The two old men looked at each other. They burst into a good-humoured laugh. The builder rose and took a much-worn booklet out of the writing desk. On the binding of the book a double-headed eagle held the arms of Hungary between its claws.
“This is my patent of nobility. I have sold neither myself nor anybody else for it.”
Anne opened the book and spelt out slowly the old-fashioned writing:
“Pozsony. Anno Domini 1797.... Christopher Ulwing. Sixteen years old. Stature: tall. Face: long. Hair: fair. Eyes: blue. Occupation: civil carpenter.”
Anne blushed.
“That was I,” and the master builder put his hand on the passport. Then, with quaint satisfaction, he looked round the room as if exhibiting with his eyes the comfort he had earned by his labour. For the first time Anne understood this look which she had observed on her grandfather’s face on countless occasions.
“I am a free citizen,” said Christopher Ulwing. The words embellished, gave power to his sharp, metallic voice. Unconsciously, Anne imitated with her small head the old man’s gesture.
The thoughts of Sebastian Ulwing moved less quickly. They stuck at the passport.
“Do you remember?...” These words carried the old men beyond the years. They talked of the mail-coach which had overturned at the gate of Hatvan. Of the mounted courier from Vienna, how they made him drunk at the Three Roses Inn. The gunsmith, the chirurgeon and other powerful artisans held him down while the bell-founder cut his pig-tail off though there was a wire inside to curl it up on his back.
The builder got tired of this subject. He became serious.