It was a lovely spring evening. The sunset glow lingered long in the sky, till night drew on her garment of soft fleecy mists lying all round the horizon.

The sickle of the new moon grazed the ZÁm Hill, with the lovers' star shining radiant just above—that star which rises so early and sets so soon!

Some distance from the herd, the csikÓs sought out a resting-place for the night, and there carefully unsaddled his horse and removed the bridle from its head, hanging it on his stick, rammed into the ground. Then he spread the saddle-cloth over the saddle; this was his pillow; his covering the embroidered "szÜr." But first he broke up some bread, left from his supper, and gave it, in his hand, to the horse.

"Now you may go and graze also, little VidÁm (VidÁm means gay and lively). You do not feed all day long like the others! You are always saddled, and yet, after you have been ridden the whole day, they want to put you to the machine, and make you draw water. Well, they can want! Do they fancy that 'a horse is as much a dog as a man'?"

Then he gently wiped the horse's eyes with his loose sleeve.

"Now, go and search out good grass for yourself; but don't go far! When the moon has sunk, and with her that shining star, then come back here. See, I don't tether you like a cowherd does, nor shackle your feet as peasants do. 'Tis enough for me to call, 'Here, VidÁm!' and you are here directly."

VidÁm understood. Why not? Freed from saddle and bridle, he gave a jump, kicked up his hind legs, threw himself on the ground, and rolled over and over several times with his heels to the sky. Then regaining his feet, he shook his mane, neighed once, and started off for the flowery pastures, snorting and flicking his long tail to keep off the humming night insects. The csikÓs meanwhile lay down on his grassy bed. What a splendid couch! For pillow the wide circle of plain, and for curtains the star-strewn sky!

It was late already. Nevertheless, the earth, like a restless, naughty child, refused to slumber yet. Could not sleep in fact. Everywhere there was sound, soft, indistinct, and full of mystery. The pealing of bells from the town, or the barking of dogs with the cattle were too far away to be heard here. But the bittern boomed among the reeds hard by, like a lost soul, the reed-warbler, the nightingale of the marsh, gurgled and twittered with thousands of frogs to swell the chorus; and through it all came the monotonous clack of the HortobÁgy mill. High overhead sounded the mournful wail of flights of wild geese and cranes, flying in long lines, scarcely to be distinguished against the sky. Here and there a dense cloud of gnats whirled into the air, making a ghostly whirring music. Now and then a horse neighed.

Poor lad! formerly your head would hardly touch the saddle before you were fast asleep, now you can only gaze and gaze at the dark blue sky overhead, and the stars, whose names your old godfather taught you. There in the midst is the Pole Star, which never moves from its place; those two are the "Herdsman's Team," while that with the changing colour is the "Eye of an Orphan Maid." The brilliant one, just over the horizon, is the "Reaper's Star;" still the "Wanderer's Lamp" is brighter. Those three are the "Three Kings," that cluster the "Seven Sisters," and the star which is sinking into the mist is called the "Window of Heaven."

But why look at the stars when one cannot speak to them? A heavy load weighs down the heart, a cruel wound makes the soul bleed. If one could pour out the bitterness, if one could complain, perhaps it might be easier. But how vast is the puszta and how void!

The shining star set, also the moon. The horse left the pasture and returned to its master. Very gently he stepped along, as if fearing to wake him, and stretching out his long neck, bent his head over him to see if he slept.

"No, I'm not asleep. Come here, old fellow," said the csikÓs.

At that the horse began to whinny joyously, and lay down near his master.

The herdsman raised himself on his elbows, and rested his head on his hand. Here was someone to speak with—an intelligent beast.

"You see!" he said. "You see, my VidÁm? That is the way with a girl! Outside gold, inside silver. When she speaks the truth it is half false; when she lies it is half true! No one will ever learn to understand her.... You know how much I loved her! ... How often I made your sides bleed as I spurred you on to carry me the quicker to her! ... How often I tied you up at the door in snow and mud, in freezing cold and burning sunshine! I never thought of you, my dear old horse, only of how I loved her!"

The horse seemed to laugh at the notion of not remembering. Of course his master had done so."And you know how much she loved me! ... How she stuck roses behind your ears, plaited your mane with ribbons, and fed you with sweet cakes from her own hand! ... How often she drew me back with her kisses, even from the saddle, and hugged your neck that I might remain the longer!"

VidÁm answered him with a low whinny. Certainly the girl had done all that.

"Till that confounded beggar slunk in and stole half her heart. If he had but stolen the whole of it! Taken her to himself and gone off with her! But to leave her here; half a heavenly blessing and half a deadly curse——"

The horse evidently wanted to comfort him, and laid his head on his master's knee.

"Strike him, God!" muttered the csikÓs in an agony of grief. "Do not leave the man unpunished who has plucked another's rose for himself. Did I kill him, I know his mother would weep!"

