To-night we reach the strongly fortified town of Peterwardein, opposite which, just across a pontoon bridge spanning the Danube, is the larger city of Neusatz.  At Hamenitz we met Professor Zaubaur, the editor of the Uj Videk, who came down the Danube ahead of us by steamboat; and now, after housing our machines at our gasthaus in Peterwardein, he pilots us across the pontoon bridge in the twilight, and into one of those wine-gardens so universal in this part of the world.  Here at Neusatz I listen to the genuine Hungarian gypsy music for the last time on the European tour ere bidding the territory of Hungary adieu, for Neusatz is on the Hungarian side of the Danube.  The professor has evidently let no grass grow beneath his feet since leaving us scarcely an hour ago at Hamenitz, for he has, in the mean time, ferreted out the only English-speaking person at present in town, the good Frau Schrieber, an Austrian lady, formerly of Vienna, but now at Neusatz with her husband, a well-known advocate.  This lady talks English quite fluently.  Though not yet twenty-five she is very, very wise, and among other things she informs her admiring friends gathered round about us, listening to the — to them — unintelligible flow of a foreign language, that Englishmen are “very grave beings,” a piece of information that wrings from Igali a really sympathetic response-nothing less than the startling announcement that he hasn’t seen me smile since we left Budapest together, a week ago.  “Having seen the Slavonian, I ought by all means to see the Hungarian national dance,” Frau Schrieber says; adding, “It is a nice dance for Englishmen to look at, though it is so very gay that English ladies would neither dance it nor look at it being danced.”  Ere parting company with this entertaining lady she agrees that, if I will but remain in Hungary permanently, she knows of a very handsome fraulein of sixteen summers, who, having heard of my “wonderful journey,” is already predisposed in my favor, and with a little friendly tact and management on her — Frau Schrieber’s — part would no doubt be willing to waive the formalities of a long courtship, and yield up hand and heart at my request.  I can scarcely think of breaking in twain my trip around the world even for so tempting a prospect, and I recommend the fair Hungarian to Igali; but “the fraulein has never heard of Herr Igali, and he will not do.”

“Will the fraulein be willing to wait until my journey around the world is completed.”

“Yes; she vill vait mit much pleezure; I vill zee dat she vait; und I know you vill return, for an Englishman alvays forgets his promeezes.”  Henceforth, when Igali and myself enter upon a programme of whistling, “Yankee Doodle” is supplanted by “The girl I left behind me,” much to his annoyance, since, not understanding the sentiment responsible for the change, bethinks “Yankee Doodle” a far better tune.  So much attached, in fact, has Igali become to the American national