of residence. But his eyes never grew used to the high mountains. Every evening, on withdrawing to his room, he would take a piece of "peat," found on the pasture, and laying it on the hearth, kindle it. Then, as he sat with closed eyes in the smell of the smoke, he would once more fancy himself back on the wide, wide plains, among the moving herds and tinkling cow bells, and all the rest for which his soul longed. . . .

Well, if this peat-smoke can exert such a strong influence on an educated mind, how were it possible to doubt the following story?

The travellers had to wait two more days at the Polgár ferry.

On the third, about midnight, the ferry-man brought the glad tidings to the expectant crowd, whose patience and provisions were alike exhausted, that the Theiss had fallen greatly. The ferry-boat had been replaced, and by morning they would be able to cross.

Those with carts lost no time in running them on board, and arranging them side by side. Next they took the horses. Then came the turn for the cattle. Room was made for them with difficulty. The crush was great, but mild, after all, to what theatre-goers usually endure!

Last of all, the bull, the terror of everyone, was brought, and now no one remained but the herdsman and his horse. The two Moravian drovers took their places between the cows and the carts. But as yet no start could be made. The tow-rope was strained taut by the water, and they were obliged to wait till the sunshine could relax it somewhat. Moisture was rising like steam all along its surface.

So the cowherd, wishing to utilise the time, suggested that the ferry-man might cook them a "paprikás" of fish. Nothing else eatable was to be had, but a pot was at hand, likewise plenty of fish, left by the receding waters. The boatmen caught them by sticking an oar under their gills—fat carp, silurius, and sturgeon. These they hastily cleaned, cut up, and cast into the pot, underneath which a little fire was kindled.

Now all was ready, when the question rose: "Who has 'paprika'?" Every ordinary, self-respecting Hungarian carries his own supply in his knapsack; but after a three days' famine even "paprika" will give out! Nevertheless, no "paprika," no fish stew.

"I have some," said the cowboy, and pulled a wooden box from his sleeve. Every one noted what a far-seeing man he must be to reserve his own "paprika" for the last extremity, and henceforth regarded him as the saviour of the party.

The stew-pot was in the end of the ferry-boat, and to reach it the herdsman traversed its whole length, the cattle being stationed about the middle. But, then, who cares to let his box of "paprika" out of his own hand? While the ferry-man was busy seasoning the fish with the red pepper (Oken, writing about it, calls it poison; but that some wild tribes dare to eat it), the cowboy took the opportunity to drop his piece of "peat," unobserved into the fire.

"I say! that 'paprikás' must be singeing! What a smell it has!" remarked the cobbler presently.

"Smell! Stink I would call it," corrected the itinerant cloak vendor.

But the heavy greasy odour affected the noses of the cattle more markedly. First, the bull grew restless, snuffed in the air, shook the bell at his neck and lowed, then lowering his head and lifting his tail began to bellow dangerously. At that the cows got excited, capered to and fro, reared up on each others backs, and jostled to the side of the ferry-boat.

"Mother Mary! Holy Anna! Protect the ship!" shrieked the fat soap-maker.

"Hurry up, mistress! seat yourself opposite. That will steady her again," joked the shoemaker.

But it was no joke. Every man on board had to clutch the rope to keep the ferry-boat from tilting over; the other side dipped nearly to the water.

Suddenly the bull gave a bellow, and with one great bound, jumped into the river. Another moment, and everyone of the four and twenty cows had followed him over the edge.

The ferry was just about half-way across.

"Turn back! Turn back!" screamed the Moravian drovers, as the cattle swam straight towards the bank they had left. They wanted the ferry-boat to return instantly, that they might go after their beasts.

"The devil a bit of turning back!" shrieked the market folk. "We must cross! We are late enough for the fair as it is!"

"No need to howl, lads," said the herdsman, with exceeding calm. "I'll bring them to their right minds."

He jumped on his horse, led it along to the end of the ferry, and sticking spurs into its sides, leapt over the rail into the water.

"See, the cowherd will overtake them, no fear!" So the cobbler assured the despairing drovers.

But the horse-cooper, left behind on the bank, for he had not managed to find room for his horses on board, nor had wished to frighten them among so many cattle, was of a contrary opinion.

"You'll never see more of that herd!" he yelled to the travellers on the ferry-boat. "You may whistle for them!"

"There goes that Jonah again! Where is there a ham bone to shoot him with?" stormed the cobbler.

The herd neared the bank in straggling order, and reaching the shallows, waded out to dry land. The herdsman was behind, for cattle swim faster than a horse. When he too landed, he undid the stock-whip from his neck and cracked it loudly.

