Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he grunted, “The 'Froggies'. Let 'em try!”
“Drink!” said Boleskey—“there is nothing like it”; he filled Swithin's glass. “I will tell you my story.”
Swithin rose hurriedly. “It's late,” he said. “This is good stuff, though; have you much of it?”
“It is the last bottle.”
“What?” said Swithin; “and you gave it to a beggar?”
“My name is Boleskey—Stefan,” the Hungarian said, raising his head; “of the Komorn Boleskeys.” The simplicity of this phrase—as who shall say: What need of further description?—made an impression on Swithin; he stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. “There were many abuses,” boomed his deep voice, “much wrong done—much cowardice. I could see clouds gathering—rolling over our plains. The Austrian wished to strangle the breath of our mouths—to take from us the shadow of our liberty—the shadow—all we had. Two years ago—the year of '48, when every man and boy answered the great voice—brother, a dog's life!—to use a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for me! My son was killed; my brothers taken—and myself was thrown out like a dog—I had written out my heart, I had written out all the blood that was in my body!” He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with gloomy, flickering eyes staring at the wall.
Swithin rose, and stammered, “Much obliged—very interesting.” Boleskey made no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall. “Good-night!” said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs.
III
When at last Swithin reached the Goldene Alp, he found his brother and friend standing uneasily at the door. Traquair, a prematurely dried-up man, with whiskers and a Scotch accent, remarked, “Ye're airly, man!” Swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. He discovered a slight cut on his arm. He was in a savage temper—the elements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yet now and then a memory of Rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense of having been stroked and flattered, came over him. During breakfast next morning his brother and Traquair announced their intention of moving on. James Forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a “collector,” since all the “old” shops were in the hands of Jews or very grasping persons—he had discovered this at once. Swithin pushed his cup aside. “You may do what you like,” he said, “I'm staying here.”