Boleskey rose to speak.  No one moved; not a sound could be heard but the tone of his deep voice.  On and on he went, fierce and solemn, and with the rise of his voice, all those faces-fair or swarthy—­seemed to be glowing with one and the same feeling.  Swithin felt the white heat in those faces—­it was not decent!  In that whole speech he only understood the one word—­“Magyar” which came again and again.  He almost dozed off at last.  The twang of a czymbal woke him.  ‘What?’ he thought, ’more of that infernal music!’ Margit, leaning over him, whispered:  “Listen!  Racoczy!  It is forbidden!” Swithin saw that Rozsi was no longer in her seat; it was she who was striking those forbidden notes.  He looked round—­everywhere the same unmoving faces, the same entrancement, and fierce stillness.  The music sounded muffled, as if it, too, were bursting its heart in silence.  Swithin felt within him a touch of panic.  Was this a den of tigers?  The way these people listened, the ferocity of their stillness, was frightful...!  He gripped his chair and broke into a perspiration; was there no chance to get away?  ‘When it stops,’ he thought, ‘there’ll be a rush!’ But there was only a greater silence.  It flashed across him that any hostile person coming in then would be torn to pieces.  A woman sobbed.  The whole thing was beyond words unpleasant.  He rose, and edged his way furtively towards the doorway.  There was a cry of “Police!” The whole crowd came pressing after him.  Swithin would soon have been out, but a little behind he caught sight of Rozsi swept off her feet.  Her frightened eyes angered him.  ’She doesn’t deserve it,’ he thought sulkily; ‘letting all this loose!’ and forced his way back to her.  She clung to him, and a fever went stealing through his veins; he butted forward at the crowd, holding her tight.  When they were outside he let her go.

“I was afraid,” she said.

“Afraid!” muttered Swithin; “I should think so.”  No longer touching her, he felt his grievance revive.

“But you are so strong,” she murmured.

“This is no place for you,” growled Swithin, “I’m going to see you home.”

“Oh!” cried Rozsi; “but papa and—­Margit!”

“That’s their look-out!” and he hurried her away.

She slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushed him gently, each touch only augmented his ill-humour.  He burned with a perverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready to boil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh.  He maintained a dogged silence; Rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew her hand away.

“You are angry!” she said.

“Angry,” muttered Swithin; “no!  How d’you make that out?” He had a torturing desire to kiss her.

“Yes, you are angry,” she repeated; “I wait here for papa and Margit.”