"There! He's turning them!" said the market people to console the drovers.

But the cracking of a whip only serves to make cattle run on the faster.

The passengers found much exercise for their wit in this cattle incident. The ferry-men assured them with oaths that it was not the first time by any means that it had happened. Beasts brought from the Hortobágy so often were assailed by home sickness that no sooner was the ferry-boat put in motion than they would turn restive and spring overboard, swim to the bank, and run back to the puszta.

"Men have the same love of home and country," said the ginger-bread man, who, having often read of it in books, recognised the complaint.

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Mistress Pundor, "no doubt the cows have gone home to their little calves. That was the mistake, to separate the children from their dear mothers!"

"Now my idea is different," said the cobbler, who was nothing if not sceptical. "I have heard often enough that those cunning betyárs, when they want to scatter a herd, put some grease in their pipes. The beasts, when they smell it, go stark, staring mad, and scuttle away in all directions. Then it is easy enough for the betyár to catch a nice little lot for himself. Now I scent something of the sort in this business."

"What you smell something, Daddy, and you don't run away from it?"

Everyone laughed.

"Wait a bit! Just you wait till we get on shore!" said the cobbler.

The Moravian drovers, however, saw nothing laughable in the vagaries of their herd, nor even matter suitable for a discussion on natural history, but began howling and lamenting like burnt-out gypsies.

The old ferry-man, who talked Slav, attempted to console them. "Now don't howl, lads. 'Nye stekat.' He's not stolen your cows, the good herdsman. Those two letters, 'D.T.,' on the copper plate at the side of his cap don't mean 'dastard, thief,' but Debreczin Town. He can't run off with them. When we come over again they'll all be standing there in a group. He'll drive them back, sure enough. Why even his dog went after him! But when we take the cattle on board again we must fasten the cows three together, and tie the bull by the horns to that iron ring. It will be all right, only you must pay the passage money twice."

A good hour and a half elapsed before the ferry-boat reached the other bank, unloaded, reloaded, and returned to the Hortobágy side of the river. Then the drovers ran up the hill to the ferry-house, and sought their cattle everywhere. But none were to be seen.

The horse-dealer said that the angry beasts had galloped madly past towards the brushwood, and had quickly disappeared among the willows. They did not go towards the high road, but ran down wind, heads to the ground, tails up, like beasts attacked by a plague of flies.

A belated potter, coming up from Újváros with a crockery-laden cart, related how somewhere on the puszta he had met with a herd of cattle, which with a horseman and dog at their heels, had dashed roaring along, towards the Zám hills. Coming to the Hortobágy river, they had all jumped in, and he had lost sight of both rider and cows among the thick reeds.

The ferry-man turned to the gaping drovers,

"Now you may howl, countrymen!" he said.

CHAPTER IX.

All the horse owners in Debreczin turn out their mares here, where, summer or winter, they never see a stable, and only the head csikós keeps account of their yearly increase. Here, too, the famous pacers are raised, which are sought for from afar; for not every horse can stand a sandy country, a mountain-bred one, for example, collapses if it once treads an Alföld road.

Scattered groups are to be seen grazing industriously round the stallions. For the horse is always feeding. Learned men say that when Jupiter created Minerva, he cast this curse on the horse, that it might always eat, yet never be filled.

Four or five mounted csikós watch over the herd, with its thousand or so unruly colts, and use their thick stock-whips to drive back the more adventurous.

The arrangement here is the same as with the cattle herd, the "karám" or shanty, kitchen, wind shelter and well. Only, there is neither barrow-boy, nor "poor man's peat," nor protecting watch-dog, for the horse cannot endure any of the canine tribe, and whether it be dog or wolf, both get kicked.

Noon was approaching, and the widely scattered troops of horses began to draw towards the great well. Two carriages were also nearing from the direction of the Hortobágy bridge. The head csikós, a thick-set, bony old man, shading his eyes with his hand, recognised the new-comers from afar—by their horses.

"One is Mr. Mihály Kádár, the other, Pelikan, the horse-dealer. I knew, when I looked in my calendar, that they would honour me to day."

"Then, is that written in the calendar?" asked Sándor, the herdsman, surprised.

"Yes, my boy! Everything is in 'Csathy's Almanack.' The Onod cattle market is on Sunday, and Pelikan must take horses there."

His prognostications were correct. The visitors had come about horses, Mr. Mihály Kádár, being the seller, and Mr. Samuel Pelikan, the buyer.

