The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

Part 7 out of 8

vain. Only later on, when they got warmed with their subject and
spoke more audibly, did I understand them.

"There is no other way," said the professor. "Put it in your will
that the coroner shall pierce your heart through with a knife."

Do you remember, my sisters, the last will of our father, which was
thus executed?

Father did not say a word. Then the professor went on, saying:

"That would be a splendid invention. Had I been living till now I
would have published a book about it. Nobody takes the Indian
fakir seriously here in Europe. But despite this, the buried
fakirs, who are two months under ground and then come back into
life, are very serious men. Perhaps they are more serious than
ourselves, with all our scientific knowledge. There are strange,
new, dreadful things for which we are not yet matured enough.

"I died upon their methods; I can state that now. The mental state
which they reach systematically I reached accidentally. The
solitude, the absorbedness, the lying in a bed month by month, the
gazing upon a fixed point hour by hour--these are all self-evident
facts with me, a deserted misanthrope.

"I died as the Indian fakirs do, and were I not a descendant of an
old noble family, who have a tomb in this country, I would have
died really.

"God knows how it happened. I don't think there is any use of
worrying ourselves about it. I have still four days. Then we go
for good and all. But not back, no, no, not back to life!"

He pointed with his hand toward the city. His face was burning
from fever, and he knitted his brows. His countenance was horrible
at this moment. Then he looked at the man with the sunburned face.

"The case of Mr. Gardener is quite different. This is an ordinary
physician's error. But he has less than four days. He will be
gone to-morrow or positively day after to-morrow."

He grasped the pulse of the sunburned man.

"At this minute his pulse beats a hundred and twelve. You have a
day left, Mr. Gardener. But not back. We don't go back. Never!"

Father said nothing. He looked at the professor with seriousness,
and fondly. The professor drank a glass of wine, and then turned
toward father.

"Go to bed. You have to get up early; you still live; you have
children. We shall sleep if we can do so. It is very likely that
General Gardener won't see another morning. You must not witness
that."

Now father began to speak, slowly, reverently.

"If you, professor, have to send word--or perhaps Mr. Gardener--
somebody we must take care of--a command, if you have--"

The professor looked at him sternly, saying but one word:

"Nothing."

Father was still waiting.

"Absolutely nothing," repeated the professor. "I have died, but I
have four days yet. I live those here, my dear old friend, with
you. But I don't go back any more. I don't even turn my face
backward. I don't want to know where the others live. I don't
want life, old man. It is not honorable to go back. Go, my
friend--go to bed."

Father shook hands with them and disappeared. General Gardener sat
stiffly on his chair. The professor gazed into the air.

I began to be aware of all that had happened here. These two
apparently dead men had come back from the cemetery, but how, in
what manner, by what means? I don't understand it perfectly even
now. There, in the small room, near to the cemetery, they were
living their few remaining days. They did not want to go back
again into life.

I shuddered. During these few minutes I seemed to have learned the
meaning of life and of death. Now I myself felt that the life of
the city was at a vast distance. I had a feeling that the
professor was right. It was not worth while. I, too, felt tired,
tired of life, like the professor, the feverish, clever, serious
old man who came from the coffin and was sitting there in his grave
clothes waiting for the final death.

They did not speak a word to each other. They were simply waiting.
I did not have power to move away from the crack in the wall
through which I saw them.

And now there happened the awful thing that drove me away from our
home, never to return.

It was about half-past one when someone tapped on the window. The
professor took alarm and looked at Mr. Gardener a warning to take
no notice. But the tapping grew louder. The professor got up and
went to the window. He lifted the yellow curtain and looked out
into the night. Quickly he returned and spoke to General Gardener,
and then both went to the window and spoke with the person who had
knocked. After a long conversation they lifted the man through the
window.

On this terrible day nothing could happen that would surprise me.
I was benumbed. The man who was lifted through the window was clad
in white linen to his feet. He was a Hebrew, a poor, thin, weak,
pale Hebrew. He wore his white funeral dress. He shivered from
cold, trembled, seemed almost unconscious. The professor gave him
some wine. The Hebrew stammered:

"Terrible! Oh, horrible!"

