For a moment the builder stared helplessly into the priest’s bird-face. He was frightened by what he had heard. He was agitated, as if by his silence he had entered a fictitious credit dishonestly into his ledger. He passed his hand over his forehead.
“Reverend Mr. Chaplain, allow me.... My poor brother Sebastian was a peaceful citizen. He never took any interest in the ideals of the war of Liberation. He kept carefully out of revolutionary movements....”
The priest pushed his open palm reprovingly into the air.
“Master-builder Ulwing, even the humilitas christiana leaves you free to receive with raised head the pious praise bestowed on your famous brother.”
“Listen to me,” shouted Christopher Ulwing in despair. “It was an accident. Believe me. You are mistaken....”
The crowd became hostile in its interruptions. Those behind murmured. Amalia Csik began to fear for her present importance. She incited the people furiously, as if this stranger from Pest had attempted to deprive them of an honour due to them.
“He is so rich, and yet he left his brother poor. He never gave him anything. Now he wants to deprive him of his memory.”
“We won’t let him!” shouted the bootmaker from Gentleman Street and resolved not to claim from the builder the price of Sebastian Ulwing’s buckle shoes.
The chaplain rebuked the builder severely:
“Nobody must grudge us the respect we pay to our hero!”