The horse lashed the ground with his tail, as had his master's rage been transmitted to him."But how can I kill him? He is over the hills and far away by now! And you are not able, my poor VidÁm, to fly all over the kingdom with me. No, you must stay here with me in my trouble."

Nothing VidÁm could do indeed could alter the situation. So he signified his acquiescence in the harsh decree of fate by lying down and stretching out his great head and neck.

But the csikÓs would not let him turn his thoughts to slumber, he had yet something to tell him. A smacking of the lips, very like a kiss, aroused the horse.

"Don't sleep yet. .... I'm not sleeping. We'll have time enough some day when we take our long rest! .... Till then we'll keep together we two. .... Never shall you leave your master. .... Never will he part with you, not though they offer him your weight in gold .... my one faithful friend! Do you know how you caught hold of my waistcoat and helped the doctor to lift me up from the ground when I lay on the puszta as good as dead, with the eagles shrieking over me? You seized my clothes with your teeth, and raised me, you did! .... Yes? .... You know all about it? .... my darling! Do not fear, we will never cross the HortobÁgy bridge again, never turn in at the HortobÁgy inn. .... I swear it, here, by the starry sky, that never, never, never will I step over the threshold where that false girl dwells. .... May the stars cease to shine on me, if I break my word——"

At this great oath the horse stood up on his fore-feet, and sat like a dog on his hindquarters.

"But don't think we will grow old here," went on the csikÓs, "we are not going to stick for ever on this meadow-land. When I was a little child I saw beautiful tri-colour banners waving, and splendid Hussars dashing after them. .... How I envied them! .... Then later, I saw those same Hussars dying and wounded, and the beautiful tri-colour flag dragged through the mire, .... but that will not always last. There will come a day when we will bring out the old flag from under the eaves, and ride after it, brave young lads, to crack the bones of those wicked Cossacks! And you will come with me, my good old horse, at the trumpet's call."

As if he heard the trumpet sounding, VidÁm sprang up, pawed the turf with his forefeet, and, with mane bristling and head erect, neighed into the night. Like the outposts of the camp, all the stallions on the puszta neighed back an answer.

"There we'll put an end to this business! .... There we'll heal the sorrow and the bitterness, though not by shedding tears! Not the poisoned glass of a faithless maid, nor her more poisonous kisses will destroy this body of mine, but the swordthrust of a worthy foe. Then as I lie on the bloody battle-field, you will be there, standing beside me, and watching over me, till they come to bury me."

And as though to test the fidelity of his horse, the lad pretended to be dead, threw himself limply on the grass, and stretched his arms stark and stiff at his sides.The horse looked at him for a second, and seeing his master motionless, stepped up with his ears flattened back, and began rubbing his nose against his master's shoulder, then as he did not move, trotted noisily round him. When the clatter of hoofs still failed to waken his master, the horse stood over him, fastened his teeth in the cloak buckled over his shoulders, and began to lift him, till at last the csikÓs ended the joke by opening his eyes and hugging VidÁm with both arms round his neck.

"You are my only true comrade!"

And the horse really laughed! Bared his gums to express his joy, and pranced and capered like any foolish little foal, in his high joy at finding that this dying was only mere fun and pretence. Finally he lay down and stretched himself on the grass. Now he was cheating his master and pretending to be dead. Now the herdsman might talk to him and smack his lips all in vain. VidÁm would not budge.

So when the csikÓs laid down his head on the horse's neck, it did very well as a pillow. VidÁm raised his head, saw that his master was asleep, and did not make a move till break of dawn.

Even then he would not have stirred, had not his ear been caught by a sudden sound.

Giving a loud snort he woke his master. The csikÓs jumped from his couch and the horse stood up.

Day was dawning already, and in the east the sky was golden. In the distance the dark form of an approaching horse was visible through the shadowy mist. It was riderless. This is what VidÁm had scented.

It was probably a strayed animal, escaped from some herd. For in spring-time, when the fit seizes them, the cowboys' horses, weary of their lonely life among the cattle, and if only they can succeed in breaking their tether, will run, following the scent, to the nearest stud. There a fight takes place, that usually ends badly for the intruders, who are not even shod as are the other horses.

So the runaway would have to be caught.

Hastily bridling his horse, and throwing the saddle on his back, the csikÓs held the lasso in readiness, and galloped towards the ownerless steed.

But no lasso was needed for its capture! As it neared, it headed of its own accord straight to the csikÓs, and gave a joyful neigh, to which VidÁm responded—these were old acquaintances!

"Now what can this mean?" exclaimed the herdsman, "surely this is very like Ferko's white-faced bay! Yet that must be in Moravia!"

His wonder increased when the two horses meeting, exchanged friendly grunts and began lovingly snuffing each other's chests.

"It is Ferko's horse! There are his initials, 'F.L.,' and for stronger proof, here is actually the scar of the kick it got as a colt!"

The bay had brought the rope along with it, also the peg which it had torn from the ground.

