"Look! he has lost his crown: he cannot therefore be the Whitsun King!" cried many voices.
But who was to be the king, then? The crown was irrecoverably trampled to pieces in the dust.
"That is not fair!" exclaimed the majority. Many proposed a fresh race.
"I am ready for anything you like," said the strange youth.
"Stop, little brother!" replied Martin, in a subdued, husky voice, which quivered with rage. "We want to prove which of us two is the better man. I confess that on level ground you go quicker than I. You have the better horse, and a fool may win if his horse be quick enough. But, come now, show us whether you are a man where standing one's ground, not running away, is the great point. There's a nice lot of people here, you see, and for all these folks they have only brought hither two bullocks—and little enough too. If you're a man, come with me and fetch a third. We shall not have to go far. Among the reeds yonder is a stray bull, which has been prowling in these parts for the last fortnight, killing people, scattering flocks and herds, destroying the crops, overturning the carts on the high-road, and chasing the labourers out of the fields into the town. Not one of the drovers, or gulyás, in the place can cope with him single-handed. Let us go after him together, and the one that drags him hither shall be the Whitsun King."
"There's my hand upon it," said the strange youth, clapping the palm of his rival without even taking time for reflection.
Those who happened to hear this proposal showed signs of retiring precipitately. "They must be fools to bring a mad bull among the people on a holiday like this," murmured these waverers.
"You need have no fear," said Martin. "By the time we bring him here he will be as gentle as a lamb, or else we shall be lying where he is now."
Quick as wildfire spread the rumour of this mad idea. The more timorous part of the crowd