"Certainly."
"What extraordinary questions you do ask to be sure!" exclaimed the cowboy.
"No, I am not in debt, even to the priest. What does it matter to you?"
The csikós shook his head, and broke the neck of another bottle. He wished to fill his friend's glass, but the cowboy placed his hand over it.
"You won't drink my beer?"
"I'm keeping to the rule. Wine on beer—never fear. Beer on wine—no time."
The csikós poured himself out the whole bottle, and then began to moralise (the not unfrequent result of beer-drinking).
"See, comrade," he said, "there is no uglier sin in the world than lying. I once lied myself, though not in my own defence, and it has oppressed my soul ever since. Lying does well enough for shepherds, but not for lads on horseback. The first shepherd of all was a liar. Jacob, the patriarch, lied when he deceived his own father, making his hands rough like Esau's. So little wonder if his followers, who keep flocks, should live by lies. It may suit a shepherd, but it is not for a cowboy."
The cowherd went into roars of laughter.