John Rakoczy, or "John the Joyous," as we called him, was, like ourselves, a Hungarian, though there was a slight mixture of German blood in his veins.
He was a handsome man, several years older than myself, with chestnut hair, dark-blue eyes, and a frank, open, jovial face.
His merry laugh and light-hearted manners had earned him the title of "John the Joyous;" but on this October morning his face was gloomy and troubled.
He placed himself between us, so that he could speak to both without raising his voice.
"Heard the news?" he asked.
"We've heard the row!" I replied. "These poor people will strain their throats."
"The city's in a state of insurrection. The students and the Nationals and the Burgher Guards are going to overthrow the government."
"Barking dogs never bite," said Stephen sarcastically.
"These will soon--they're only sharpening their teeth; and the Richters are to help them."
"The Richter Grenadiers?" I exclaimed.