"But you'll get fuddled from so much beer."
"Much need of it too to quench the fire burning in me. See you give the one in there plenty of strong wine. Heat him up with it, so that we may match each other."
But she took good care not to tell "the one inside" "about the other" out here.
The csikós took the matter into his own hands. He began to sing, selecting the mocking air with which they are wont to tease the cowherds:
"Oh I am the Petri cowboy bold,
I guard the herd on the Petri wold.
My comrades can go
Through the mire and snow;
I lie on my feather-bed safe from cold."
Well thought! Hardly was the verse at an end before out came his man. In one hand he carried his bottle of red wine, with the tumbler turned over the top, in the other his cudgel. Setting down his wine opposite the csikós, he next laid his cudgel beside the other one, and then took his seat at the table exactly facing the other lad.
They neither shook hands nor spoke a word of greeting. Each gave a silent nod, like two between whom speech is unnecessary.
"So you are back from your journey, comrade?" asked the csikós.
"I'll be off again directly if I have the mind."
"To Moravia?"