One day, then, worthy Gregory Biró appeared before the kiosk of Feriz Beg and asked to be admitted.
At these words a Moor popped out, and, seizing him by the collar, conducted him to a room where a half-dressed man was standing before a fire cooking black potions in all sorts of queer-shaped crooked glasses. The Moor presented Gregory to the doctor as another messenger.
"What is your name?" he asked, venomously regarding him from over his shoulder, and treating him to the most terrifying grimace he could think of.
"Gregory Biró," replied the Szekler, nodding his head twice as was his custom.
"Gregory, Gregory, what do you want here?"
"I want to see Feriz Beg."
"I am he; what have you brought?"
Gregory twisted his mug derisively at these words, and immediately reflected that the business was beginning badly, for the person before him did not in the least resemble Feriz Beg as described to him.
"I have brought a letter—from a pretty girl."
"Give it to me quickly, and be off."