Surely everyone can recognise Mr. Mihály Kádár—a handsome, round-faced man, with his smiling countenance and waxed moustache, and figure curving outwards at the waist. He wore a braided mantle, a round hat, and held a long, thin walking-stick, the top carved to represent a bird's head. His was the group of horses standing beside the pool, with the roan stallion leading them.

Samuel Pelikan was a bony individual, with a large, crooked nose, long beard and moustache, his back and legs somewhat bent from continually trying of horses. There was a crane's feather in his high, wide-brimmed hat, his waistcoat was checked, his jacket short, and his baggy, nankeen trousers tucked into his top-boots. A cigar case was pushed into his side pocket, and he carried a long riding-whip.

These gentlemen, leaving their carriages, walked to the "karám" and shook hands with the overseer, who awaited them there. Then an order was given to the herdsmen, and they all went out to the herd.

Two mounted csikós, with tremendous cracking of whips, rounded up the lot of horses, among which were Mr. Kádár's. There were about two hundred colts in all, some of which had never felt the hand of man. As they drove them in a long curved line before the experts, the horse-dealer pointed out a galloping roan mare to the herdsman on the grass at his side.

"I would like that one!"

Thereupon, Sándor Decsi, casting aside jacket and cloak, seized the coiled-up lasso in his right hand, wound the other end round his left, and stepped towards the advancing herd. Swift as lightning, he flung out the long line at the chosen mare, and with mathematical precision the noose caught its neck instantly, half throttling it. The other colts rushed on neighing; the prisoner remained, tossed its head, kicked, reared, all in vain. There stood the man, holding on to the lasso, as if made of cast-iron, and with his loose sleeves slipping back, he resembled one of those ancient Greek or Roman statues—"the Horse-Tamers." Gradually, in spite of all resistance, and pulling hand over hand, he hauled in the horse. Its eyes protruded, the nostrils were dilated, its breathing came in gasps. Then flinging his arms round its neck, the csikós whispered something in its ear, loosened the noose from its neck, and the wild, frightened animal became straightway as gentle as a lamb, readily resigning its head to the halter. They fastened it directly to the horse-cooper's trap, who hastened to reconcile his victim with a piece of bread and salt.

This athletic display was three times repeated; nor did Sándor Decsi once bungle his work. But it happened the fourth time, that the noose was widely distended, and slipped down to the horse's chest. Not being choked, it did not yield so easily; but commenced kicking and capering, and dragged the csikós, at the other end of the line, quite a considerable distance. But he put forth his strength at last, and led the captive before his owners.

"Truly that is a finer amusement than playing billiards in the 'Bull,'" said Pelikan, turning to Mr. Kádár.

"Well, it's his only work!" returned the worthy civilian.

The horse-dealer, opening his cigar case, offered one to the herdsman. Sándor Decsi took it, struck a match, lit up, and puffed away.

The four raw colts were distributed round the purchaser's carriage; two behind, one beside the near, and the fourth beside the off horse.

"Well, my friend, you're a great, strong fellow!" observed Mr. Pelikan, lighting himself a cigar from Sándor's.

"Yes! If he had not been ill!" grumbled the overseer.

"I wasn't ill!" bragged the herdsman, and tossed back his head contemptuously.

"What on earth, were you then? When a man lies three days in the Mata Hospital——"

"How can a man lie in the Mata Hospital? It is only for horses!"

"What were you doing then?"

"Drunk!" said Sándor Decsi. "As a man has a right to be!"

The old man twisted his moustache, and muttered, half-pleased, half-vexed, "There, you see these 'betyárs'! Not for all the world would they confess anything had ailed them."

Then the time for payment came round.

They settled the price of the four young horses at eight hundred florins.

Mr. Pelikan took from his inner pocket a square folded piece of crocodile leather, this was his purse, and selected a paper from the pile it contained. There was not a single bank-note, only bills, filled in and blank.

"I never carry money about me," said the horse-dealer, "only these. They can steal these if they like, the thieves would only lose by it."

"Which I will accept," said Mr. Kádár in his turn. "Mr. Pelikan's signature is as good as ready-money."

Pelikan had brought writing materials, a portable inkstand in his trouser pocket, and a quill pen in his top-boot.

"We'll soon have a writing-table, too," he remarked, "if you will kindly bring us your horse here, herdsman."

The saddle of Decsi's horse came in very handy as a table on which to fill in the bill. The herdsman watched with the greatest interest.

