. No doubt the six months of regular living he had had to submit
to while attending to his parliamentary duties at Pressburg had restored
somewhat the elasticity of his nerves and muscles.

Below, a host of school children, drawn up in a row, greeted him with
cries of "_Eljen!_"[9] And at the moment when he had descended among the
festive mob awaiting him there, all the gipsies present blew three loud
flourishes on their trumpets, and two grey-haired retainers advanced
towards him, leading after them, by the horns, a young stall ox that had
been fattened up for the occasion, and the bolder of the twain, coming
forward, took off his cap, coughed slightly, steadily regarded the tips
of his own boots, and recited congratulatory verses in his master's
honour, without the slightest hesitation or stumbling, which, perhaps,
is not to be greatly wondered at, considering that he had now recited
the selfsame verses nine years running.

[Footnote 9: Vivat!]

"And God grant your honour long life, which I wish you with all my
heart!" concluded the worthy man, as if he doubted what reception the
pious verses he had just recited might receive in heaven, and was
determined to clinch the matter in prose of his own making.

Master Jock, according to good old custom, had fifty ducats ready, which
he gave to the veterans who had brought the ox. As for the ox itself, he
ordered that it should be roasted forthwith for the benefit of the
assembled peasantry.

After them came the youths of the town, rolling before them a ten-firkin
cask full of the wine of Hegyalja. They brought the cask to a standstill
at the feet of the Nabob, and set on the top of it Martin, the former
Whitsun King, as being the one among them whose tongue wagged the
nimblest. He took a beaker and, filling it with wine, thus toasted his
honour:--

"God willing, I desire and pray that the Majesty of Heaven may suffer
your honour, both to-day and hereafter, to go about clothed in velvet
well patched with gold ducats, and ride a good nag shod with silver
shoes. I pray that your honour may not be able to count the hairs of
your head, and that as many blessings may be showered upon your
shoulders as you have lost hairs from your poll. I pray that all the
ministering angels of heaven may have nothing else to do but sweep all
earthly cares out of your honour's path. I pray that the golden-spurred
_csizmas_ of your felicity may never be bespattered by the puddles of
tribulat