Móczli was a well-fed fellow, with strongly protruding eyes, which seemed almost to jump out of their sockets as he stared at us for bursting in upon him without knocking.
"Well, where does it 'burn?'" were his first words to Márton.
"Gently, old fellow; don't make a noise. There is other trouble! You are betrayed and they will pinch the young gentleman at the frontier."
Móczli was really scared for a moment. A tremendous three-cornered chunk of bread that he had just thrust in his mouth stuck there staring frightenedly at us like Móczli himself and looking for all the world as if a second nose was going to grow on his face; however he soon came to himself, continued the munching process, gulped it all down, and then drank a huge draught out of a monstrous glass, his protruding eyes being all the while fixed on me.
"I surely thought there was a fire somewhere, and I must go for a fire-pump again with my horses.—I must always go for the pump, if a fire breaks out anywhere. Even if there is a fire in the mill quarter, it is only me they drive out: why does not the town keep horses of her own?"
"Do you hear, Móczli," Márton interrupted, "don't talk to me now of the town pumps don't sprinkle your throat either, for it's not there that it is burning, but your back will be burning immediately, if you don't listen to me. Her ladyship's husband learned all. They will forestall the young gentleman at the frontier, and bring him back."
Móczli endeavored to display a calm countenance, though his eyes belied him.
"What 'young gentleman' do you mean, and what 'ladyship?'"
Márton bent over him and whispered,
"Móczli, you don't want to make a fool of yourself before me, surely. Was it not you that took away Bálnokházy's wife in the company of a young gentleman? Your number is on your back: do you think no one can see it?"