"That they are still alive," answered Petray with a perfectly serious face. "They both are here," he added, "and I beg that they may be confronted with Mr. Ráby."
"Well, I should like to see them."
And thereupon through a side door they admitted two women into the court. One was a pretty young Rascian in her picturesque national costume, the other was a coquettishly clad peasant from the Alföld, of imposingly tall stature. They were each cited by name, though Ráby had never heard either before.
"So these are my wives, are they?" he cried, half amused, half angry.
"They are indeed," answered Petray unabashed, "and pray do not attempt to deny it, for they are both ready to prove it."
"Why, when have either of you ever seen me before?" demanded Ráby sternly of the two women.
The little Rascian was obviously ashamed of herself, for though the paint on her cheeks effectually hid her blushes, she buried her face in her handkerchief to suppress her confusion. But her companion was not so easily daunted. Her arms akimbo, she placed herself in front of Ráby and began to abuse him roundly.
"So you mean to say you don't remember me, do you, my fine sir?" And she forthwith began a string of voluble reminiscences which Ráby in vain strove to stem, beside himself with indignation, but he could not get in a word edgeways.
At last the judge intervened. Till then he had contented himself with pulling his moustache the better to control his ill-suppressed amusement.
"That will do, woman, we have had enough of your tongue. We must have documentary evidence. Have the parties marriage-certificates to produce?"