And not alone the herdsman, but the horses also. Those same wild colts which had been scared four times and from whose midst four of their comrades had just been lassoed, crowded round like inquisitive children, and without the slightest fear. (It is true Mr. Mihály Kádár was bribing them with Debreczin rolls.) One dapple bay actually laid its head on the dealer's shoulder and looked on in wonder. None of them had ever seen a bill filled in before.

It is probable that Sándor Decsi expressed the silent thought of each, when he inquired, "Why do you write 812 florins 18 kreuzers, sir, when the price was settled at eight hundred florins?"

"Well, herdsman, the reason is that I must pay the sum in ready-money. Worthy Mr. Kádár here will write his name on the back, and then the bill will be 'endorsed.' To-morrow morning he will take it to the Savings Bank, where they will pay out eight hundred florins, but deduct twelve florins—eighteen kreuzers—as discount, and, therefore, I don't require to pay the money for three months."

"And if you do not repay it, sir?"

"Why, then, they will take it out of Mr. Kádár. That is why they give me credit."

"I see. So that is the good of a bill of exchange?"

"Did you never see a bill before?" asked Mr. Pelikan.

Sándor Decsi laughed loud, till his row of fine white teeth flashed.

"A csikós, and a bill!"

"Well, your worthy friend, Mr. Ferko Lacza is quite another gentleman, and he is only a cowherd. He knows what a bill means. I have just such a long paper of his, if you would like to see it."

He searched among his documents, and holding one before the csikós, finally handed him the paper. The bill amounted to ten florins.

"Does Mr. Pelikan know the cowboy?" asked the astonished csikós.

"As far as I know, you do not deal with cattle, sir."

"It is not I, but my wife who has that honour. You see she carries on a little goldsmith business on her own account. I don't meddle in it at all. About two months ago, in comes Mr. Ferko Lacza with a pair of ear-rings, which he wants gilded, very heavily gilded too!"

Sándor started at that, as if a wasp had stung him.

"Silver ear-rings?"

"Yes, very pretty silver, filagree ear-rings, and the gilding came to ten florins. When done, off he went with them—they were certainly not for his own use—and as he had no money he left this bill behind him. On Demeter day he is to meet it."

"This bill?"

Sándor Decsi stared blankly at the paper, and his nostrils quivered. He might have been laughing from the grin on his face, only the writing shook in his two hands. He did not let go of it, but grasped it tightly.

"As the bill appears to please you so well, I will give it you as a tip," said Mr. Pelikan, in a sudden fit of generosity.

"But ten florins, sir, that is a great deal!"

"Of course, it is a great deal for you, and I am no such duffer as to chuck away ten florins every time I buy a horse. But to tell the truth, I should be glad to get rid of the bill under such good auspices, like the shoemaker and his vineyard in the story——"

"Is there something false in it, then?"

"No, nothing false, only too much truth in fact. See, I will explain it to you, please look here. On this line stands 'Mr. Ferencz Lacza,' then comes 'residence,' and after that 'payable in.' Now, in both places 'Debreczin' should be written, but that idiotic wife of mine put 'Hortobágy' instead—which is true enough—for Mr. Ferko Lacza does live on the Hortobágy. Had she written, 'Hortobágy inn' even, I should have known where to find him, but how can I go roaming about the Hortobágy, and the Zám puszta, searching the 'karáms' of goodness knows how many herds, and risking my calves among the watch-dogs? I have fought with the woman quite enough about it. Now, at least, I can say I have handed it over at cent. per cent. interest, and we will have no more rows. So accept it, herdsman. You will know how to get the ten florins out of the cowboy, for you fear neither himself nor his dog."

"Thank you, sir, thank you very, very much."

The csikós folded up the paper and stowed it away in his jacket pocket.

"The young man seems deeply grateful for the ten florin tip," whispered Mr. Kádár to the overseer. "Generosity brings its own reward."

Mr. Mihály Kádár was a great newspaper reader, and took the Sunday News and the Political Messenger; hence his lofty style of speech.

"That hasn't much to do with his gladness," growled the overseer. "He knows well enough that Ferko Lacza went off to Moravia last Friday; small chance of seeing him or his blessed ten florins again! But he is glad to be clear about the ear-rings, for there is a girl in that business."

Mr. Kádár raised the bird's-head top of his cane to his lips significantly.

"Aha!" he murmured, "that entirely alters the case!"

