The csikós spoke so mildly that he entirely misled his companion. He began to think that after all nothing was called into question here but the honour of csikós and cowboys.
"All right, I will do as you wish," he said.
They rapped on the table, and Klárika came out (she had been lurking near the door). Great was her surprise when, instead of witnessing a bloody encounter, she beheld the two young men conferring peaceably together.
"Fetch us pen and ink, Klári, dear," they said.
So she brought writing materials from the town commissioner's room. Then she looked on to see what would be done.
The csikós showed the paper to the cowherd, pointing with his finger where, and dictating what to write.
"'Payable on the Hortobágy,' so much is written already, now add, 'in the inn courtyard.'"
"Why in the courtyard?" inquired the cowboy.
"Because—because it can't be otherwise."
Meanwhile the storm was nearing rapidly. A hot wind preceded the tempest, covering earth and sky with yellowish clouds of dust. Birds of prey hovered shrieking over the Hortobágy, while flocks of swallows and sparrows hurried under the shelter of the eaves. A loud roar swept over the puszta.