Their heavy breathing revealed that both were alive, mother and child; exhausting fatigue alone could have sent them into such profound slumber. The cold weather, the bitter wind and the ragged dress are not favorable to such sleep. Only they can sleep as these do, who are exhausted. Their faces, especially that of the child, are already blue from cold and the tiny limbs tremble like frozen jelly.
Filcsik took out his pipe from the pocket of his coat, filled and lit it, and then sat down on the ground beside the sleepers.
He looked at them a long time. He could see very well; the sky was full of stars. The stars looked at him and perhaps beckoned to him encouragingly.
All at once he bent lower over the sleepers; his forehead was perspiring, his head was bowed down and the famous fur cloak slipped off his shoulders. It was well, for he was warm anyhow. And then the fur cloak never burdened him as much as now; it had never been as heavy as at present.
When it slipped down, he suddenly picked it up and spread it over the two sleepers.
Then he jumped up and slowly and thoughtfully began to walk towards home. Once he stood still, then retraced his steps. Did he intend to go back for it?
No, no! what would those million eyes looking at him from above say to that!
Now he hurried; he almost ran towards home.
The night was quiet but cold. The old man was without his fur cloak and yet he felt no cold.
One thought warmed him within, in that place where other men have their hearts but where, according to general belief, providence had substituted in him a stone.
Since that time he has had no fur cloak. But for all that he speaks of it as if he still possessed it. He brags of it, he bets on it.
Men know the fact already and were they not afraid of his vituperative proclivities they would laugh at him; as it is, they don't concern themselves about him. God, men, have turned from him because he is a godless, unchristian fellow. If one of these days he dies on a heap of straw, a raven or a crow will act as mourner, the ditch of the churchyard will be his resting place.
Here endeth this Veracious History of "Heathen Master Filcsik" Wherein is evidently shown that no matter howsoever hard a man's heart may be there are times and occasions When, ruled by a Higher Power, he is moved to do a kindly act. Written originally in the Magyar language by Kálmán Mikszáth, and translated by Wm. N. Loew. Done into Type by me, Charles Clinch Chubb, Clerk in Holy Orders, and one hundred Copies printed at our Press in the Parish of Grace Church, Cleveland, Ohio this seventeenth day of March, in the year of our Lord, mcmx.
