tifle
unmanly tears by singing their favourite songs at the top of their rough
voices, and ogling those girls of Marosfalva who happened to be
unattached.

The captain in command, with his lieutenant, was pacing up and down the
station platform. He now gave a command to a couple of sergeants, and
the entraining began. Helter-skelter now, for it was no use losing a
good seat whilst indulging in a final kiss or tear. There was a general
stampede for the carriages and trucks; the recruits on ahead, behind
them the trail of women, the mothers with their dark handkerchiefs tied
round their heads, the girls with pale, tear-stained faces, their
petticoats of many colours swinging round their shapely hips as they
run, the fathers, the brothers.

Here comes Pater Bonifacius, who has finished saying his mass just in
time to see the last of his lads. He has tucked his soutane well up
under his sash, and he is running across the platform, his rubicund,
kindly face streaming with excitement.

"Pater! Pater! Here!"

A score of voices cry to him from different carriages, and he hurries
on, grasping each rough, hot hand as it is extended out to him.

"Bless you, my children," he cries, and the large, red cotton
handkerchief wanders surreptitiously from his nose to his eyes. "Bless
you and keep you."

"Be good lads," he admonishes earnestly, "remember your confession and
the holy sacraments! No drinking!"

"Oh, Pater!" comes in protesting accents all around him.

"Well! not more than is good for you. Abstinence on Fridays--a regular
confession and holy communion and holy mass on Sundays will help to keep
you straight before the good God."

There's the last bell! Clang! clang! In two minutes comes the horn, and
then we are off. The gipsies are playing the saddest of sad songs, it
seems as if one's heartstrings were being wrenched out of one's body.

"_There is but one girl in all the world!_"

For each lad only one girl!--and she is there at the foot of the
carriage-steps, a corner of her ribbon or handkerchief or cotton
petticoat stuffed into her mouth, to keep her from bursting into sobs.
The mothers now are dry-eyed and silent. They look with dull, unseeing
gaze on this railway train, the engine, the carriages, which will take
their lads away from them. Many have climbed up on the steps of the
carriages, hanging on to the handrails, so as to be near the lads as
long as possible. Their position is a perilous one, the serg