"Won't you come indoors?" urged the girl.
"No, no, we can't," answered the csikós, "our work is out here."
When the cowherd had finished writing, then the csikós took the pen from his hand, and turning over the bill, inscribed his name on the back, in big roundhand characters.
"Now, what is the sense of you writing your name there?" asked the cowboy, inquisitively.
"The use is, that when the pay-day comes round, then I and not you will pay those ten florins."
"Why should you, instead of me?"
"Because it is my debt!" said the csikós, and clapped his cap to his head. His eyes flashed.
The cowboy paled all at once. Now he knew what awaited him. The girl had learnt nothing from the scribbling nor from the discourse. She shook her head. "They were very foolish," she thought, and the gilded ear-rings tinkled in her ears. "'This,' and 'that,' and 'Yellow Rose,' they must be talking about her!"
But the csikós carefully folded the paper, and handed it to her. Very gently he spoke,
"Dear Klári," he said, "please be so very kind and put this safely away in your drawer. Then should Mr. Pelikan, the horse-dealer, come in here to dine on his way back from Onod fair, give it him. Tell him that we sent it, we two old comrades, Ferko Lacza, and Sanyi Decsi, with our best respects. One of us will meet it, which, time will show."