"How come you on the HortobÁgy, eh! whiteface?" asked SÁndor, while the runaway let him catch it easily enough by the halter still knotted to its head."Whence come you? Where is your master?"

But this horse was not in sympathy with him, and did not understand his questions. What can one expect of a horse that spends its life in the company of cattle?

The csikÓs led his captive to the corral, and there shut it in.

Then he recounted the affair to the overseer.

But as the day advanced, so too did light break on the mystery. From the ZÁm puszta came the barrow-boy, tearing along in such a hurry that he had even forgotten his cap.

He recognised SÁndor Decsi from afar, and made straight for him.

"Morning, SÁndor bÁcsi ('bÁcsi,' uncle, is a title of respect applied to one's elders. Trans.) Did the bay come here?"

"Yes, indeed. How did it get loose?"

"Had a mad fit. Neighed the whole day. When I tried to groom it, nearly knocked out my eyes with its tail. Then broke loose in the night, and went off with the halter. I've been looking for it ever since."

"And where is its master, then?"

"He's still sleeping—the exertion has quite knocked him up!"

"What exertion?"

"Why, what happened three days back. What, you've not heard of it, SÁndor bÁcsi? How the cows, that the Moravian gentry bought, lost their heads at the PolgÁr ferry, and slap-bang, bull and all, jumped over the side of the ferry-boat, and tore straight home to the ZÁm herd. The cowboy could not turn them. He was obliged to come back with them himself."

"So Ferko Lacza is at home again?"

"Yes, but a little more and the overseer would have killed him outright! No, I never heard the overseer curse and swear as he did that evening when the herd came rushing over the puszta, Ferko bÁcsi at their heels. The foam dripped off the horse, and the bull's nose was bleeding. The air was just thick with 'devils,' and 'damns,' and 'gallows-trees!' He raised his stick twice to strike the cowboy too, and it swished through the air. 'Tis a marvel he did not beat him.""And what did Ferko say?"

"Nothing much, only that he couldn't help it, if the beasts chose to go mad.

"'You have bewitched them, you devil!' said the overseer.

"'Why should I do that?' says Ferko bÁcsi.

"'Why? Because you've been bewitched yourself first. That "Yellow Rose" has given you a charm as she did to SÁndor Decsi.'

"Then they began talking about you, SÁndor bÁcsi, but what I could not hear, because they sent me off with a box on the ears, and 'pray what was I listening for? It was none of my business.'"

"So they spoke about me, did they? And about the 'Yellow Rose'?"

"As if I knew or cared about their 'Yellow Rose'! But this I do know, that last Friday when they drove off the cows, Ferko bÁcsi went into the shanty to fetch his knapsack, and there he pulled out a coloured kerchief from his sleeve, and in it a yellow rose was wrapped up. He snuffed at it, and pressed it to his lips till I thought he was going to eat it! Then he unpicked the lining of his cap, pushed in the rose and put it on his head again. Perhaps that was the charm?"

The csikÓs swinging the loaded end of his cudgel, struck a yellow mullein standing in his path, scattering the blossoms far and wide.

"What harm has the poor 'King's candle' done you?" asked the boy.

But the intent of the blow had been in another direction.

"And now what will happen?" questioned the csikÓs.

"Well, yesterday, the Moravian drovers turned up on foot, and they discussed the matter with the overseer. So now the cows are to be driven towards Tisza-FÜred, and all their calves with them, for over the bridge they surely can't jump! They say the cows ran back to their calves. But Ferko Lacza only laughs to himself."

"And will Ferko Lacza go with them this time?"

"Apparently, since the master never gives him a moment's peace. But the cowboy doesn't want to clear out just yet. He says the cattle must have a day or two breathing time after their race, and he himself sleeps the whole day like a log. Well, 'tis no joke to gallop from PolgÁr to ZÁm puszta at one stretch! So the overseer has granted him two days' rest."

"Two days? Two? Surely that is over much."

"I don't know."

"But I do—or else the two days will lengthen into a rest much longer!"

"Well, I must hurry and get the bay home before they are up. Because when the overseer swears at the herdsman, then the cowboy vents all his rage on me. Just wait till I'm herdsman, and then I'll have a barrow-boy of my own to knock about! God bless you, SÁndor bÁcsi."

"He has done that already."

The little lad jumped on the bay, bareback as it was, and stuck his naked feet into its sides. But the bay absolutely refused to stir, turned suddenly right round, and tried to return to the stud. Finally the csikÓs, taking pity on the boy, brought out his stock-whip, caught it a good thwack in the hind-legs and cracked it two or three times, whereupon the horse, lowering its head, set out full tilt over the puszta, as straight as it could go. The boy had hard enough work to keep his seat, clutching the mane with both hands. The csikÓs, meanwhile, was quite clear as to his own course.

"Tell Ferko Lacza that SÁndor Decsi sends him his respects!" he shouted out after the vanishing "taligÁs." But whether the boy heard this message is doubtful.