"How you look!" he heard her stammer, and he turned red with anger.
"You knew it. I had them write to you that a shell hit me. Did you think it made me better-looking? Just speak straight out if you don't want me any more. Straight wine is what I want, no mixture. Yes or no? I won't force you to marry me. Just say it right away—yes or no?"
Marcsa was silent. There was something in his face, in his one eye, that took her breath away, that dug into her vitals like cold fingers. She cast her eyes down and stammered:
"But you have no position yet. How can we marry? You must first ask the master if he—"
It was as if a red pall woven of flames dropped in front of John Bogdán's eyes. The master? What was she saying about the master? He thought of the humpback, and it came to him in a flash that the fellow had not lied. His fingers clutched her wrist like a pair of glowing tongs, so that she cried out with the pain.
"The master!" Bogdán bellowed. "What has the master got to do between you and me? Yes or no? I want an answer. The master has nothing to do with us."
Marcsa drew herself up. All of a sudden a remarkable assurance came to her. The color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes flashed proudly. She stood there with the haughty bearing so familiar to Bogdán, her head held high in defiance.
Bogdán observed the change and saw that her gaze traveled over his shoulder. He let go her hand and turned instantly. Just what he thought—the master coming out of the machine shop. His old forester, Tóth, followed him.
Marcsa bounded past Bogdán like a cat and ran up to the lord and bent over and kissed his hand.
Bogdán saw the three of them draw near and lowered his head like a ram for attack. A cold, determined quiet rose in him slowly, as in the trenches when the trumpeter gave the signal for a charge. He felt the lord's hand touch his shoulder, and he took a step backward.