"It's the Count--the Count and the district judge," said the
landlord in a tone of respect. The notary made a grab at his hat
and umbrella and hurried from the room. "That shows how much they
thought of our pastor," continued the landlord proudly. "For the
Count himself has come and with four horses, too, to get here the
more quickly. His Reverence was a great friend of the Countess."

"They didn't make so much fuss over the pedlar and Betty," murmured
the cobbler, who suffered from a perpetual grouch. But he followed
the others, who paid their scores hastily and went out into the
streets that they might watch from a distance at least what was
going on in the rectory. The landlord bustled about the inn to have
everything in readiness in case the gentlemen should honour him by
taking a meal, and perhaps even lodgings, at his house. At the gate
of the rectory the coachman and the maid Liska stood to receive the
newcomers, just as five o'clock was striking from the steeple.

It should have been still quite light, but it was already dusk, for
the clouds hung heavy. The rain had ceased, but a heavy wind came
up which tore the delicate petals of the blossoms from the fruit
trees and strewed them like snow on the ground beneath. The Count,
who was the head of one of the richest and most aristocratic
families in Hungary, threw off his heavy fur coat and hastened up
the stairs at the top of which his old friend and confidant, the
venerable pastor, usually came to meet him. To-day it was only the
local magistrate who stood there, bowing deeply.

"This is incredible, incredible!" exclaimed the Count.