was a long and a tedious one.  As I was strolling around in rather a melancholy mood, just at the close of the cavalcade, I saw the flaming posters of a circus, and knew my day was saved, for I had a great fondness for the ring.  An hour later I was seated in the cheerfully lighted amphitheatre, and the old performance of the trained stallions was going on as I had seen it a hundred times before.  At last the “Celebrated Cypriot Brothers, the Universal Bareback Riders,” came tripping gracefully into the ring, sprang lightly upon two black horses, and were off around the narrow circle like the wind, now together, now apart, performing all the while marvellous feats of strength and skill.  It required no study to discover that there was no relationship between the two performers.  One of them was a heavy, gross, dark-skinned man, with the careless bearing of one who had been nursed in a circus.  The other was a small, fair-haired youth of nineteen or twenty years, with limbs as straight and as shapely as the Narcissus, and with joints like the wiry-limbed fauns.  His head was round, and his face of a type which would never be called beautiful, although it was strong in feature and attractive in expression.  His eyes were small and twinkling, his eyebrows heavy, and his mouth had a peculiar proud curl in it which was never disturbed by the tame smile of the practised performer.  He was evidently a foreigner.  He went through his acts with wonderful readiness and with slight effort, and, while apparently enjoying keenly the exhilaration of applause, he showed no trace of the blase bearing of the old stager.  In nearly every act that followed he took a prominent part.  On the trapeze, somersaulting over horses placed side by side, grouping with his so-called brother and a small lad, he did his full share of the work, and when the programme was ended he came among the audience to sell photographs while the lottery was being drawn.

As usual during the carnival, there was a lottery arranged by the manager of the circus, and every ticket had a number which entitled the holder to a chance in the prizes.  When the young gymnast came in turn to me, radiant in his salmon fleshings and blue trunks, with slippers and bows to match, I could not help asking him if he was an Italian.

“No, signor, Magyar!” he replied, and I shortly found that his knowledge of Italian was limited to a dozen words.  I occupied him by selecting some photographs, and, much to his surprise, spoke to him in his native tongue.  When he learned I had been in Hungary he was greatly pleased, and the impatience of other customers for the photographs was the only thing that prevented him from becoming communicative immediately.  As he left me I slipped into his hand my lottery-ticket, with the remark that I never had any luck, and hoped he would.