I learned from his broken language that he had not been buried yet,
like the professor. He had not yet known the smell of the earth.
He had come from his bier.

"I was laid out a corpse," he whimpered. "My God, they would have
buried me by to-morrow!"

The professor gave him wine again.

"I saw a light here," he went on. "I beg you will give me some
clothes--some soup, if you please--and I am going back again."
Then he said in German:

"Meine gute, theure Frau! Meine Kinder!" (My good wife, my
children.)

He began to weep. The professor's countenance changed to a
devilish expression when he heard this lament. He despised the
lamenting Hebrew.

"You are going back?" he thundered. "But you won't go back! Don't
shame yourself!"

The Hebrew gazed at him stupidly.

"I live in Rottenbiller Street," he stammered. "My name is Joseph
Braun."

He bit his nails in his nervous agitation. Tears filled his eyes.

"Ich muss zu meine Kinder," he said in German again. (I must go to
my children.)

"No!" exclaimed the professor. "You'll never go back!"

"But why?"

"I will not permit it!"

The Hebrew looked around. He felt that something was wrong here.
His startled manner seemed to ask: "Am I in a lunatic asylum?" He
dropped his head and said to the professor simply:

"I am tired."

The professor pointed to the straw mattress.

"Go to sleep. We will speak further in the morning."

Fever blazed in the professor's face. On the other straw mattress
General Gardener now slept with his face to the wall.

The Hebrew staggered to the straw mattress, threw himself down, and
wept. The weeping shook him terribly. The professor sat at the
table and smiled.

Finally the Hebrew fell asleep. Hours passed in silence. I stood
motionless looking at the professor, who gazed into the
candlelight. There was not much left of it. Presently he sighed
and blew it out. For a little while there was dark, and then I saw
the dawn penetrating the yellow curtain at the window. The
professor leaned back in his chair, stretched out his feet, and
closed his eyes.

All at once the Hebrew got up silently and went to the window. He
believed the professor was asleep. He opened the window carefully
and started to creep out. The professor leaped from his chair,
shouting:

"No!"

He caught the Hebrew by his shroud and held him back. There was a
long knife in his hand. Without another word, the professor
pierced the Hebrew through the heart.

He put the limp body on the straw mattress, then went out of the
chamber toward the studio. In a few minutes he came back with
father. Father was pale and did not speak. They covered the dead
Hebrew with a rug, and then, one after the other, crept out through
the window, lifted the corpse out, and carried it away. In a
quarter of an hour they came back. They exchanged a few words,
from which I learned that they had succeeded in putting the dead
Hebrew back on his bier without having been observed.

They shut the window. The professor drank a glass of wine and
again stretched out his legs on the chair.

"It is impossible to go back," he said. "It is not allowed."

Father went away. I did not see him any more. I staggered up to
my room, went to bed, and slept immediately. The next day I got up
at ten o'clock. I left the city at noon.

Since that time, my dear sisters, you have not seen me. I don't
know anything more. At this minute I say to myself that what I
know, what I have set down here, is not true. Maybe it never
happened, maybe I have dreamed it all. I am not clear in my mind.
I have a fever.

But I am not afraid of death. Here, on my hospital bed, I see the
professor's feverish but calm and wise face. When he grasped the
Hebrew by the throat he looked like a lover of Death, like one who
has a secret relation with the passing of life, who advocates the
claims of Death, and who punishes him who would cheat Death.

Now Death urges his claim upon me. I have no desire to cheat him--
I am so tired, so very tired.

God be with you, my dear sisters.

Maurus Jokai

Thirteen at Table

We are far amidst the snow-clad mountains of Transylvania.

The scenery is magnificent. In clear weather, the plains of
Hungary as far as the Rez promontory may be seen from the summit of
the mountains. Groups of hills rise one above the other, covered
with thick forest, which, at the period when our tale commences,
had just begun to assume the first light green of spring.

