"I must go and make up the fire on the ice," said the old man, lighting his pipe, "for the smell of fish brings the foxes and even bears from all the forests round, to fish on their own account: they watch for the fishes, which put their heads out of the holes, and drag them out, and that frightens away the others."
"No, no!" said Michael, "don't keep up the fire. I will keep guard—I often watch all night. I will go out now and then and fire my gun; that will send all the four-footed fishermen to the right-about." This satisfied Galambos, who invoked God's blessing on his master, and trotted away.
The deaf vine-dresser, the only other inhabitant of Timar's house, had long been asleep. To add to his deafness, he had drunk so much good wine that one might be certain his night's rest would be unbroken. Timar too went to his room and stirred up his fire.
He was not sleepy; his excited brain required no rest. But there is another form of repose; or is it not rest to sit near an open window and look out on dumb nature? The moon had not yet risen; only the stars of heaven shone down on the smooth ice. Their reflection was like rubies spread on a blight steel plate, or the lights which flicker over graves on Hallowe'en.
He gazed before him, and did not even think. He sat without any sensation, either of cold or of his own pulses, neither of the outer nor inner world—he only wondered. This was rest.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PHANTOM.
The stars glittered in heaven and sparkled from their frozen mirror: no breath disturbed the silence of the night. Then Michael heard behind him a voice which greeted him with "Good-evening, sir."
At the door of the bedroom stood, between the two lights of the lamp and the fire, a figure, at sight of which Timar's blood ran cold. In the bitter midnight, through the dense fog, he had fled from this specter across the frozen Danube.
The man's dress was that of a naval officer, whose uniform had, however, visibly suffered from storms and weather. The green cloth had altogether faded on the shoulders, and some buttons were gone. The shoes, too, were in sad condition. The soles had worn away at the tip so that the naked toes were visible; over one shoe a piece of carpet was tied. The wearer was suited to his ragged dress. A sunburned face with a neglected beard; in place of the shaven mustache, a few bristly hairs; across the forehead a black handkerchief covering one eye. This was the figure which had wished Timar a good-evening.
"Krisstyan!" said Timar, very low.