"If you hold your life dear, run for it!" shouted the girl, jumping out of bed and half-pushing, half-tugging the lad in the direction of the window. He seemed not unwilling to comply, but could not bear to take his eyes off Kata's face and the snow-white skin of her arms and legs left uncovered by her night dress. This was no time to worry about modesty, it crossed Kata's mind. "Coming, father dear!"

By the time Balint reached the ladder outside the window, the door had yielded to the shoulders of Imre Farkas, who was holding a three-pronged candlestick in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. He took everything in at once. He leapt to the window and in the light of the candles saw Balint Sternovszky scuttling down the ladder. "Stop!" he cried, and when there was no response, he flung the heavy candlestick after him. As they fell the candles flew in three different directions and went out. Down below a shadow flew by, then came the sound of footfalls dying away.

Imre Farkas wasted no time in questioning his daughter, but to little avail: whatever Kata said he would not believe. He even slapped her across the face, just to be on the safe side. "You will get a hundred times that if I ever see him hanging around you again!"

Imre Farkas stormed round to his master's first thing and demanded to be seen. Secretary Haller did not let him in. "Later, master glassmaker, he is just breaking his fast."

"So what?" said Imre Farkas, pushing the wizened old man aside and bursting in.

Kornel Sternovszky was just stirring his tea, which he had reinforced with a tot of rum. "What is your business here?"

Haller was hovering in the background: "I did say to him, master ..."

"I found your son Balint in my daughter's bedroom last night."

"How do you mean?"

"I demand an explanation."

"Haller, you may go." Kornel Sternovszky placed the palms of both his hands on the table. He waited until the secretary had closed the door after him. "I find it hard to believe that my son would leave my house in the dead of night."

"Is your grace suggesting that I am a liar?"

"That is not what I said. What I said was that my son Balint is not in the habit of leaving my house without permission."

"Yet that is what he did. Ask him."

"I shall. Presently he is still abed, as indeed I believe he has been all night."

"I tell you: he has not!"

"What is this tone that you take with me? Remember whom you are addressing!"

"It were not easy to forget."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Suppose what you will, it does not change the facts. But I will not allow the smallest blot on my daughter's reputation!"

"How much longer do you expect me to tolerate your impertinence?"

"Let us not stray from the topic. If ever again I see your son hanging around my daughter, I swear he will bring home his head on a plate!"

"A threat? Are you threatening me? What an outrage!" Kornel Sternovszky rose from the breakfast table, knocking over as he did so a cup filled with tea, which rapidly soaked into the white damask tablecloth. "You are dismissed herewith! Leave at once!"

Imre Farkas II broke out in a cackling laugh of such vehemence that Kornel Sternovszky thought he had taken leave of his senses. He edged back, trying to reach the bell to summon his servant or Haller. Farkas was quicker off the mark and pushed the bell out of his reach as he bellowed: "You can't get rid of me, I built the glassworks from the ground up, it will never function without me!"

"It will function if I will it to! You are not the only master glassmaker in the world. You will be amazed, Farkas, how quickly your name will be forgotten! Get out of here!" And Kornel Sternovszky took a step towards him.

The master glassmaker snorted like a wild boar: "Master thinks he can do with me what he will? Thinks his offspring can dishonor my daughter by way of amusement? That you can just throw me out, like some used washrag? That I will put up with anything and everything?"

"I have nothing more to say! Out!"

Kornel Sternovszky gave his master glassmaker a push in the chest. Imre Farkas II was in good shape and his chest barely registered the gesture. He began to shout out at the top of his voice unconnected words like "compensation," "contract," "complaint," "courts," and the like, until Kornel Sternovszky grabbed hold of the teapot and threw its hot contents in his face. For a fraction of a second the master glassmaker could not see. Then he drew his sword, as did Kornel Sternovszky his own, but the glassmaker was quicker on the draw and at the first clash of the blades wrenched Kornel Sternovszky's weapon from his grip and with the same movement plunged his blade deep into his chest. For this Farkas was some months later duly hanged in the main square of Felvincz. By then Kornel Sternovszky lay in a copper-plated coffin six feet deep in the soil of his homeland. Kata's mother came to take her away and Balint never saw or heard from her again.

