confidential heyduke Palko,[7] who was also present. "Don't you see that his honour has been holding out his front paw for ever so long?"
[7] I.e., Little Paul.
"Crying your pardon," said the worthy steward, drawing his hands away, "I am not worthy of so much honour!"
And not for the whole world could he have been brought to extend his hand towards Master Jock, to whom he alone of all the world gave his proper title. It was also impossible to ever get him to sit down by the side of his honour. Palko had to hold him down in a chair by main force, but he would always jump up again, and remain standing before his master as soon as the pressure was removed.
And, indeed, his honour, the steward, and the heyduke made up an odd-looking trio between them. Kárpáthy's face, at such moments, was always unusually serene, his great bald forehead shone like the cupola of a temple, the scanty remains of his grey hair curled round his forehead and the nape of his neck in silvery wisps; he was shaved beautifully smooth, save for a well-kept moustache curling elegantly upwards at both ends; the fiery redness of his eyes had vanished, and there was no longer any trace of deforming wrinkles.
Opposite him stood the worthy steward, with the old-fashioned, scrupulously obsequious, and infallibly respectful homage of a former generation writ large on every feature of his bronzed countenance. His moustache was clipped close to save trouble, but all the more care had he bestowed upon his marvellous powdered top-knot—itself a survival—which respectable elevation the worthy fellow revealed to the light of day, neatly bound up with a black ribbon. Behind him
stands the old heyduke Palko in a laced dolman. He is just as old as they are. All three have grown up together, all three have grown old together; and now, too, Palko is as familiar with his honour as he used to be in the days when they played and fought together in the courtyard. The old fellow's head is grey now, but not a hair of it has he lost, and its flowing abundance is brushed backwards and kept in its place by a circular comb; his moustache is more pointed than a shoemaker's awl, and waxed to a fearful extent at both ends; his features are so simple that a skilful artist could have hit them off in three strokes, only the colouring would have given him something to think about, for it is a little difficult to paint-in blood-red on scarlet.
"Would his honour," said Peter, standing by the table, "be graciously pleased to cast his eyes over these accounts? I have made so bold as to most humbly make out a brief summary thereof, that his honour may find the examination a little easier." And with that he beckoned to Palko to put down the documents.
The latter venomously banged down the whole bundle on the table, but he could not refrain from observing, "What a shame to spoil such a lot of nice clean paper by scribbling on it!"
"You speak like a fool," growled Master Jock.