The Hungarian replied, “But you are coming with me, for a glass of wine?”
Swithin looked at the ground. 'Not if I know it!' he thought.
“Ah!” said the Hungarian with dignity, “you do not wish for my friendship!”
'Touchy beggar!' thought Swithin. “Of course,” he stammered, “if you put it in that way—”
The Hungarian bowed, murmuring, “Forgive me!”
They had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless face and hollow cheeks, accosted them. “For the love of Christ, gentlemen,” he said, “help me!”
“Are you a German?” asked Boleskey.
“Yes,” said the youth.
“Then you may rot!”
“Master, look here!” Tearing open his coat, the youth displayed his skin, and a leather belt drawn tight round it. Again Swithin felt that desire to take to his heels. He was filled with horrid forebodings—a sense of perpending intimacy with things such as no gentleman had dealings with.