Madame Banfy sighed as she thought of her kinsfolk. Her husband, to prevent any one's thinking that he was in the least concerned in the affair, jumped from his seat and amid the sounds of the Czardas invited the beautiful Madame Beldi to dance. The little lady was ready. Banfy grasped the beauty about her waist, held her firmly and whirled her around. The excited woman flew with the lightness of a fairy on the arm of her partner. With that, the rest of the men jumped from their places, seized other women for a dance, and soon the entire company was swept away in fantastic revelry, every one clapping, dancing and shouting. Banfy was hot-blooded and light-headed; he loved beautiful women, and now in addition there was the glow of the wine. When his beautiful partner once more hung on his arm, her glowing cheeks came so near him that he suddenly so far forgot himself as to press the bewitching woman passionately to his heart and imprint a hot kiss on her cheek. Madame Beldi cried out and pushed the bold man from her. Banfy, also startled at what he had done, cast a glance about him but everybody was so taken up with his own pleasure that, to all appearances, neither kiss nor cry had been noticed. However, Madame Beldi angrily left her partner, and when Banfy stammered out an apology, indicated to him that he should stay at a distance.
This kiss was to cost Banfy dear one of these days. Nobody had noticed it except the man whom it most concerned,--the husband. Beldi's eye had seen it. Let not anybody think that a husband who loves is not jealous. Even if he acts as if he had not seen, had not heard, he sees and hears and notices everything. He had indeed seen Banfy kiss his wife, although he acted as if he did not notice the confusion of his wife who, all excited, sought her husband. He took her hand and led her from the hall. Once outside he bade her make ready for a journey. "Where are we going?" asked his wife, quivering with excitement.
Of all the guests Dionysius Banfy alone noticed that two had vanished from the hall.
In a part of the country of upper Weissenburg, as soon as you have left the Pass of Boza or made a détour of the ravine in the footpath around the mountain heights, you catch sight of the valley of the Tatrang. On all sides are low mountains covered with light fog, and in the background the sky-piercing heights of the foothills of Capri, bright in the early autumnal snow. In the fog-wrapped valley are four or five hamlets with whitewashed houses, from which the smoke arises amid the green fruit trees. The little stream of Tatrang winds clear as crystal between the quiet villages, forming here and there waterfalls with snowy mist. The clouds hang so low over the valley as to shut out with their golden veil first one object and then another from the observer on the mountain-height. There is Hosszufalu with its long street; and the church of Trajzonfalu reflects the sunbeams from its painted metal roof. Tatrang is right on the bank of the stream, at this point crossed by a long wooden bridge; far in the distance appear dark and misty the walls of Kronstadt and the outline of the citadel, at that time still unharmed. Farther down in the valley are the scattered dwellings of the little village of Bodola, its church high on a hill; opposite the village stands a small castle with broad towers and black bastions with battlements; the western bastion is built on a steep rock. But it is only from afar that the castle looks gloomy; as you draw nearer you see that what appeared a dark green growth on the bastion is a garden of flowers. The great Gothic windows are decorated with sculpture and painted glass. Up the steep cliff is a well-kept, winding path, with mossy stone benches at every turn; at its summit is a parapet and the pointed turrets of the castle are painted red and topped with fantastic weather-vanes.