Toward sunset, a slight purple mist overspread the farther
pinnacles, leaving their ridges still tinged with gold. On the
side of one of these hills the white turrets of an ancient family
mansion gleamed from amid the trees.

Its situation was peculiarly romantic. A steep rock descended on
one side, on whose pinnacle rose a simple cross. In the depth of
the valley beneath lay a scattered village, whose evening bells
melodiously broke the stillness of nature.

Farther off, some broken roofs arose among the trees, from whence
the sound of the mill, and the yellow-tinted stream, betrayed the
miners' dwellings.

Through the meadows in the valley beneath a serpentine rivulet
wound its silvery way, interrupted by numerous falls and huge
blocks of stone, which had been carried down in bygone ages from
the mountains during the melting of the snows.

A little path, cut in the side of the rock, ascended to the castle;
while higher up, a broad road, somewhat broken by the mountain
streams, conducted across the hills to more distant regions.

The castle itself was an old family mansion, which had received
many additions at different periods, as the wealth or necessities
of the family suggested.

It was surrounded by groups of ancient chestnut trees, and the
terrace before the court was laid out in gardens, which were now
filled with anemones, hyacinths, and other early flowers. Now and
then the head of a joyous child appeared at the windows, which were
opened to admit the evening breeze; while various members of the
household retinue were seen hastening through the corridors, or
standing at the doors in their embroidered liveries.

The castle was completely surrounded by a strong rail-work of iron,
the stone pillars were overgrown by the evergreen leaves of the
gobea and epomoea.

It was the early spring of 1848.

A party, consisting of thirteen persons, had assembled in the
dining-room. They were all members of one family, and all bore the
name of Bardy.

At the head of the board sat the grandmother, an old lady of eighty
years of age, whose snow-white hair was dressed according to the
fashion of her times beneath her high white cap. Her face was pale
and much wrinkled, and the eyes turned constantly upwards, as is
the case with persons who have lost their sight. Her hand and
voice trembled with age, and there was something peculiarly
striking in the thick snow-white eyebrows.

On her right hand sat her eldest son, Thomas Bardy, a man of
between fifty and sixty. With a haughty and commanding
countenance, penetrating glance, lofty figure, and noble mien, he
was a true type of that ancient aristocracy which is now beginning
to die out.

Opposite to him, at the old lady's left hand, sat the darling of
the family--a lovely girl of about fifteen. Her golden hair fell
in luxuriant tresses round a countenance of singular beauty and
sweetness. The large and lustrous deep-blue eyes were shaded by
long dark lashes, and her complexion was pale as the lily,
excepting when she smiled or spoke, and a slight flush like the
dawn of morning overspread her cheeks.

Jolanka was the orphan child of a distant relative, whom the Bardys
had adopted. They could not allow one who bore their name to
suffer want; and it seemed as if each member of the family had
united to heap affection and endearment on the orphan girl, and
thus prevented her from feeling herself a stranger among them.

There were still two other female members of the family: Katalin,
the old lady's daughter, who had been for many years a widow; and
the wife of one of her sons, a pretty young woman, who was trying
to teach a little prattler at her side to use the golden spoon
which she had placed in his small, fat hand, while he laughed and
crowed, and the family did their best to guess what he said, or
what he most preferred.

Opposite to them there sat two gentlemen. One of them was the
husband of the young mother. Jozsef Bardy--a handsome man of about
thirty-five, with regular features, and black hair and beard; a
constant smile beamed on his gay countenance, while he playfully
addressed his little son and gentle wife across the table. The
other was his brother, Barnabas--a man of herculean form and
strength. His face was marked by smallpox; he wore neither beard
or mustache, and his hair was combed smoothly back, like a
peasant's. His disposition was melancholy and taciturn; but he
seemed constantly striving to atone, by the amiability of his
manners, for an unprepossessing exterior.

Next to him sat a little cripple, whose pale countenance bore that
expression of suffering sweetness so peculiar to the deformed,
while his lank hair, bony hands, and misshapen shoulders awakened
the beholder's pity. He, too, was an orphan--a grandchild of the
old lady's; his parents had died some years before.

