"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
make use of their weapon. Once or twice Makkabesku raised his gun to his
cheek and made a target of a fly on the wall.
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