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?"

[Footnote 5: A dance given at sow-slaughtering time.]

"I cannot say, noble sir. My one thought was not to miss one of them,
and so much I may say, neither man nor wine has ever floored me."

"Mr. Notary, read to him how many pitchers of wine and how many broken
heads stand to his account!"

And it appeared from the register that Martin, during the year of his
Whitsun Kingship, had cost the community seventy-two firkins of wine,
and more than a hundred heads broken for fun. He had also made an
innkeeper quite a rich man by smashing all his glasses every week, which
the town paid for.

"And now, answer me further, little brother: How many times have your
horses come to grief?"

"I have not troubled myself about them. I leave all that to my
underlings."

"How many girls have you befooled?"

"Why should they let themselves be befooled?"

"How much of ill-gotten goods has passed through your hands?"

"Nobody has ever caught me."

"But thy Whitsun Kingship has cost the town a pretty penny."

"I know this much, that it does not come out of the coffers of the town,
but out of the pockets of our dear father, the noble John Kárpáthy,
whose worthy phiz I see hanging up on the wall yonder. He it is who has
presented a sum of money to the community to keep up our old customs,
and to improve the breed of our horses by gathering together all our
young riders, in order that they may run races with one another. I also
know that whoever proves to be the victor on that occasion has the
privilege of getting drunk gratis at every hostelry in the town, while
every landlord is bound to look after his horses, and whatever damage
they may do they are not to be impounded, but the sufferer has to make
good the damage for not looking after them better. Besides that, he has
the free run of all festivities and junketings that may be going on; and
if sometimes, in the exuberance of high spirits, he knocks any one about
a bit, he is not to be punished either by corporal chastisement or
imprisonment."

"Bravo, little brother! you would make an excellent advocate. Where did
you learn to speak so fluently?"

"For the last six years I have remained the Whitsun King," answered the
youth, haughtily sticking out his chest, "and so I have had plenty of
opportunities of learning my rights."

"Come, come, Martin!" said the judge, reprovingly. "Bragging does not
become a young man. You have now got so accustomed to this sort of life
that you'll find it a little difficult to fall into the ranks again,
drink wine that you've paid for, and be punished for your offences if
to-day or to-morrow you are deposed from your Whitsun Kingship."

"The man is not born who will do that," replied Martin, lifting his
eyebrows, twiddling his thumbs, and hitching up his trousers with great
dignity.

The councillors also perceived that the Whitsun King had made a mistake
in answering so rashly, but as it would have been unseemly to have
offended the dignity of so considerable a personage, they devoted
themselves exclusively to the preparations for the entertainment.

Four barrels of wine, each of a different sort, were piled upon waggons;
another waggon was full of freshly baked white rolls; fastened behind
the waggons by their horns were the couple of yoke oxen that were going
to be slaughtered.

"That's not the right way of going about it!" cried Martin. It was not
his natural voice, but he was so accustomed to a peremptory tone now
that he could use no other. "We want more pomp here. Who ever heard of
the festal oxen being tied to a cart's tail? Why, the butcher ought to
lead the pair of them by the horns, one on each side, and you ought to
stick lemons on the tips of their horns, and tie ribbons round them!"

"Bravo, little brother! He knows how it ought to be done."

"And then four girls ought to sit on the top of each barrel, and dole
out the wine from where they sit in long-eared rummers."

"Any more commands, Martin?"

"Yes. Let the gipsy musicians strike up my tune as we march along; and
let two heydukes hold my horse when I mount."

These commands were punctually obeyed.

The people, after a short religious service, made their way towards the
fields. In front trotted two sworn burghers with ribbon-bedizened
copper axes in their hands; after them came a cart with the gipsy
musicians, roaring out Martin's song as if they meant to shout the
heavens down. Immediately upon their heels followed two gaily
tricked-out oxen, led by a couple of bare-armed butcher's lads; and then
came the provision-waggons; and last of all the wine-carts, with sturdy
young bachelors astride every barrel. Then followed Mr. Varju. Fate had
raised him still higher, for he was now sitting on horseback, holding a
large red banner, which the wind kept flapping into his eyes every
moment. From the satisfied expression of his face he evidently thought
to himself that if Martin was the Whitsun King, he himself was at least
the Whitsun Palatine.

Last of all came the Whitsun King. His horse was not exactly beautiful,
but it was a large, bony beast, sixteen hands high, and what it wanted
in figure was made up to it in gay trappings and ribbons woven into its
mane; its housings too were of fox-skin. Martin did not ride badly. He
rolled about a bit, it is true; but this was due, not so much to
anything he had taken at breakfast, as to his usual habit of swaggering;
indeed, for the matter of that, he sat as firmly in his saddle as if he
had grown to it.

