hin could not imagine what he was talking of. This man's face, with
its linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and great black wisps of beard, his
fierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. He seemed
to be suffering from some kind of mental dog-bite. His emotion indeed
appeared so indecent, so uncontrolled and open, that its obvious
sincerity produced a sort of awe in Swithin. It was like being forced to
look into a furnace. Boleskey stopped roaming up and down. "You think
it's over?" he said; "I tell you, in the breast of each one of us Magyars
there is a hell. What is sweeter than life? What is more sacred than
each breath we draw? Ah! my country!" These words were uttered so
slowly, with such intense mournfulness, that Swithin's jaw relaxed; he
converted the movement to a yawn.

"Tell me," said Boleskey, "what would you do if the French conquered
you?"

Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he
grunted, "The 'Froggies'? Let 'em try!"

"Drink!" said Boleskey--"there is nothing like it"; he filled Swithin's
glass. "I will tell you my story."

Swithin rose hurriedly. "It's late," he said. "This is good stuff,
though; have you much of it?"

"It is the last bottle."

"What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?"

"My name is Boleskey--Stefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of
the Komorn Boleskeys." The simplicity of this phrase--as who shall say:
What need of further description?--made an impression on Swithin; he
stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. "There were many
abuses," boomed his deep voice, "much wrong done--much cowardice. I
could see clouds gathering--rolling over our plains. The Austrian wished
to strangle the breath of our mouths--to take from us the shadow of our
liberty--the shadow--all we had. Two years ago--the year of '48, when
every man and boy answered the great voice--brother, a dog's life!--to
use a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for me!
My son was killed; my brothers taken--and myself was thrown out like a
dog--I had written out my heart, I had written out all the blood that was
in my body!" He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with gloomy,
flickering eyes staring at the wall.

Swithin rose, and stammered, "Much obliged--very interesting." Boleskey
made no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall.
"Good-night!" said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs.