The priest appeared the next morning for his lesson as usual; he pronounced himself satisfied with Franziska's translation and was amused by her horror at the content of the ballad. At the same time, he used it as an occasion to play the role of literary historian: the tale of Barcsai, he explained, had been a favorite ballad since olden times, and its subject was no more gruesome than many others. Such was the prerogative of ballads, at least in Hungary. There was scarcely a single old folksong that did not include unfaithfulness and betrayal, for songs were a reflection of life. But popular sentiment demanded that these should be followed by expiation, and indeed, was quite firm on this point, usually allowing only two choices: being walled up alive or set on fire. The latter was preferred, though, as it was more vivid and lively.

Thus the conversation flowed, and its facetiousness had quite banished the terrors of the ballad from her mind by the end of the lesson, when the count picked her up to go for a drive.

These drives, mostly into the mountains, but sometimes round the northern inlets of the lake, were Franziska's special joy, not surprisingly. Here was where the count was at his most talkative, as he chatted about his childhood and youth, of his brotherly love for Countess Judith, and how beautiful and ravishing she had once been, until old Gundolskirchen, a dull Styrian who might have been born into the world with riding boots on, had replaced her native Magyar grace with German dignity, or in plain language, ponderousness; the church then did the rest.