Three years after his father's funeral Balint Sternovszky took over from his mother the running of the glassworks. He also inherited Kornel Sternovszky's papers and folio. His brothers were jealous, coveting especially the glassworks, for which they would both have given their eyeteeth. Yet Kornel Sternovszky himself truly hated the glassworks, as well as all master glassmakers, every one of whom brought Kata to mind. He married as soon as he could. The daughter of the miller of Felvincz brought less in the way of a dowry than a gentleman of his station was entitled to expect, but when his mother raised this topic, Balint silenced her with the words: "She will make a good wife. That is what matters."

The decline of the glassworks began as the young couple were enjoying their honeymoon. One night the drying kiln burned to the ground. Balint dismissed the news with unconcern: "It could have been worse. At least we shan't have to dry the glass for a while."

Haller, who had retained his post, clapped his hands to his head: "But sir, that's impossible. It will crack!"

"Less fussing, Haller! Some of the glass will, some won't."

No one could understand how Balint Sternovszky could remain so indifferent to the rapid decline of the glassworks. He would spend long mornings in the forests he had inherited alongside the glassworks. He told his wife he was looking for mushrooms.

"How is it, husband mine, that you are always looking for mushrooms, yet never find any?"

"Find them I certainly do! Only they are poisonous, like your good self."

In fact, mushrooming was not how he spent his days. The moment he found himself in the thick of the forest, he would sit down and eat his rations. Then he would burst into song. He sang all day long, as the locals could testify. When he was in full flow he could be heard many miles away.

Betimes he would wander so far that he would not return home for the night. He preferred to sleep under the open sky rather than seek the hospitality of others. He liked to lie in the dark on the grass or on the sand and examine the stars, as he ground his memories ever finer in the windmills of his mind. It was during such reveries that it dawned on him that he had to make the trip to Kos to find the house of Great-Grandpa Czuczor, or rather the garden with the rose bushes where he could dig for the iron casket and get hold of the treasure he had buried. He was certain there was a reason that God had blessed him with the rare gift of seeing into the past. It was compensation for all he had endured.

So when one afternoon he came upon the forest that had grown over the old village, he recognized it at once. Ankle-deep in black dust, he knew that the rains and the snows had still not washed the soil clean of the black ash that was all that remained of the houses burned to the ground all those years ago. He looked first for traces of Great-Grandpa Czuczor's house. In a landscape almost entirely reclaimed by nature he found it hard to make out the building that had so vividly appeared to him. The road up the mountain was overgrown with scrub; the only sure sign of the route was the jagged cliffs. Balint Sternovszky was almost beside himself with excitement as he hacked his way through the prickly bushes and fought off the trailers twining round his legs, careless of the bloody scratches from the spines and spikes of the vegetation. He did not mind. He knew that no one can blunder into the past without paying the price.

Another clue presented itself in the form of a fragment of wall no more than waist high, a remainder of the church. It had been overgrown by a bed of reeds that would have made the average visitor think that there was a lake or river behind it, but there was no trace of either. Balint followed the twists and turns of a line where the vegetation was somewhat less lush, thinking that perhaps it might once have been the road. As he slowly reached the top of the mountain, night was falling and he sat down by a tree stump and cut himself some bread and salami from his shoulder bag. He fell asleep as he sat, and dreamed of his ancestors. Great-Grandpa Czuczor was throwing rocks into the stream, to dam the water in order to have a bath. He called out to Balint, who was reluctant to join him, thinking the water too cold, but when he eventually did so, it turned out to be lukewarm and silky. Great-Grandpa Czuczor was stroking his brow, his wet fingers felt rough.

He woke to find a dog licking his face.

"Get out of here!" he said, chasing it away. The animal went a few steps, then stopped and turned back. In its eyes there burned a fire, a light of longing. He's hungry, thought Balint, and threw it a piece of salami. The dog gave a snort and wolfed it down greedily. Balint threw it some more pieces and got to his feet. He was in a clearing covered with boulders and rocks and overgrown with scrub and trees that had grown up wild, some the height of a man. He heard years later that this clearing was called Bull Meadow. Long, long ago the bull belonging to Gaspar Dobruk, the local farrier, had got free and it was here that they caught up with the unruly creature, eventually.

"Here," said Balint out loud. "Here and nowhere else!"

He wondered if it would not be a good idea to seek out the scene of all the memories that had come to him in Kata's room. But the only place with a name had been Kos. If He who had revealed to him all this wanted to direct him to another place, surely He would provide the means.

