"And her mother," I added, trying to make a laugh of it.
At this "The Joyous" smiled, saying I was a hypocrite, and that it would be well to take me away with all speed.
The streets were filled with soldiers, both Croats and Austrians, so we felt little surprised at finding a party of the latter drawn up near the house in which we lodged.
There were two or three trifling articles belonging to us in our rooms; so, while Stephen settled accounts with the proprietor, Rakoczy and I ran upstairs. My brother shortly rejoined us, the things were packed in a small handbag, and we were ready to depart, when some one knocked at the door.
"Come in!" cried I briskly, and an officer in the Austrian service entered.
"I extremely regret my errand," said he pleasantly; "but duty is duty, and you must consider yourselves my prisoners. Feeling sure you would not care to make a scene, I have left my men in the street. You have simply to give your parole not to attempt an escape, and I shall not use force."
"Very kind of you!" exclaimed Rakoczy. "But isn't there some mistake?"
The officer took a paper from his pocket.
"Stephen and George Botskay and John Rakoczy," he said, and proceeded to read descriptions of our persons--accurate, indeed, but expressed in very flattering language.
"Come!" laughed "The Joyous;" "after that it will be uncivil to refuse our parole."