He made no outcry: he knew the breed (he himself had said it) too well. As you may see a dog watch his master’s signal to dash after the prey, wagging his tail faintly the while, so the fellow turned and fixed me.
“And how will your honour do it?” said he without a protest.
“How?” said I, and laughed aloud; “by my soul I know not! I know nothing yet, but we will home to the inn and deliberate. There is nought so difficult but love will find the way, and Romeos will scale walls to reach their Juliets so long as this old world lasts.”
I rose as I spoke, and so did János, shaking the snow from his bent shoulders.
“I know nothing of the gentlemen your honour speaks of, nor of the ladies, but my old master, your honour’s uncle, did things in his days.... God forgive me that I should remember them against a holy soul in heaven! There was a time when he kept a whole siege (it was before Reichenberg in ’59)—a whole siege waiting, ordered a cessation of fire for a night, that he might visit some lady in the town. He was the general of the besieging army, and he could order as he pleased. By Saint Stephen, he got into the town somehow ... and I with him ... and next morning we got out again! No one knew where we had been but himself, and myself, and herself—he, he!—and before midday we had that town.”
“Fie, fie, János,” said I, “these are sad tales of a field-marshal; let us hope my good aunt never heard them.”
“Her Excellency,” said János, and crossed himself, “would have gloried in the deed. But, your honour, we have the heavens against us to-night; I have not seen a sky look blacker, even in England, since the great storm at Tollendhal.... Ah, your honour remembers when.”
“All the better,” said I, as we turned the corner; “a stormy night is the best of nights for a bold deed.”
And I thought within myself: “I lost her in the storm; in the storm shall I find her again.” Thus does a glad heart frame his own omen.