"Do you know who was inside the carriage?—Guess!—Well, it was Madame."
"Bálnokházy's wife?"
"The same—with that certain actor."
"With whose passport Lorand was to have eloped?"
"Well if one is on his way to elope—it is all the same:—one must have a companion, if not the one, then the other.'"
It was all a fable to me. But such a mysterious fable that it sent a cold chill all over me.
"But where could they go?"
"Where?—Well, as far as the frontier, perhaps. Anyhow, as far as the contents of that bag, which Móczli handed into the carriage after her ladyship, will last.—Hai-dia-do."
Now it was really exuberance of spirits that made old Márton sing in Tyrolese manner, that refrain, "hai-hai-dia-hia-do."
He actually danced on the dusty road—a galop.