The chaplain made him a sign to stop. He again lifted his hand to heaven. He spoke of the country. Of heroes. He turned his pointed bird-face upward as if inspired.
“And greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life....”
“Why do you say that?” The builder thought he could not stand the voice of the priest any longer.
The chaplain became more and more enthusiastic.
“The name of Sebastian Ulwing will live forever in our memory. Buda, the grateful, will preserve the memory of its heroic martyrs.”
The builder shuddered. He wanted to speak, but, with an apostolic gesture, the priest opened his arms to the assembled people.
“And do you who are brought here by your pious respect for a hero, tell your children and your children’s children that it was a simple, God-fearing clockmaker who with signals of fire called the relieving Hungarian armies into the fortress, suffering death therefor by a deadly bullet at the hands of the foe!”
He had grown sentimental over his own eloquence. The builder, embarrassed, looked around him. Big coloured handkerchiefs were drawn. People blew their noses noisily. Mrs. Amalia Csik stood in the middle of the circle. She felt very important. She reiterated her story to every new-comer:
“It happened like this....”
“He is the real hero, the hero of our street,” affirmed the gingerbread maker from the next house. The baker too nodded and thought of the two loaves for which Sebastian Ulwing owed him.