is 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