"Come, come, wretched man!" cried Hatszegi at last losing all patience,
"you don't suppose that your blockhead of a bandit is lying in wait for
me, do you? Look you now! I'll leave you my gun. Take it in your hand
and plant yourself there before the door. Bring out a chair, if you
like, and sit down on it. Pull down the hammers of both barrels and hold
your thumb on them and your index finger on the trigger. The left barrel
is filled with ten buckshot and you can be quite sure that whoever
approaches you from the lower end of this passage will inevitably get
five in his body,--and five of them is enough for anybody. The second
barrel, the right one I mean, is loaded with a bullet which we generally
keep in reserve for a wild beast, at the last moment, at six paces; at
that distance any child could kill a giant. Don't be afraid, if he wore
a coat of mail, it would go through it, for that bullet has a steel
point and would perforate a leaden door. Come, you are not afraid now,
surely?"

Makkabesku certainly felt a great stream of courage flow into his heart
at the knowledge that he held in his hand a weapon which could kill the
most terrible of men twice over.

"But what about your lordship?" he enquired.

"Oh, I've got two revolvers in my pocket."

And with that, gaily whistling, Hatszegi strode down the long passage
and peeped into the kitchen, on his way out, to exchange a word or two
with the fair young cook.

"Look ye, my daughter, have supper ready by my return, and take care not
to over-salt the soup!" and then with the nonchalance becoming his
station he sauntered across the bridge again into the highroad, followed
all the way by the eyes of Makkabesku.--"What a gallant fellow it is!"
reflected the Roumanian.

The innkeeper did not count courage among his virtues. He was a
peace-loving soul who detested the very idea of a brawl. Even when he
sat down to drink, it was always inside a room with a locked door, for
on one occasion, when he had got drunk in public, the wine had instilled
within him such unwonted audacity that he had got his skull broken in
two places in consequence. After that he avoided all such occasions of
heroism.

For such folks who have nothing to do with firearms as a rule, there is
a peculiar charm in suddenly holding a loaded weapon in their hands.
Valour and a sudden access of pugnacity combine to put them in a
condition of perpetual fever. A strange longing arises within them to