"You see the boy's my godson, and I'm fond enough of the cub. No one can manage the herd as he does, and I did my best to free him from soldiering. Ferko is the godchild of my old friend, the cattle overseer, and a good lad also. Both would be the best friends in the world, if the devil, or goodness knows what evil fate, hadn't thrown that pale-faced girl in between them. Now they are ready to eat each other. Luckily my old friend had a capital idea, and has sent Ferko to be head herdsman to a Moravian Duke. So peace will once more reign on the Hortobágy."

Sándor guessed from the whispering that it was of him they were talking, and turned away. Eavesdropping is not congenial to the Hungarian nature. So he drove the herd to the watering-place, where the other horses were already assembled. Five herdsmen there were, three well-poles, one thousand and fifty horses. Each csikós had to lower the pole, fill the bucket, raise the bucket and empty it into the trough, exactly two hundred and ten times. This is their daily amusement, three times repeated, and they certainly cannot complain of lack of exercise!

Sándor Decsi, let no one notice that anything had gone amiss with him. He was merry as a lark, and sang and whistled all day long, till the wide plain resounded with his favourite song:

First one, then another csikós caught up the air, filling the whole puszta with their singing. The next day he seemed just as gay, from dawn till dark, as good-humoured in fact, "as one who feels himself fey."

After sundown the herds were driven to their night quarters near the "karám," where they would keep together till morning.

Meanwhile the boy brought the bundles of "cserekely," that is, down-trodden reeds, which serve to light the herdsman's fire and to warm up his supper in the kitchen. Very different is the cowherd's meal to that of the csikós. Here is no stolen mutton or pork, such as the csikós of the stage love to talk about. All the swine and flocks pasture on the far side of the Hortobágy river, and it would be a day's journey for the aspiring csikós desirous of bagging a little pig or yearling lamb. Neither is there any of the carrion stew known to and spoken of by the cowboy. The overseer's wife in the town cooks provisions for the herdsmen enough to last a week. As to the fare, any gentleman could sit down to it—sour rye soup, pork stew, "Calvanistic Heaven," or stuffed cabbage, larded meat. All five csikós sup together with the old herdsman, nor is the serving lad forgotten.

A herd of horses differs from a herd of cows after nightfall. Once the cows have been watered, they all settle down in a mass to chew their cud, but the horse is no such philosopher. He feeds on into the night, and as long as there is moon, keeps munching grass incessantly.

Sándor Decsi was in a gay mood that evening, and as they sat round the glowing fire, he asked the overseer, "Dear godfather, how comes it that a horse can eat all day long? If the meadows were covered with cakes, I could never go on stuffing the whole day!"

"Well, godson, I can tell you, only you must not laugh. It is an old tale and belongs to the days when students wore three-cornered hats. I had it from such an inkslinger myself, and may his soul suffer, if every word of it be not true! Once upon a time there was a very famous saint called Martin—he is still about, only nowadays he never comes to the Hortobágy. We know he was a Hungarian saint too, because he always went on horseback. Then there was a King here, and his name was Horse Marot. They called him that because he once managed to cheat Saint Martin of the steed which used to carry him about the world. Saint Martin was his guest, and he tied up his steed in the stable yard. Then one morning early, when Saint Martin wanted to set off on his travels, he said to the King: 'Now give me my horse, and let me start!' 'Impossible,' said the King, 'the horse is just eating.' Saint Martin waited till noon, then he asked for it again. 'You can't go now,' said the King, 'the horse is eating.' Saint Martin waited till sunset, then urged the King once more for his horse. 'I tell you, you can't have your horse, because it's still eating!' Then Saint Martin grew angry, cast his little book on the ground, and cursed the King and the horse. 'May the name of 'Horse' stick to you for ever! May you never be free of it, but may the two names be said in one breath! As for the horse, may it graze the livelong day yet never be filled!' Since then the horse is always eating, yet never has enough. And you, if you don't believe this story, go to the land of Make-believe, and there on a peak you will find a blind horse. Ask him. He can tell you better maybe, seeing he was there himself."

All the csikós thanked the old man for the pleasant tale. Then each hastened to find his horse, and to trot away through the silent night to his own herd.

CHAPTER X.

"Now you may go and graze also, little Vidám (Vidám means gay and lively). You do not feed all day long like the others! You are always saddled, and yet, after you have been ridden the whole day, they want to put you to the machine, and make you draw water. Well, they can want! Do they fancy that 'a horse is as much a dog as a man'?"

Then he gently wiped the horse's eyes with his loose sleeve.

"Now, go and search out good grass for yourself; but don't go far! When the moon has sunk, and with her that shining star, then come back here. See, I don't tether you like a cowherd does, nor shackle your feet as peasants do. 'Tis enough for me to call, 'Here, Vidám!' and you are here directly."

