"That's Petreskey," said the man next to me. "He takes a fit every now and then and makes that row. We came from Kapolna in the same cart, and if the black and yellow dogs hadn't shot my arm off, I'd have pitched him out. Who wants to hear that stuff? Lie down, will you, and let a fellow go to sleep."
"Shut up, Janko! Can't you see the chap's out of his mind? Let the poor beggar sing. It does him good."
"Shut up yourself!" growled my neighbour. "D'you think I want to lie here listening to that rubbish when my good right arm's gone from the shoulder? 'Rise, Magyars, rise' won't put that on again."
Meanwhile Petreskey, staring round the room with his wild eyes, broke out again, and sang till he was too weak to utter another note.
The two other men had taken no notice of the incident, but lay on their straw like logs.
I tried to get into talk with the surly Janko, but he only grunted morosely and covered his head with his bunda.
The next man, however, told me we had crossed the Theiss, and were now encamped at Tisza-Fured, on the road to Debreczin, but more than that he did not know.
Towards noon a surgeon paid us a visit; but before that we had been fed by two soldier-servants, and I for one thoroughly enjoyed the hot, nourishing broth which they brought.
The surgeon seemed a tender-hearted fellow, and had a kind word for every man in the room, even the bad-tempered Janko. He came to me last, and asked if I were not George Botskay, a captain in the 9th Honveds.
"What there is left of him," I answered; "but there doesn't appear to be much."