lively appearance.

Two huge trestle tables ran down its length, and thirty guests were
seated on benches each side of these. The girls in all their finery
wanted a deal of sitting-room, with their starched petticoats standing
out over their hips, and their bare arms and necks shone with the
vigorous application of yellow soap: and the smooth hair, fair and dark,
had an additional lustre after the stiff brushing which it had to
endure. The matrons wore darker skirts and black silk handkerchiefs tied
round their heads, ending in a bow under the chin: but everywhere
ribbons fluttered and beads jingled, and the men had spurs to their high
boots which gave a pleasing clinking when they clapped their heels
together. Overhead, hung to the ceiling, were festoons of bright pink
paper roses and still brighter green glazed calico leaves; the tables
were spread with linen cloths, and literally threatened to break down
under the weight of pewter dishes filled with delicacies of every sort
and kind--home-killed meat and home-made sausages, home-made bread and
home-grown wine. The Magyar peasant is an epicure. His rich soil and
excellent climate give him the best of food, and though, when times are
hard, he will live readily enough on maize bread and pumpkin, he knows
how to enjoy a good spread when rich friends provide it for him.

And Eros Bela had done the feast in style. Nothing was stinted. You just
had to sit down and eat your fill of roast veal or roast pork, of
fattened capons from his farmyard or of fogas[4] from the river, or of
the scores of dishes of all kinds of good things which stood temptingly
about.

[Footnote 4: A kind of pike peculiar to Hungarian rivers.]

No wonder that spirits were now running high. The gipsy band was quite
splendid, and presently Barna Moritz, the second son of the mayor--a
smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health
of the bride.

Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast,
they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful
and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of
nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to
respond, whereupon Feher Jeno, whose father rented the mill from my lord
the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of
happy, lucky Eros Bela, and then, of course, the latter had to respond
again.

Elsa felt more and more every moment a