Solitary men, or groups, sat at some dozen tables, and the waiters hurried about replenishing glasses; the air was thick with smoke.
Swithin sat down."Wine!" he said sternly.The astonished waiter brought him wine.Swithin pointed to a beer glass on the table.
"Here!" he said, with the same ferocity.The waiter poured out the wine.'Ah!' thought Swithin, 'they can understand if they like.' Agroup of officers close by were laughing; Swithin stared at them uneasily.A hollow cough sounded almost in his ear.To his left a man sat reading, with his elbows on the corners of a journal, and his gaunt shoulders raised almost to his eyes.He had a thin, long nose, broadening suddenly at the nostrils; a black-brown beard, spread in a savage fan over his chest; what was visible of the face was the colour of old parchment.A strange, wild, haughty-looking creature!
Swithin observed his clothes with some displeasure--they were the clothes of a journalist or strolling actor.And yet he was impressed.This was singular.How could he be impressed by a fellow in such clothes! The man reached out a hand, covered with black hairs, and took up a tumbler that contained a dark-coloured fluid.
'Brandy!' thought Swithin.The crash of a falling chair startled him--his neighbour had risen.He was of immense height, and very thin; his great beard seemed to splash away from his mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking.Swithin made out two words: "Hunde! Deutsche Hunde!" 'Hounds! Dutch hounds!' he thought:
'Rather strong!' One of the officers had jumped up, and now drew his sword.The tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down with a thud.Everybody round started up and closed on him.The tall man cried out, "To me, Magyars!"Swithin grinned.The tall man fighting such odds excited his unwilling admiration; he had a momentary impulse to go to his assistance.'Only get a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner.But at that moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw.He jumped out of his chair and rushed at the officers.The Hungarian, swinging his chair, threw him a look of gratitude--Swithin glowed with momentary admiration of himself.A sword blade grazed his--arm; he felt a sudden dislike of the Hungarian.'This is too much,' he thought, and, catching up a chair, flung it at the wooden lantern.There was a crash--faces and swords vanished.He struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door.A second later he was in the street.
II
A voice said in English, "God bless you, brother!"Swithin looked round, and saw the tall Hungarian holding out his hand.He took it, thinking, 'What a fool I've been!' There was something in the Hungarian's gesture which said, "You are worthy of me!'
It was annoying, but rather impressive.The man seemed even taller than before; there was a cut on his cheek, the blood from which was trickling down his beard."You English!" he said."I saw you stone Haynau--I saw you cheer Kossuth.The free blood of your people cries out to us." He looked at Swithin."You are a big man, you have a big soul--and strong, how you flung them down! Ha!" Swithin had an impulse to take to his heels."My name," said the Hungarian, "is Boleskey.You are my friend." His English was good.
'Bulsh-kai-ee, Burlsh-kai-ee,' thought Swithin; 'what a devil of a name!' "Mine," he said sulkily, "is Forsyte."The Hungarian repeated it.
"You've had a nasty jab on the cheek," said Swithin; the sight of the matted beard was making him feel sick.The Hungarian put his fingers to his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with an indifferent air gathered a wisp of his beard and crammed it against the cut.
"Ugh!" said Swithin."Here! Take my handkerchief!"The Hungarian bowed."Thank you!" he said; "I couldn't think of it!
Thank you a thousand times!"
"Take it!" growled Swithin; it seemed to him suddenly of the first importance.He thrust the handkerchief into the Hungarian's hand, and felt a pain in his arm.'There!' he thought, 'I've strained a muscle.'
The Hungarian kept muttering, regardless of passers-by, "Swine! How you threw them over! Two or three cracked heads, anyway--the cowardly swine!""Look here!" said Swithin suddenly; "which is my way to the Goldene Alp?"The Hungarian replied, "But you are coming with me, for a glass of wine?"Swithin looked at the ground.'Not if I know it!' he thought.
"Ah!" said the Hungarian with dignity, "you do not wish for my friendship!"'Touchy beggar!' thought Swithin."Of course," he stammered, "if you put it in that way--"The Hungarian bowed, murmuring, "Forgive me!"They had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless face and hollow cheeks, accosted them."For the love of Christ, gentlemen," he said, "help me!""Are you a German?" asked Boleskey.
"Yes," said the youth.
"Then you may rot!"
"Master, look here!" Tearing open his coat, the youth displayed his skin, and a leather belt drawn tight round it.Again Swithin felt that desire to take to his heels.He was filled with horrid forebodings--a sense of perpending intimacy with things such as no gentleman had dealings with.