That same afternoon he happened upon the outlines of his great-grandfather's garden. The rose bushes had long been strangled by weeds. He hacked off a willow withy and marked out in the soil the area where he suspected the iron casket lay. Who was the trusty servant he could return with to dig up the treasure? Who could be warned-as did Great-Grandpa Czuczor-with the words: "Du darfst das nie erzahlen, verstehst du mich?"

"Jawohl!"

There was no one. It was an act of criminal folly to let that boy into the secret. Were they to survive the catastrophe, the German lad would surely loot the treasure. You must never trust anyone but yourself.

Thanks to Grandpa Czuczor's valuables, he would never be short of money again. This was a secret he shared with no one, any more than he shared the buried treasure. At times he was troubled by his conscience. Perhaps his brothers should have had some of it. In his mind's eye he often heaped up into three piles what he had found, or rather what was left of it. But he kept putting off the time he would reward his brothers.

In any case, they would not believe where and how I had come by the money. They think little of me as it is. Let them think they have the better of me.

On Saturday afternoon the wind picked up again and began to whip the ribbons on the maypole. The slim trunk of the tall maple began to sway perilously, sometimes seemingly at breaking point. The broad courtyard of the castle rapidly filled up with carts and sprung carriages, indifferent to the careful raking of the gardeners. The visitors alighted and paused when they saw the giddy swaying of the maypole, its colorful ribbons swishing sharply in the wind. Four of the ground staff also rode in, to keep order. Two posted themselves at the double oaken gates of the building, while two secured the entrance to the stairwell.

Castle Forgach had been decorated in readiness for the ball. The famed avenue of walnut trees was hung with lanterns whose candles, to say nothing of the vast array of lights on the stone balustrades of the first-floor terrace, could hardly be lit if the wind did not abate; indeed, the lanterns themselves were in some danger. The ornately carved sides of the bridge across the artificial lake had been garlanded with flowers.

Manager Bodo was regulating the arrival of the carriages, having planned well in advance how they might all fit into the courtyard without ruining the lawns or the flowerbeds. In his agitation he was crunching away furiously at the walnuts he had stuffed in his waistcoat pocket. He needed this ball as an oxcart needs a ditch.

The maestro had had the first-floor terrace in mind for the evening concert, but had to report to the Count that in such a wind neither musicians nor audience would feel comfortable; so they moved to the grand hall of the castle-the Count called it the sala grande sala grande-in plenty of time. The servants were already offering drinks in the foyer.

Balint Sternovszky had been quartered in the end room on the second floor of the U-shaped building, from the window of which he was able to follow with interest the folk streaming in. He had brought his binoculars with him. These, too, he had found in his great-grandfather's iron casket, and although he had never shown them abroad, he was of the opinion that they were made of gold. He could see his wife and two sons alighting from a black carriage. Little Janos was pushing his way forward as he clung to his mother's frilly skirts. Istvan, his firstborn, strode along with all the soldierly pride of a four-year-old, his miniature mantle ornate with frogging, his right hand resting on a tiny sword.

So they've come after all, Balint thought. Borbala was not in the least inclined to be present when her husband sang. "Must you again make a fool of yourself?"

"What do you know about it?"

He imagined the feeling of seeing his sons in the audience. He did not know whether they had inherited even a little of what he had had as a gift. Istvan was not prepared to sing even simple songs all the way through, though he never stopped talking: a chatterbox if ever there was one. Little Janos, on the other hand, would not say a word, and they were regularly having anxious exchanges with the doctor. Though it is no use being impatient; everything in its time.

Wheels creaked down below as the guests streamed onto the terrace and the foyer. Count Forgacs had not yet appeared and manager Bodo welcomed the guests. The Count's four children-all of them girls-were larking about on the lawn in their finest. Balint Sternovszky knew that his family would not be lodged with him and was thankful; this was not a time he wanted them around. Again he went through in his head the pieces he had several times rehearsed with the maestro, first with the latter at the virginal, then with the castle orchestra. The maestro nodded approval, judging both the melody and the measure to be just right, querying only the Latin text here and there. "That's not exactly how it is written."

"That's the way I know it."

"But if you look on the sheet you will see the text ..."

Sternovszky broke in: "There's no time now for learning something new. Let it be as I picked it up."

The maestro yielded with a nod. Had he insisted, Balint Sternovszky would have had to declare that he had no choice. Which the maestro could in no way have understood. Not if it is beyond even me, he thought.

Outside the wind had whipped up the dust into whirling cornet shapes and the panes of the wide windows rattled in their frames. Sternovszky registered in passing that they could not have come from his former glassworks, as they never produced glass of such thickness.