Two little boys of about five years old sat opposite to him. They
were dressed alike, and the resemblance between them was so
striking that they were constantly mistaken. They were twin-
children of the young couple.

At the lower end of the table sat Imre Bardy, a young man of
twenty, whose handsome countenance was full of life and
intelligence, his figure manly and graceful, and his manner
courteous and agreeable. A slight moustache was beginning to shade
his upper lip, and his dark hair fell in natural ringlets around
his head. He was the only son of the majoresco, Tamas Bardy, and
resembled him much in form and feature.

Beside him sat an old gentleman, with white hair and ruddy
complexion. This was Simon Bardy, an ancient relative, who had
grown old with the grandmother of the family.

The same peculiarity characterized every countenance in the Bardy
family--namely the lofty forehead and marked brows, and the large
deep-blue eyes, shaded by their heavy dark lashes.*

* There is a race of the Hungarians in the Carpath who, unlike the
Hungarians of the plain, have blue eyes and often fair hair.

"How singular!" exclaimed one of the party; "we are thirteen at
table to-day."

"One of us will surely die," said the old lady; and there was a
mournful conviction in the faint, trembling tones.

"Oh, no, grandmother, we are only twelve and a half!" exclaimed the
young mother, taking the little one on her knee.

"This little fellow only counts half on the railroad."

All the party laughed at this remark, even the little cripple's
countenance relaxed into a sickly smile.

"Ay, ay," continued the old lady, "the trees are now putting forth
their verdure, but at the fall of the leaf who knows if all of us,
or any of us, may still be sitting here?"

Several months had passed since this slight incident.

In one of the apartments of the castle, the eldest Bardy and his
son were engaged in earnest conversation.

The father paced hastily up and down the apartment, now and then
stopping short to address his son, who stood in the embrasure of
one of the windows. The latter wore the dress of the Matyas
Hussars*--a gray dolmany, with crimson cord; he held a crimson
esako, with a tricolored cockade, in his hand.

* Part of the free corps raised in 1848.

"Go," said the father, speaking in broken accents; "the sooner the
better; let me not see you! Do not think I speak in anger, but I
cannot bear to look at you, and think where you are going. You are
my only son, and you know how I have loved you--how all my hopes
have been concentrated in you. But do not think that these tears,
which you see me shed for the first time, are on your account; for
if I knew I should lose you,--if your blood were to flow at the
next battle,--I should only bow my head in dust and say, 'The Lord
gave, and the Lord takes away, blessed be His holy name!' Yes, if
I heard that you and your infatuated companions were cut to pieces,
I could stifle the burning tears; but to know that your blood, when
it flows, will be a curse upon the earth, and your death will be
the death of two kingdoms--"

"They may die now; but they will regenerate--"

"This is not true; you only deceive yourselves with the idea that
you can build up a new edifice when you have overthrown the old
one. Great God, what sacrilege! Who had intrusted you with the
fate of our country, to tempt the Almighty? Who authorized you to
lose all there is for the hope of what may be? For centuries past
have so many honorable men fought in vain to uphold the old
tottering constitution, as you call it? Or were they not true
patriots and heroes? Your companions have hissed their persecuted
countrymen in the Diet; but do they love their country better than
we do, who have shed our blood and sacrificed our interests for her
from generation to generation, and even suffered disgrace, if
necessary, to keep her in life?--for though that life has been
gradually weakened, still it is life. You promise her glory; but
the name of glory is death!"

"It may be so, father; we may lose our country as regards
ourselves, but we give one instead of ten millions, who were
hitherto our own people, and yet strangers in their native land."

"Chimera! The people will not understand you. They never even
dreamt of what you wish to give them. The true way to seek the
people's welfare is to give them what they need.

"Ask my dependents! Is there one among them whom I have allowed to
suffer want or ruin, whom I have not assisted in times of need?--or
have I ever treated them unjustly? You will not hear a murmur.
Tell them that I am unjust notwithstanding, because I do not call
the peasant from his plow to give his opinions on forming the laws
and constitution,--and what will be the consequence? They will
stare at you in astonishment; and yet, in their mistaken wrath,
they will come down some night and burn this house over my head."