On both sides of him trotted a couple of burghers with drawn swords, who
had to look well after themselves all the time, for Martin's horse,
whenever he perceived any other horse half a head in front of him, would
bite at it till it screamed again.

After him, in a long row, came the competing youths. In every face was
to be seen a confident gleam of hope that he, perhaps, would be the
winner.

The rear was brought up by a crush of carriages and carts, raising
clouds of dust in their efforts to overtake the horses in front,
adorned with green branches and crammed with merry holiday-folks with
bright, streaming neckerchiefs.

At that moment the report of a mortar announces that the prime patron of
the festivities, the rich nabob, Master Jock, has departed from his
castle. The crowd takes up its position in the cemetery and the gardens
adjoining. The wary horsemen stand out in the open; some of them make
their horses prance and curvet to show their mettle, and lay bets with
one another. Shortly afterwards a cloud of dust arising from below the
gardens declares that Master Jock is approaching. No sooner are the
carriages visible than they are welcomed by a thundering huzzah, which
presently passes over into peals of merry laughter. For Master Jock had
hit upon the joke of dressing the gipsy Vidra in a splendid costume of
cloth of gold, and making him sit in the family state-carriage drawn by
four horses, while he himself came huddled up in a common peasant-cart
immediately afterwards, and the honest country-folks loudly applauded
the gold-bedizened costume till they perceived that there was only a
gipsy inside it, whereupon the laughter grew louder still, which greatly
amused the good gentleman.

With him came, besides his court jesters, those of his boon companions
whom he liked the best. Number one was Miska Horhi, the owner of an
estate of five thousand acres or so at the other end of the kingdom, who
would skip over to his crony in March and stay till August, simply to
ask him who he thought would be the next vice-lord-lieutenant of the
county, leaving word at home that the crops were to be left untouched,
and nothing was to be done till he returned. Number two was the famous
Laczi Csenkö, the owner of the finest stud in the _Alföld_, who, rather
than tire his own beautiful horses, preferred to go on foot, unless he
could drive in somebody else's conveyance. Number three was Lörincz
Berki, the most famous hunter and courser in the county, who told
falsehoods as glibly as if he lied from dictation. Number four was
Friczi Kalotai, who had the bad habit of instantly purloining whatever
came in his way, whether it were a pipe, a silver spoon, or a watch.
Nevertheless, this habit of his was not without its advantages, for
whenever his acquaintances lost anything, they always knew exactly where
to look for it, and would simply seize him by the neck and turn out his
pockets, without offending him the least bit in the world. Last of all
came Bandi Kutyfalvi, the most magnificent tippler and swash-buckler in
the realm, who, in his cups, invariably cudgelled all his boon
companions; but he had the liquid capacity of a hippopotamus, and nobody
had ever seen him dead-drunk in his life.

On the arrival of these distinguished guests, the brown musicians blew a
threefold flourish with their trumpets, and the principal jurors
measured the racecourse, at one end of which they stationed Mr. Varju
with a red flag: this was the goal. At the other end the horsemen were
arranged in a row, having previously drawn their places by lot, and so
that the gentry might survey the race from their carriages in the most
comfortable manner possible. The course was a thousand paces in length.

Master Jock was just about to signify, by a wave of his gold-headed
cane, that the mortars were to be fired--the third report was to be the
signal for the race to begin--when far away on the _puszta_ a young
horseman was seen approaching at full tilt, cracking his whip loudly,
and galloping in the direction of the competitors. On reaching the two
jurors--and he was not long about that--he reined up, and, whipping off
his cap, briefly expressed the wish to compete for the Whitsun
Kingship.

"Don't ask me who or what I am. If I am beaten I shall simply go on my
way, but if I win I shall remain here," was all that the jurors could
get in answer to their questions. Nobody knew the youth. He was a
handsome, ruddy young fellow of about six and twenty, with a little
spiral moustache twisted upwards in _betyár_ fashion, flowing curly
locks gathered up into a top-knot, black flashing eyes, and a bold
expressive mouth, slight of build, but muscular and supple. His dress
was rustic, but simple almost to affectation; you would not have found a
seal on his white bulging shirt, search as you might, and he wore his
cap, with a tuft of meadow-sweet in it, as gallantly as any cavalier.

Wherever he might have got the steed on which he sat, it was a splendid
animal--a restive Transylvanian full-blood, with tail and mane long and
strong reaching to the ground; not for an instant could it remain quiet,
but danced and pranced continually.

They made him draw lots, and then placed him in a line with the rest.

At last the signal-guns were fired. At the first thundering report the
steeds