There was a knock on his door. A liveried servant bowed: "Your excellency is awaited for dinner."

The round and oblong tables were set up in three rooms that opened into one another. The gilded candlesticks radiated a bright glow even though it was still light outside. The noise of wind could be heard within. Balint Sternovszky greeted Borbala and the children kissed his hand. They did not speak through the five-course meal of cold pigeon pate, lamb broth, grilled sturgeon in gray liquor, beef ragout with dill, and walnut roll.

As they took their places in the sala grande sala grande, the musicians, sitting in two rows facing one another, were already tuning up, as the maestro looked through his sheet music by the pianoforte. The boys' choir was lined up against the wall, in three rows.

Pal Forgach was in the front row, discoursing with his most distinguished guest, Count Limburg. Quite suddenly he nodded in the maestro's direction without turning to face him. The maestro, in turn, gave the signal to the orchestra, and the concert had begun. The two counts nodded in time to the rhythm, but without once interrupting their conversation. Until the madrigals of the choir drowned their words, their discussion was audible to all: the leader of the Felsolendva threshers had lodged an official complaint with the county council, alleging that Count Forgach had unjustly and contrary to the terms of their contract withheld from them a payment of eighty florins.

Balint Sternovszky was due to sing the third, the fifth, and the closing numbers. Helping hands had provided him with a music stand, though he had no need of such. When the time came, he stepped up to the stand and waited for the maestro's signal after the opening bars. Other singers would at this point be floating on the surface of the tune, ready to begin; Balint Sternovszky knew that when the moment came, there would issue flawlessly from his mouth, in a single movement, all that he had inherited. He thus had time to look around. He saw the flushed cheeks of the ladies, the fluttering fans, the ceaseless play of the candlelight, the bored expressions on the faces of the liveried servants propping up the walls, enjoying a moment of relaxation.

His mouth was just rounding out into the opening sound when he turned pale and froze. The maestro knew that the bars would recur and gestured again, but for Balint Sternovszky nothing existed any more except the snow-white face, the dark eyes, the dark hair combed into a chignon. In his numbness he was unable to move and so could not run and fall on his knees before her. Meanwhile the maestro had told himself a hundred times that he should not have had anything to do with this madman of the turret; you should never have dealings with eccentrics and odd men, he knew that, but needs must. He was furious with the dean for embroiling him in this farce. No use crying over spilled milk. Heavens, it could cost him his job. Head bowed, he continued to play; the players bore up well, and even without the song the piece billowed its way to an affecting climax.

Balint Sternosznky had no other role in the first half of the performance that evening. At the interval the maestro turned on him with a face like death: "What on earth was that?"

Sternovszky walked off without a word, as if in a dream, towards the creature whose very sight had blotted out all. The maestro did not follow, but hurried over to Count Forgach and bowed deeply: "I earnestly beg your grace's pardon for this deeply embarrassing episode with his honor Balint Sternovszky. I have no idea what got into him."

The Count's consumption of punch had been sufficient for him to take a lenient view of the business, and with something of a grin he said: "Well, we managed to survive, what? The others labored tolerably well, wouldn't you say?"

Nods and approving noises from his circle.

"Next time organize a woman to sing, eh?" the Count added.

The maestro again bowed deeply and hurried back to his players. "Where on earth am I going to get a woman?" he steamed. "They are as rare as hen's teeth."

During this time Balint Sternovszky hunted high and low for Kata Farkas, but without success. He kept the distance of a bargepole from his wife and two sons. People whispered behind his back, some thinking he had gone unexpectedly hoarse, others suspecting he had succumbed to witchcraft. There were already rumors aplenty in the county about the noble who lived in the turret. Balint Sternovszky offered no excuses or explanations, but for the second half of the concert did not take his place with the players. He hovered at the back by one of the doorways, scanning the audience with mounting agitation. Kata Farkas had disappeared into thin air. Balint Sternovszky felt he was losing his mind. He was shivering, and sweating so much that damp patches began to form on his clothing. He now perceived the world around him only in broad outline. He could hardly control the trembling of his knees or maintain himself upright. He slid down the wall and onto the highly polished floor.

Two servants standing nearby pulled him unobtrusively out into the corridor, where they brought him back to consciousness with a glass of plum brandy, and then helped him to his room. As he recovered he asked them where the lady Kata Farkas had been seated. He was informed that no guest bearing this name was to be found anywhere in the castle. Some while later his wife and boys asked to be admitted but he turned them away, saying he felt too weak. It was no lie: his fiasco had distressed him just as much as had the sudden sight of Kata Farkas. Though now he was no longer sure that he had really seen her.