Vidám understood. Why not? Freed from saddle and bridle, he gave a jump, kicked up his hind legs, threw himself on the ground, and rolled over and over several times with his heels to the sky. Then regaining his feet, he shook his mane, neighed once, and started off for the flowery pastures, snorting and flicking his long tail to keep off the humming night insects. The csikós meanwhile lay down on his grassy bed. What a splendid couch! For pillow the wide circle of plain, and for curtains the star-strewn sky!

It was late already. Nevertheless, the earth, like a restless, naughty child, refused to slumber yet. Could not sleep in fact. Everywhere there was sound, soft, indistinct, and full of mystery. The pealing of bells from the town, or the barking of dogs with the cattle were too far away to be heard here. But the bittern boomed among the reeds hard by, like a lost soul, the reed-warbler, the nightingale of the marsh, gurgled and twittered with thousands of frogs to swell the chorus; and through it all came the monotonous clack of the Hortobágy mill. High overhead sounded the mournful wail of flights of wild geese and cranes, flying in long lines, scarcely to be distinguished against the sky. Here and there a dense cloud of gnats whirled into the air, making a ghostly whirring music. Now and then a horse neighed.

Poor lad! formerly your head would hardly touch the saddle before you were fast asleep, now you can only gaze and gaze at the dark blue sky overhead, and the stars, whose names your old godfather taught you. There in the midst is the Pole Star, which never moves from its place; those two are the "Herdsman's Team," while that with the changing colour is the "Eye of an Orphan Maid." The brilliant one, just over the horizon, is the "Reaper's Star;" still the "Wanderer's Lamp" is brighter. Those three are the "Three Kings," that cluster the "Seven Sisters," and the star which is sinking into the mist is called the "Window of Heaven."

But why look at the stars when one cannot speak to them? A heavy load weighs down the heart, a cruel wound makes the soul bleed. If one could pour out the bitterness, if one could complain, perhaps it might be easier. But how vast is the puszta and how void!

The shining star set, also the moon. The horse left the pasture and returned to its master. Very gently he stepped along, as if fearing to wake him, and stretching out his long neck, bent his head over him to see if he slept.

"No, I'm not asleep. Come here, old fellow," said the csikós.

At that the horse began to whinny joyously, and lay down near his master.

The herdsman raised himself on his elbows, and rested his head on his hand. Here was someone to speak with—an intelligent beast.

"You see!" he said. "You see, my Vidám? That is the way with a girl! Outside gold, inside silver. When she speaks the truth it is half false; when she lies it is half true! No one will ever learn to understand her. . . . You know how much I loved her! . . . How often I made your sides bleed as I spurred you on to carry me the quicker to her! . . . How often I tied you up at the door in snow and mud, in freezing cold and burning sunshine! I never thought of you, my dear old horse, only of how I loved her!"

The horse seemed to laugh at the notion of not remembering. Of course his master had done so.

"And you know how much she loved me! . . . How she stuck roses behind your ears, plaited your mane with ribbons, and fed you with sweet cakes from her own hand! . . . How often she drew me back with her kisses, even from the saddle, and hugged your neck that I might remain the longer!"

Vidám answered him with a low whinny. Certainly the girl had done all that.

"Till that confounded beggar slunk in and stole half her heart. If he had but stolen the whole of it! Taken her to himself and gone off with her! But to leave her here; half a heavenly blessing and half a deadly curse——"

The horse evidently wanted to comfort him, and laid his head on his master's knee.

"Strike him, God!" muttered the csikós in an agony of grief. "Do not leave the man unpunished who has plucked another's rose for himself. Did I kill him, I know his mother would weep!"

The horse lashed the ground with his tail, as had his master's rage been transmitted to him.

"But how can I kill him? He is over the hills and far away by now! And you are not able, my poor Vidám, to fly all over the kingdom with me. No, you must stay here with me in my trouble."

Nothing Vidám could do indeed could alter the situation. So he signified his acquiescence in the harsh decree of fate by lying down and stretching out his great head and neck.

But the csikós would not let him turn his thoughts to slumber, he had yet something to tell him. A smacking of the lips, very like a kiss, aroused the horse.

