When they stumbled into the courtyard they found nobody, and
nobody came out of the door to meet them.
"All the better, nobody will see these game-legged nags," growled Squire
Gerzson as he helped Henrietta out of the carriage.
"It is odd that the woman of the inn does not come out to meet me," said
Henrietta. "She liked me so. How pleased she will be to see me."
Nevertheless no one came. Squire Gerzson grew impatient. He could not
leave the coach and horses all by themselves.
"Hie! somebody! Who's at home? Landlady, wenches, or whoever you are,
can't you creep out of your hole?"
In reply to his hallooing, a hoarse voice resounded from the taproom:
"Who is it? Can't you come inside instead of standing and bawling
there?"
"What, you scoundrel! Come out this instant, Sirrah, do you hear, or do
you want me to come and fetch you?"
At this categorical command, the speaker inside made his appearance.
Henrietta recognized him at once, though Squire Gerzson saw him now for
the first time. It was old Ripa.
"I am a guest here myself," said he.
"Thou blockhead! by the soul of thy father I charge thee--where is the
hostess?"
"She is outside in the cool air."
"What is she doing there?"
"She is guarding the moles"--which means in the flowery language of the
_puszta_: "she is dead."
"Surely she is not dead?"
"Yes--she did away with herself.
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