Mrs. Emil Muranyi had been lodged in two interconnecting rooms with her husband and three little daughters, of whom the youngest, Hajnalka, was a source of continued concern, beginning with her birth, when the umbilical cord had wound itself around her neck and would have strangled her had the midwife not managed carefully to untangle it. By the time she did so, the newborn had turned as blue as a forget-me-not.

"Lord a-mercy," the mother whispered, "will she live?" The midwife gave no reply, splashing the newborn baby who had, worryingly, not yet uttered a sound, with warm water. To cap it all, the baby's left eye was sky-blue but her right corn-yellow, and this perhaps betokened some illness. Within a day or two, however, Hajnalka Muranyi had picked up and was cheerfully sucking away at her mother's breast, behaving in every respect as any other child of her age. But once a month, quite unpredictably, she would have an attack: she had trouble breathing, bubbles foamed from her mouth, her skin turned as blue as at birth, she thrashed about with her limbs, or lost consciousness, and for short periods her heartbeat would also fail. At such times they would send the maid running for the doctor quite in vain: invariably, by the time he arrived Hajnalka was happily sucking her thumb with a peaceful smile and quite unaware of the panic that she had induced in those around her. Mrs. Muranyi never traveled anywhere without Dr. Koch: better safe than sorry.

She was not minded to accept Count Forgach's very kind invitation. Her children were still too small to be going to balls and concerts. Emil Muranyi thought otherwise: one had to get out of these four walls sometimes, and Count Forgach might take it amiss if they declined. Naturally they would take Dr. Koch with them: there would be no worry on that account.

At the eleventh hour Emil Muranyi received bad news: Your father has had a stroke Your father has had a stroke, wrote his mother, and has no movement in the left side of his body; come at once! and has no movement in the left side of his body; come at once! So he could not join them in the carriage. Before galloping off on his black steed, he promised to meet them at Castle Forgach the next day, if at all possible. Mrs. Muranyi had a feeling that this little trip would not pass off without incident and made sure Dr. Koch brought with him the entire contents of his medicine chest. Her foreboding was fulfilled some one-third of the way through the concert, when Hajnalka's eyes swelled up and her breathing became labored and turned into a hiss. As she began to froth at the mouth, her mother and Dr. Koch bundled her up and made a dash for their room, where they put her to bed, placed a bandage on her forehead, and held down her arms and legs to stop her doing herself an injury. So he could not join them in the carriage. Before galloping off on his black steed, he promised to meet them at Castle Forgach the next day, if at all possible. Mrs. Muranyi had a feeling that this little trip would not pass off without incident and made sure Dr. Koch brought with him the entire contents of his medicine chest. Her foreboding was fulfilled some one-third of the way through the concert, when Hajnalka's eyes swelled up and her breathing became labored and turned into a hiss. As she began to froth at the mouth, her mother and Dr. Koch bundled her up and made a dash for their room, where they put her to bed, placed a bandage on her forehead, and held down her arms and legs to stop her doing herself an injury.

"We have caught it in time, madam," whispered Dr. Koch, as the girl's steadied breathing showed that the danger was over.

"God be praised."

Mrs. Muranyi would not have been unhappy to have her husband burst into the room. She knew hardly any of the guests, and hated nothing more than to be the focus of attention in strange company. She thought all eyes were on her as they ran from the sala grande sala grande with the limp little body; her cheeks were crimson with embarrassment and the excitement of the day. On these occasions her husband always knew how to calm her down with soothing words and the broad, cool palms of his hands. Emil Muranyi was always the subject of somewhat condescending smiles for the slowness of his speech, which was almost a stutter. Born with a harelip, he was able to disguise this with a lavish growth of facial hair, but the manner of his speech gave the game away. Kata was quite untroubled by this; with no other man did she feel so completely safe, including her own father. Emil Muranyi held some 90 Hungarian acres of land, of which he took exemplary care; people came from far and wide to admire it. His estate manager was a Saxon, who had the hayricks constructed in the cylindrical style of his homeland; this was enough for an expert eye to tell that the lands belonged to Emil Muranyi. with the limp little body; her cheeks were crimson with embarrassment and the excitement of the day. On these occasions her husband always knew how to calm her down with soothing words and the broad, cool palms of his hands. Emil Muranyi was always the subject of somewhat condescending smiles for the slowness of his speech, which was almost a stutter. Born with a harelip, he was able to disguise this with a lavish growth of facial hair, but the manner of his speech gave the game away. Kata was quite untroubled by this; with no other man did she feel so completely safe, including her own father. Emil Muranyi held some 90 Hungarian acres of land, of which he took exemplary care; people came from far and wide to admire it. His estate manager was a Saxon, who had the hayricks constructed in the cylindrical style of his homeland; this was enough for an expert eye to tell that the lands belonged to Emil Muranyi.

