"Now I'll unpack for you," she cried merrily. Thereupon, she took the hunting-pouch from the wall and carefully filled it with savoury spiced meat and flaky white bread; then she deftly replenished the flask with wine, and cried: "Now go and enjoy yourself! Don't stay mewed up in the house. You are bothered; well, go and get some sport, and let the fresh air blow the cobwebs away." And so saying, she helped him on with his shooting coat, and handed him his gun, and so it fell out that Ráby hung up his sword and knapsack, and went neither to Tyrnau nor to Vienna, but just into the copse to try and shoot hares. He heard behind him, as he left the house, the merry song his wife was warbling to herself. As he sauntered along the street, it occurred to him that up till now he had not met one of his former acquaintances in the town, nor seen a single one of his old schoolmates. But just then, he ran on to a townsman, whose wasted bent frame and dejected air did not prevent Ráby from recognising him as one of his old contemporaries. The man wore a leathern apron, and carried carpenters' tools. He returned Ráby's greeting politely and was about to shuffle past him. But the latter stopped him. "Dacsó Marczi! Is it possible? Are you really Marczi? And won't you just wait that we may have a word together; it is so long since we have met." And he seized the limp hand of the stranger and held it fast. "Oh, I am indeed glad to see your worship again," returned his new-found friend. "Never mind 'my worship,' you can leave him out of it," said Ráby. "Didn't we sit beside each other at school, and you would pass me without a word? Tell me how things are going with you?" The man looked round to left and right, and in his eyes there lurked a nameless fear. "Well, as far as that goes," he began, "but don't let us talk here, it is not wise to discuss these things in the street." Ráby dropped his hand. "Ah, you are afraid suspicion may rest on you if you are seen talking to me!" "It is not that. But I fear, on the contrary, that it might be unpleasant for you, if you were seen talking to a mere carpenter. I am just going to look after my mates in the lower town who are putting new joists to the burned houses. May Heaven bless your efforts to help the poor people!" added the man in a lower voice. "Good, I'll go with you," said Ráby, "it's all the same to me which way I take." "But don't let yourself be drawn into talk with them. They are always ready to complain, and there are always people ready to repeat all that is said." So they walked together down the street--the dapper sportsman, and the working-man in his leather apron. Ráby well remembered the houses they passed, and their owners, and asked after the latter.