and called out in harsh tones:

"Well, famous fiddler: now you can show us what kind of a gypsy[44] you
are."

[Footnote 44: The czigany (gypsy) is celebrated for his sneaking
cowardice, and his fiddle playing, he being a naturally gifted musician,
as any one who has heard czigany music in Budapest can testify.]

That pleased me better.

I would be no gypsy!

The examination began: my school-fellows, the greater part of whom were
unknown to me, as they were students of a higher class, were called in
one by one into the tribunal chamber, and one by one they were
dismissed; then the pedellus led them into another room, that they might
not tell those without what they had been asked, and what they had
answered.

I had time enough to scrutinize their faces as they came out.

Each one was unusually flushed, and brought with him the impression of
what had passed within.

One looked obstinate, another dejected. Some smiled bitterly: others
could not raise their eyes to look at their fellows. Each one was
suffering from some nervous perturbation which made his face a glaring
contrast to the gaping, frozen features without.

I was greatly relieved at not seeing Lorand among the accused. They did
not know one of the chief leaders of the secret-writing conspiracy.

But when they left me to the last, I was convinced they were on the
right track; the copyers one after another had confessed from whom they
had received the matter for copying. I was the last link in the chain,
and behind me stood Lorand.

But the chain would snap in two, and after me they would not find
Lorand.

For that one thing I was prepared.

At last, after long waiting, my turn came. I was as stupefied, as
benumbed, as if I had already passed through the ordeal.

No thought of mother or grandmother entered my head; merely the one
idea that I must protect Lorand with body and soul: and then I felt as
if that thought had turned me to stone: let them beat themselves against
that stone.

"Desiderius Aronffy," said the director, "tell us whose writing is
this?"

"Mine," I answered calmly.

"It is well that you have confessed at once: there is no necessity to
compare your writing, to equivocate, as was the case with the
others.--What did you write it for?"

"For money."

One professor-judge laughed outright, a second angrily struck his fist
upon the table, a third played with his pen. Mr. Schmuck sat in his
chair with a sweet smile, and putt