Gyarfas, the poet, and Vidra, the jester, stood before him; a little further off the heydukes; the greyhound was under the bed.

And thus, surrounded by gipsy, heydukes, jester, peasant-girls, and greyhound, lay one of the wealthiest magnates of Hungary! Meanwhile, the mouse was a-roasting.

The innkeeper himself brought it lying in the middle of a large silver dish, surrounded by a heap of horseradish shavings, and with a bit of green parsley in its mouth, the usual appurtenances of a very different animal.
Down it was placed in the middle of the table.
First of all, the Nabob offered it to the heydukes one by one.

They did not fancy it, and only shook their heads.
Then it came to the poet's turn.
"Pardon, gratia, your Excellency! I am composing verses on him who eats it." "Well, you then, Vidra! Come, down with it, quick!" "I, your Excellency ?" said Vidra, as if he did not quite catch the words.
"Yes, you.

What are you afraid of?
While you were living in tents, one of my oxen went mad, and yet you and your people ate him!" "True; and if one of your lordship's hogsheads of wine went mad I would drink it.