“Your daughter’s name is Rosy?” he said; “we have it in England—­from rose, a flower.”

“Rozsi (Rozgi),” the Hungarian replied; “your English is a hard tongue, harder than French, German, or Czechish, harder than Russian, or Roumanian—­I know no more.”

“What?” said Swithin, “six languages?” Privately he thought, ’He knows how to lie, anyway.’

“If you lived in a country like mine,” muttered the Hungarian, “with all men’s hands against you!  A free people—­dying—­but not dead!”

Swithin 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.