Baroness Orczy

“ It is getting late, and I have a long ride home, but will you all promise me that, until to-morrow, after Mass, you will try not to think about the mill? And this is to all of you and your very good healths,” he added, raising his mug of wine. “Have I your promise?”
“We promise!”
The answer was unanimous. Evidently the rich young peasant was popular; his words had carried weight. The mugs of wine were emptied, and a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped the lips of all. The gipsies started a livelier tune, as András uttered a soft call:
“Csillag, my beauty, where are you?” ”

“ Lotti, my pigeon,” he shouted, rapping at the door, “as soon as your little heart has ceased to beat quite so fast, bring out some more wine, enough to go round. And you, czigány (gipsy) , let us have the liveliest tune you can play, while we all drink to good fellowship, to pretty women, and to our beloved Magyar country, which may God bless and protect!” ”

“ The gipsies were playing a tender appealing tune, a Hungarian folk-song, that would soften the heart of any hearer.
“You are a good sort, András,” said the village oracle, while Sándor the smith drank a mugful of wine, to get rid of an uncomfortable lump in his throat, “but ...”
“There is no ‘but,’ my mates. We must stand by one another, and, believe me, that is all nonsense about the devil turning the machinery. ”