"Don't sleep yet. . . . . I'm not sleeping. We'll have time enough some day when we take our long rest! . . . . Till then we'll keep together we two. . . . . Never shall you leave your master. . . . . Never will he part with you, not though they offer him your weight in gold . . . . my one faithful friend! Do you know how you caught hold of my waistcoat and helped the doctor to lift me up from the ground when I lay on the puszta as good as dead, with the eagles shrieking over me? You seized my clothes with your teeth, and raised me, you did! . . . . Yes? . . . . You know all about it? . . . . my darling! Do not fear, we will never cross the Hortobágy bridge again, never turn in at the Hortobágy inn. . . . . I swear it, here, by the starry sky, that never, never, never will I step over the threshold where that false girl dwells. . . . . May the stars cease to shine on me, if I break my word——"

At this great oath the horse stood up on his fore-feet, and sat like a dog on his hindquarters.

"But don't think we will grow old here," went on the csikós, "we are not going to stick for ever on this meadow-land. When I was a little child I saw beautiful tri-colour banners waving, and splendid Hussars dashing after them. . . . . How I envied them! . . . . Then later, I saw those same Hussars dying and wounded, and the beautiful tri-colour flag dragged through the mire, . . . . but that will not always last. There will come a day when we will bring out the old flag from under the eaves, and ride after it, brave young lads, to crack the bones of those wicked Cossacks! And you will come with me, my good old horse, at the trumpet's call."

As if he heard the trumpet sounding, Vidám sprang up, pawed the turf with his forefeet, and, with mane bristling and head erect, neighed into the night. Like the outposts of the camp, all the stallions on the puszta neighed back an answer.

"There we'll put an end to this business! . . . . There we'll heal the sorrow and the bitterness, though not by shedding tears! Not the poisoned glass of a faithless maid, nor her more poisonous kisses will destroy this body of mine, but the swordthrust of a worthy foe. Then as I lie on the bloody battle-field, you will be there, standing beside me, and watching over me, till they come to bury me."

And as though to test the fidelity of his horse, the lad pretended to be dead, threw himself limply on the grass, and stretched his arms stark and stiff at his sides.

The horse looked at him for a second, and seeing his master motionless, stepped up with his ears flattened back, and began rubbing his nose against his master's shoulder, then as he did not move, trotted noisily round him. When the clatter of hoofs still failed to waken his master, the horse stood over him, fastened his teeth in the cloak buckled over his shoulders, and began to lift him, till at last the csikós ended the joke by opening his eyes and hugging Vidám with both arms round his neck.

"You are my only true comrade!"

And the horse really laughed! Bared his gums to express his joy, and pranced and capered like any foolish little foal, in his high joy at finding that this dying was only mere fun and pretence. Finally he lay down and stretched himself on the grass. Now he was cheating his master and pretending to be dead. Now the herdsman might talk to him and smack his lips all in vain. Vidám would not budge.

So when the csikós laid down his head on the horse's neck, it did very well as a pillow. Vidám raised his head, saw that his master was asleep, and did not make a move till break of dawn.

Even then he would not have stirred, had not his ear been caught by a sudden sound.

Giving a loud snort he woke his master. The csikós jumped from his couch and the horse stood up.

Day was dawning already, and in the east the sky was golden. In the distance the dark form of an approaching horse was visible through the shadowy mist. It was riderless. This is what Vidám had scented.

It was probably a strayed animal, escaped from some herd. For in spring-time, when the fit seizes them, the cowboys' horses, weary of their lonely life among the cattle, and if only they can succeed in breaking their tether, will run, following the scent, to the nearest stud. There a fight takes place, that usually ends badly for the intruders, who are not even shod as are the other horses.

So the runaway would have to be caught.

Hastily bridling his horse, and throwing the saddle on his back, the csikós held the lasso in readiness, and galloped towards the ownerless steed.

But no lasso was needed for its capture! As it neared, it headed of its own accord straight to the csikós, and gave a joyful neigh, to which Vidám responded—these were old acquaintances!

"Now what can this mean?" exclaimed the herdsman, "surely this is very like Ferko's white-faced bay! Yet that must be in Moravia!"

His wonder increased when the two horses meeting, exchanged friendly grunts and began lovingly snuffing each other's chests.

"It is Ferko's horse! There are his initials, 'F.L.,' and for stronger proof, here is actually the scar of the kick it got as a colt!"

The bay had brought the rope along with it, also the peg which it had torn from the ground.

"How come you on the Hortobágy, eh! whiteface?" asked Sándor, while the runaway let him catch it easily enough by the halter still knotted to its head.

"Whence come you? Where is your master?"

But this horse was not in sympathy with him, and did not understand his questions. What can one expect of a horse that spends its life in the company of cattle?

The csikós led his captive to the corral, and there shut it in.

