'

"Who is he, who gives a true man into the hands of the deceiver, that he
may choke with his right hand his breath, with his left his soul.

"Well, philosopher, come; defend this pious man against me! Tell me what
you have learned."

But the philosopher did not say what he had learned. Half dead and
wholly insensible he lay back in his chair while the moon shone upon his
upturned face with its full brilliance.

CHAPTER XIV

TWO GIRLS

Eight years had passed.

The young man who buried himself on the plains had become a man, his
face had lengthened, his beard grown round it; few of his old
acquaintances would have recognized him. Even he himself had long ago
become accustomed to his assumed name.

In Topandy's house the old order of things continued: Czipra did the
honors, presiding at the head of the table: Lorand managed the farm,
living in the house, sitting at the table, speaking to the comrades who
came and went "per tu";[59] with them he drank and amused himself.

[Footnote 59: A sign of intimacy--addressing a person as "thou."]

Drank and amused himself!

What else should a young man do, who has no aim in life?

With Czipra, tete-a-tete, he spoke also "per tu;" before others he
miladyed her.

Once at supper Topandy said to Czipra and Lorand:

"Children, in a few days another child will come to the house. The devil
has carried off a very dear relation of mine with whom I was on such
excellent terms that we never spoke to one another. I should not,
logically, believe there is a devil in the world, should I? But for the
short period during which he had carried that fellow away, I am willing
to acquiesce in his existence. To-day I have received a lamentable
letter from his daughter, written in a beautiful tone of sorrow; the
poor child writes that immediately after her father's death the house
was swooped down upon by those Sadducees who trample all piety under
foot, the so-called creditors. They have seized everything and put it
under seals; even her own piano; they have even put up at auction the
pictures she drew with her own hand; and have actually sold the
'Gedenkbuch,'[60] in which so many clever and famous men had written so
much absurdity: the tobacconist bought it for ten florins for the sake
of its title-page. The poor girl has hitherto been educated by the nuns,
to whom three quarters' payment is due, and her position is such that
she has no roof except her parasol beneath which s