He even could mention Peter's name calmly; and a quaint old English saying came to Rosemary's mind, one that she was fond of repeating in past days whenever her professional activities brought her in contact with extraordinary people. "Nought so queer as folk!" She almost said it aloud; for never in all her life had she witnessed anything so strange as this metamorphosis of a violent-tempered, morbid epileptic into a calm, sensible man of the world, who takes things as he finds them, and Fate's heaviest blows without wearing his heart on his sleeve.
"I shall not forget the Bristol at Hódmezö," she said, after a little while, "and I will certainly remain with Elza until you come. Perhaps I can help her to endure the suspense."
"Perhaps."
"How did her letter get to you? Through the post?"
"No; she tent a peasant over from Sót, a lad who lives in Kis-Imre, and was returning home. You know him, dear Lady Tarkington—him and his brother—the two sons of Jànos the miller."
"Those two brave lads who——"
Rosemary paused abruptly. The last thing she wanted to do was to bring back to Maurus' memory that fateful night of the children's abortive escape; but Maurus himself broke in quietly:
"Yes, the two fellows who helped us all they could that night when Philip and Anna tried to get out of the country. The attempt was unsuccessful, as you know. Philip and Anna were captured. They are in Sót now. But the two sons of Jànos—I forget their names—got over the frontier safely. They joined the cricketers at Hódmezö, and are safely back at the mill now."
"Thank God," Rosemary exclaimed fervently, "they did not suffer for their devotion."
"No, I am glad of that," Maurus concluded, with obvious indifference. "But the authorities don't trouble about the peasants. It is the landed aristocracy and the professional classes who have to suffer, if they belong to the conquered race."