Then he recounted the affair to the overseer.

But as the day advanced, so too did light break on the mystery. From the Zám puszta came the barrow-boy, tearing along in such a hurry that he had even forgotten his cap.

He recognised Sándor Decsi from afar, and made straight for him.

"Morning, Sándor bácsi ('bácsi,' uncle, is a title of respect applied to one's elders. Trans.) Did the bay come here?"

"Yes, indeed. How did it get loose?"

"Had a mad fit. Neighed the whole day. When I tried to groom it, nearly knocked out my eyes with its tail. Then broke loose in the night, and went off with the halter. I've been looking for it ever since."

"And where is its master, then?"

"He's still sleeping—the exertion has quite knocked him up!"

"What exertion?"

"Why, what happened three days back. What, you've not heard of it, Sándor bácsi? How the cows, that the Moravian gentry bought, lost their heads at the Polgár ferry, and slap-bang, bull and all, jumped over the side of the ferry-boat, and tore straight home to the Zám herd. The cowboy could not turn them. He was obliged to come back with them himself."

"So Ferko Lacza is at home again?"

"Yes, but a little more and the overseer would have killed him outright! No, I never heard the overseer curse and swear as he did that evening when the herd came rushing over the puszta, Ferko bácsi at their heels. The foam dripped off the horse, and the bull's nose was bleeding. The air was just thick with 'devils,' and 'damns,' and 'gallows-trees!' He raised his stick twice to strike the cowboy too, and it swished through the air. 'Tis a marvel he did not beat him."

"And what did Ferko say?"

"Nothing much, only that he couldn't help it, if the beasts chose to go mad.

"'You have bewitched them, you devil!' said the overseer.

"'Why should I do that?' says Ferko bácsi.

"'Why? Because you've been bewitched yourself first. That "Yellow Rose" has given you a charm as she did to Sándor Decsi.'

"Then they began talking about you, Sándor bácsi, but what I could not hear, because they sent me off with a box on the ears, and 'pray what was I listening for? It was none of my business.'"

"So they spoke about me, did they? And about the 'Yellow Rose'?"

"As if I knew or cared about their 'Yellow Rose'! But this I do know, that last Friday when they drove off the cows, Ferko bácsi went into the shanty to fetch his knapsack, and there he pulled out a coloured kerchief from his sleeve, and in it a yellow rose was wrapped up. He snuffed at it, and pressed it to his lips till I thought he was going to eat it! Then he unpicked the lining of his cap, pushed in the rose and put it on his head again. Perhaps that was the charm?"

The csikós swinging the loaded end of his cudgel, struck a yellow mullein standing in his path, scattering the blossoms far and wide.

"What harm has the poor 'King's candle' done you?" asked the boy.

But the intent of the blow had been in another direction.

"And now what will happen?" questioned the csikós.

"Well, yesterday, the Moravian drovers turned up on foot, and they discussed the matter with the overseer. So now the cows are to be driven towards Tisza-Füred, and all their calves with them, for over the bridge they surely can't jump! They say the cows ran back to their calves. But Ferko Lacza only laughs to himself."

"And will Ferko Lacza go with them this time?"

"Apparently, since the master never gives him a moment's peace. But the cowboy doesn't want to clear out just yet. He says the cattle must have a day or two breathing time after their race, and he himself sleeps the whole day like a log. Well, 'tis no joke to gallop from Polgár to Zám puszta at one stretch! So the overseer has granted him two days' rest."

"Two days? Two? Surely that is over much."

"I don't know."

"But I do—or else the two days will lengthen into a rest much longer!"

"Well, I must hurry and get the bay home before they are up. Because when the overseer swears at the herdsman, then the cowboy vents all his rage on me. Just wait till I'm herdsman, and then I'll have a barrow-boy of my own to knock about! God bless you, Sándor bácsi."

"He has done that already."

The little lad jumped on the bay, bareback as it was, and stuck his naked feet into its sides. But the bay absolutely refused to stir, turned suddenly right round, and tried to return to the stud. Finally the csikós, taking pity on the boy, brought out his stock-whip, caught it a good thwack in the hind-legs and cracked it two or three times, whereupon the horse, lowering its head, set out full tilt over the puszta, as straight as it could go. The boy had hard enough work to keep his seat, clutching the mane with both hands. The csikós, meanwhile, was quite clear as to his own course.

"Tell Ferko Lacza that Sándor Decsi sends him his respects!" he shouted out after the vanishing "taligás." But whether the boy heard this message is doubtful.