" said Boleskey, "what would you do if the French conquered
you?"

Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he
grunted, "The 'Froggies'? Let 'em try!"

"Drink!" said Boleskey--"there is nothing like it"; he filled Swithin's
glass. "I will tell you my story."

Swithin rose hurriedly. "It's late," he said. "This is good stuff,
though; have you much of it?"

"It is the last bottle."

"What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?"

"My name is Boleskey--Stefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of
the Komorn Boleskeys." The simplicity of this phrase--as who shall say:
What need of further description?--made an impression on Swithin; he
stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. "There were many
abuses," boomed his deep voice, "much wrong done--much cowardice. I
could see clouds gathering--rolling over our plains. The Austrian wished
to strangle the breath of our mouths--to take from us the shadow of our
liberty--the shadow--all we had. Two years ago--the year of '48, when
every man and boy answered the great voice--brother, a dog's life!--to
use a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for
me! My son was killed; my brothers taken--and myself was thrown out like
a dog--I had written out my heart, I had written out all the blood
that was in my body!" He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with
gloomy, flickering eyes staring at the wall.

Swithin rose, and stammered, "Much obliged--very interesting." Boleskey
made no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall.
"Good-night!" said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs.

III

When at last Swithin reached the Goldene Alp, he found his brother and
friend standing uneasily at the door. Traquair, a prematurely dried-up
man, with whiskers and a Scotch accent, remarked, "Ye're airly, man!"
Swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. He
discovered a slight cut on his arm. He was in a savage temper--the
elements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yet
now and then a memory of Rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense of
having been stroked and flattered, came over him. During breakfast next
morning his brother and Traquair announced their intention of moving on.
James Forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a "collector,"
since all the "old" shops were in the hands of Jews or very grasping
persons--he had discovered this at once. Swithi