"The caldron was heavy, very heavy indeed."
That was all he could get out, while he continued gazing at the two cherubs on the paper notes. He had six of his own at home, but they were not as pretty as these.
"Well, my good man," said Gregorics surprised, "still silent?"
"It would be like a stone on my heart if I were to speak," sighed the mason—"a very big stone. I don't think I could bear it."
"Don't talk such nonsense! A stone, indeed! Why, you have had to do with nothing else all your life, you need not cry about having one on your heart! You can't expect me to give you two hundred florins, and then give you a hot roll to carry in your heart. Don't be a fool, man."
Prepelicza smiled at this, but he put his big red hands behind his back, a sign that he did not intend to touch the money.
"Perhaps you find it too little?"
Not a word did he answer, only pushed his hair up in front, till he looked like a sick cockatoo; then, after a few moments, raised his glass to his lips, and drained it to the dregs, and then put it back on the table so brusquely that it broke.
"It is disgraceful!" he burst out; "a poor man's honor is only worth two hundred florins, though God created us all equal, and He gave me my honor as well as to the bishop or to Baron Radvánszky. And yet you tax mine at two hundred florins. It's a shame!"
Upon that Gáspár decided to play his trump.