She gave herself up to these ideas, which almost amounted to
hallucinations, with actual delight; she even spoke of them, told the
neighbours about them as if they were facts which she had witnessed,
and when, early in February, a peasant who had been sentenced to a
year's imprisonment in the county jail for horse-stealing, was released
and returned to Kisfalu, Panna was one of the first who visited him and
asked if he had seen Abonyi in the county prison.
"Why, of course," replied the ex-convict, grinning.
Panna's eyes sparkled.
"You went to walk in the yard with him? They probably put him in
chains?"
"You are talking nonsense, neighbour," said the peasant. "He wore no
chains, and did not go into the yard with us. If I saw him, it's
because I waited on him."
"Waited? You waited on him?"
"Certainly. Surely you don't suppose that he is treated like one of
us! He lives in a pretty room, has his meals sent from the hotel, goes
in and out freely during the day, and is only locked up at night for
form's sake; he wears his own clothing and is served by the other
prisoners; we all tried to get the place, for he pays like a lord.
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