Wherever he would go, in the street, in the field, in the house, everywhere he would feel himself walking in that labyrinth; everywhere that endless chain would clank after him, which began again where it had ended.
He did not even notice, when some one passed him, whether he greeted him or not.
To escape, to exchange his word of honor for his life, to shut out the whole world from his secret—what has pride to say to that?—what the memory of the father who in a like case bowed before his self-pride and cast his life and happiness as a sacrifice before the feet of his honor? What would the tears of the two mothers say?—how could tender-handed love fight alone against so strong adversaries?
How could Bálint Tátray shake off from himself that whole world which cleaved like a sea of mud to Lorand Áronffy?
As he proceeded in deep reflection beside the village houses, his hat pressed firmly down over his eyes, he did not even notice that from the other direction a lady was crossing the rough road, making straight for him, until as she came beside him she addressed him with affected gaiety:
"Good day, Lorand."
The young fellow, startled at hearing his name, looked up amazed and gazed into the speaker's face.
She, with the cheery smile of undoubted recognition, grasped his hand.
"Yes, yes! I recognized you again after so long a time had passed, though you know me no more, my dear Lorand."
Oh! Lorand knew her well enough! And that woman—was Madame Bálnokházy....