“Tell me—who is this Trino. What kind of a fellow is he?”
“An honest, hardworking fellow. He was not born here, and once he served in the army. But once when an Hungarian officer cursed his saint he ran a bayonet through him. And then he made his escape to Serbia.
Twilight came on. The dancing grew merrier. Trino’s shoe strings and leggings were worn just like those of Zivko. He flung his legs and leaped about merrily in the dance. People crowded about, called, shrieked and drank. The dust was so thick one could not breathe. Roast meats were served, guns roared, glasses were broken, bag-pipes shrilled; the scent of food floated about. The gayly decorated Zivko boasted about his new brother: “No one born is strong enough to wrestle with him. There isn’t any other Trino—he is a genuine Serb!”
