Swithin observed his clothes with some displeasure—they were the clothes of a journalist or strolling actor. And yet he was impressed. This was singular. How could he be impressed by a fellow in such clothes! The man reached out a hand, covered with black hairs, and took up a tumbler that contained a dark-coloured fluid. 'Brandy!' thought Swithin. The crash of a falling chair startled him—his neighbour had risen. He was of immense height, and very thin; his great beard seemed to splash away from his mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking. Swithin made out two words: “Hunde! Deutsche Hunde!” 'Hounds! Dutch hounds!' he thought: 'Rather strong!' One of the officers had jumped up, and now drew his sword. The tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down with a thud. Everybody round started up and closed on him. The tall man cried out, “To me, Magyars!” Swithin grinned. The tall man fighting such odds excited his unwilling admiration; he had a momentary impulse to go to his assistance. 'Only get a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner. But at that moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw. He jumped out of his chair and rushed at the officers. The Hungarian, swinging his chair, threw him a look of gratitude—Swithin glowed with momentary admiration of himself. A sword blade grazed his—arm; he felt a sudden dislike of the Hungarian. 'This is too much,' he thought, and, catching up a chair, flung it at the wooden lantern. There was a crash—faces and swords vanished. He struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door. A second later he was in the street. II A voice said in English, “God bless you, brother!” Swithin looked round, and saw the tall Hungarian holding out his hand. He took it, thinking, 'What a fool I've been!' There was something in the Hungarian's gesture which said, “You are worthy of me!” It was annoying, but rather impressive. The man seemed even taller than before; there was a cut on his cheek, the blood from which was trickling down his beard. “You English!” he said. “I saw you stone Haynau—I saw you cheer Kossuth. The free blood of your people cries out to us.” He looked at Swithin. “You are a big man, you have a big soul—and strong, how you flung them down! Ha!” Swithin had an impulse to take to his heels. “My name,” said the Hungarian, “is Boleskey. You are my friend.” His English was good. 'Bulsh-kai-ee, Burlsh-kai-ee,' thought Swithin; 'what a devil of a name!' “Mine,” he said sulkily, “is Forsyte.” The Hungarian repeated it. “You've had a nasty jab on the cheek,” said Swithin; the sight of the matted beard was making him feel sick. The Hungarian put his fingers to his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with an indifferent air gathered a wisp of his beard and crammed it against the cut. “Ugh!” said Swithin. “Here! Take my handkerchief!” The Hungarian bowed. “Thank you!” he said; “I couldn't think of it! Thank you a thousand times!”