Dr. Koch's room was in one of the castle's outbuildings, with those of the other guests' servants. He kissed Kata's hands as he left: "I cannot imagine that there will be any problems, but if you need me, just send!"

As soon as she was on her own, Kata removed her ballgown. Despite her husband's protestations she did not want to bring her maid for just the one night; she was quite able to undress by herself. Had she worn a corset, she might well have needed assistance, but she had not. She put on her silk dressing gown and red slippers, sat down in the armchair and listened to the music filtering through the half-open window. The concert was over, and there remained only a Gypsy band giving its all on the terrace. Kata closed her eyes. This music reminded her of her childhood, when her father woke her daily with the sound of the violin. He had knelt by her bed, the instrument lodged firmly under his chin, and the melody came meltingly from the strings as her father crooned the words: "Wake up, sleepy head, sunshine's on your bed ..." This was the most wonderful thing he ever did for his daughter. Though Kata's husband did not serenade her or the children with such morning music, in every other respect he was a better man. She forced herself not to think of her father's sad end, but of her husband's face instead. I'll croon for two. If only Emil were here!

There was a timid knock.

"Yes?" she said, making for the door with a spring in her step.

From the opposite direction there came: "Please, don't be frightened, I'm ... it's ... I'm ..."

A dark shape framed by the glass of the window. Mrs. Muranyi let out a scream.

"Don't ... forgive me for ... do you not recognize me?"

The woman shook her head. She picked up the candlestick and took a step towards the door. But she now knew, even without the light. She had seen the name of Balint Sternovszky in the program and was surprised that he was singing here; she was curious and somewhat concerned about how it would feel to see him again. But Hajnalka's fit had driven all of this out of her head. "You are incorrigible! Haven't you heard about doors?"

Balint Sternovszky eased himself into the room. "I know ... I am lodged two rooms away ... I had only to climb over the balconies and ... you haven't changed at all!" A beatific smile lit up his face. She looked exactly as she had all those years ago, in the loft room of Kata Farkas.

"Please don't!" Kata had no illusions about the ravages of having given birth, which her silk dressing gown generously shielded from view. She was twenty-eight Viennese pounds heavier than when she married. It did not bother Emil, who often said you cannot have too much of a good thing-or a good person. "But you have indeed not changed at all," she lied. The vast amounts of hair had transformed Balint from a boisterous puppy into a suspicious hedgehog. "Nonetheless, I must insist that you leave. It is not done to burst into the room of a married woman under the cover of night."

"It's still only evening," mumbled Balint Sternovszky.

"Leave at once! Or I shall scream!"

"I beseech you, please, don't scream, not a finger will I lay on you, all I beg of you is that you hear me out!"

Kata could not help but smile. The words were deeply etched in her memory. She responded with another quotation: "Hurry and say your piece, then out, before they catch you here!"

Balint Sternovszky gave a little sigh of relief and bowed as he knelt. In the years since that scene, the scene that Imre Farkas II's bursting into the room had shattered, had flashed before him a thousand times. A thousand times he had rehearsed all that he could have said to Kata to soften her heart towards him. He had even thought up clever words he could have said to blunt the anger of her enraged father, instead of scurrying away with his puppy tail between his legs. Every time he thought of these things he came to the conclusion that it was no use lamenting the past. He had never imagined that another occasion would arise when he could be with Kata, years later, a scene lit only by candlelight and the twin stars of Kata's eyes, just as it had been then.

I'm not going to get it wrong this time! He could hear the sound of loud cracking and realized it was his fingers. Come on! Out with it! But the words would not come.

The marble paving of the corridor floor resounded to steps that suddenly they could both hear: metal-heeled riding boots neared rhythmically. "Surely, it can't be ..." thought Balint Sternovszky. Kata's father had long ago ended his days in the main square of Felvincz.