A Hungarian Nabob. Mor Jokai

about the bush by simply saying, "I have done everything."

      "It is well, Mr. Varju."

      And now let us take a look at these famous men.

      In the worshipful community-room, hanging in long rows on the walls, were the painted effigies of the local and civic celebrities, with room enough between for the arms of these defunct patrons, baillies, curators, and charity-founders also. On the table were tomes of tremendous bulk, pressed down by a large lead inkstand. The floor beneath the table was nicely covered with ink-blots—it was there that the pens were usually thrown.

      The bell of early dawn was only now beginning to ring, and yet their worships were already assembled in the room, with their elbows planted in a circle all round the long table. The judge presided—a worthy, stout man.

      Near the door stood a group of young men in short, strong, baggy knee-breeches and broad-buttoned pelisse-like dolmans. Every one of them had a bright kerchief in his button-hole, and spurred boots upon his feet.

      Prominent amongst all the youths stood the Whitsun King of the year before. He was a tall, lanky stripling, with a large hooked, aquiline nose, and a long moustache triply twisted at the ends and well stiffened with wax. His neck was long and prominent and burnt black by the sun where it was not protected by his shirt. Below his shirt it looked as though it had been cut out of another skin. His dress was different to that of the common folks. Instead of linen hose, he wore laced trousers tucked into boots of Kordovan leather from which long tassels dangled down. The sparkling copper clasp of his broad girdle was visible beneath his short silken vest. A bright kerchief peeped out from every pocket of his dolman, and was tied at one corner to his buttons; and his fingers were so swollen with hoop and signet-rings that he could scarce bend them. But what distinguished the youth more than anything else was a large umbrageous wreath on the top of his head. The young girls had twined it out of weeping-willow leaves and flowers in such a way that the pretty chains of pinks and roses flowed a long way down the youth's shoulders like long maidenhair, leaving only his face free, and thus forming a parting on both sides.

      Will he win this wreath again? Who can tell?

      "Well, Martin," said the judge, "so here we have red Whitsun-Day again, eh?"

      "I know it, noble sir. To-morrow I also shall be in church, and will listen."

      "Then you intend to remain Whitsun King this year also?"

      "I shall not be wanting to myself, noble sir. This is only the sixth year that I have been Whitsun King."

      "And do you know how many buckets of wine you have drunk during that period, and how many guests you have chucked out of feasts, sow-dances,5 and banquets?"