"Forward, march!" Abonyi ordered, and the cartwright stepped
hesitatingly out into the courtyard.
"Put down the pitchfork, vagabond, it belongs to me," the nobleman
again commanded.
Pista cast a flashing glance at him and saw the muzzle of the revolver
turned toward himself. He silently put down the fork and prepared to
go.
"Now the irons," Abonyi turned to his men, at the same time shouting to
the gardener, "You fellow there, can't you come and help?"
The gardener pretended not to hear and continued to be absorbed in his
blossoming plants. But, at Abonyi's last words, Pista swiftly seized
the pitchfork again, shrieking:
"Back, whoever values his life! I'll go voluntarily, I need not be
chained, I'm no sharper or thief."
The coachman and the beadle with the handcuffs hesitated at the sight
of the threatening pitchfork.
"Am I parish-magistrate or not?" raged Abonyi, "do I command here or
not? The vagabond presumes to be refractory, the irons, I say, or----"
Both the servants made a hasty movement toward Pista, the latter
retreated to the door of the coach-house, swinging the pitchfork, the
beadle was just seizing his arm, when a shot was suddenly fired.
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