"None."
"Then trust me that I will never rest until I bring your pardon, on the condition that you take the field against the Raitzen with your whole band. And may your happiness on earth be measured by the destruction you bring upon their accursed race."
"Clear me the path to the battle-field, and you shall have a mountain of your enemies' skulls."
"I will do so. By all that is sacred, I swear. In a fortnight I bring your pardon. Where shall we meet?"
"We? nowhere. I trust no man. If you be sincere, come to Félegyház. There, in the tavern, sits each morning a wrinkled old beggar, his grey hair tied up in two knots. He has but one hand—thereby will you know him. Show him this pistol, and he will conduct you to me. Seek not to compel from him the secret of my hiding-place, for no tortures could wring it from his lips. Be not angry. I must be cautious. For sixteen years have I been hunted like a beast of prey. And now away, and keep to your right to find the path. An opposite road is mine."
He set spurs to his horse, and galloped off through the forest.
The fortnight had not expired when George entered the tavern at Félegyház.
In a dark corner, over a measure of wine, sat the grey-haired, one-handed beggar.
George showed the pistol. The beggar rose from his seat, drank off his wine, paid the tavern-keeper, and left the house. Not a syllable escaped him.