"'Then,' says the notary, 'what about the peasants that he sets on to rebel against their landlords?'
"'Nothing of the kind,' says I; 'the man who says that ought to be hanged.'
"With that, he asks if my master did not throw Dacsó Marczi and the surveyor into the river. So I told them it was a wicked lie."
"That was quite true, Böske!"
"Then they asked me if you were not a sorcerer, and did not call up evil spirits at night-time."
"And, pray, what did you say to that?"
"Why I just laughed outright, and told them I had never even heard my master say 'the devil take them,' much less call up evil spirits. But they said the Devil himself would carry me off if I didn't tell the truth. And when they asked me to swear that the gracious master was a sorcerer, I just swore by the Crucifix it was not true. But they were so angry that they just packed me off to prison, then and there, and there I was left without food or drink till the gracious master himself came and fetched me out."
Poor Böske finished her story with a burst of weeping, for up till now she had not had the time for crying. But now she had got her tale over, and the milking done, she cried her heart out into the corners of her apron.
"That was quite enough for once," muttered Ráby to himself. But he deceived himself if he fancied it was enough, for there was yet more to come.
When they had recovered the key from its hiding-place under the beam, Böske went first to open the house, but she started back in horror, and dropped the pail of milk she was carrying, as she exclaimed,