"That is the unnatural state of the times. It is all the fault of
the past bad management, if the people have no better idea. But
let the peasant once be free, let him be a man, and he will
understand all that is now strange to him."

"But that freedom will cost the lives of thousands!"

"I do not deny it. Indeed, I believe that neither I nor any of the
present generation will reap the fruits of this movement. I think
it probable that in a few years not one of those whose names we now
hear spoken of may still be living; and what is more, disgrace and
curses may be heaped upon their dust. But a time will come when
the great institutions of which they have laid the foundation will
arise and render justice to the memory of those who sacrificed
themselves for the happiness of future generations. To die for our
country is a glorious death, but to carry with us the curses of
thousands, to die despised and hated for the salvation of future
millions, oh! that is sublime--it is Messiah-like!"

"My son--my only son!" cried his father, throwing himself
passionately on the young man's neck and sobbing bitterly. "Do you
see these tears?"

"For the first time in my life I see them, father--I see you weep;
my heart can scarcely bear the weight of these tears--and yet I go!
You have reason to weep, for I bring neither joy nor glory on your
head--and yet I go! A feeling stronger than the desire of glory,
stronger than the love of my country, inspires my soul; and it is a
proof of the strength of my faith that I see your tears, my father--
and yet I go!"

"Go!" murmured his father, in a voice of despair. "You may never
return again, or, when you do, you may find neither your father's
house nor the grave in which he is laid! But know, even then, in
the hour of your death, or in the hour of mine, I do not curse you--
and now, leave me." With these words he turned away and motioned
to his son to depart.

Imre silently left the apartment, and as soon as he had closed the
door the tears streamed from his eyes; but before his sword had
struck the last step his countenance had regained its former
determination, and the fire of enthusiasm had kindled in his eye.

He then went to take leave of his Uncle Jozsef, whom he found
surrounded by his family. The twins were sitting at his feet,
while his wife was playing bo-peep with the little one, who laughed
and shouted, while his mother hid herself behind his father's
armchair.

Imre's entrance interrupted the general mirth. The little boy ran
over to examine the sword and golden tassels, while the little one
began to cry in alarm at the sight of the strange dress.

"Csitt, baba!" said his mother, taking him from his father's arms;
"your cousin is going to wars, and will bring you a golden horse."

Jozsef wrung his nephew's hand. "God be with you!" he exclaimed,
and added in a lower voice, "You are the noblest of us all--you
have done well!"

They then all embraced him in turns, and Imre left them, amidst
clamors of the little ones, and proceeded to his grandmother's
apartments.

On the way, he met his Uncle Barnabas, who embraced him again and
again in silence, and then tore himself away without saying a word.

The old lady sat in her great armchair, which she seldom quitted,
and as she heard the clash of Imre's sword, she looked up and asked
who was coming.

"It is Imre!" said the fair-haired maiden, blushing, and her heart
beat quickly as she pronounced his name.

Jolanka felt that Imre was more than a brother to her, and the
feeling with which she had learnt to return his affection was
warmer than even a sister's love.

The widow lady and the cripple were also in the grandmother's
apartment; the child sat on a stool at the old lady's feet, and
smiled sadly as the young man entered.

"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble
voice. "Ah, this is no good world--no good world! But if God is
against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead
again in dreams. I thought they all came around me and beckoned me
to follow them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with
gratitude and confidence in the hands of the Lord. Last night I
saw the year 1848 written in the skies in letters of fire. Who
knows what may come over us yet? This is no good world--no good
world!"

Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it.

"And so you are going? Well, God bless and speed you, if you go
beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise
your heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand
upon her grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"

"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed
the widow lady as she embraced her nephew. "God bless you!"

The little cripple threw his arms around his cousin's knees and,
sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.

The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with
downcast eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered
cockade, which she placed on his breast. It was composed of five
colors--blue and gold, red, white, and green.*

* Blue and gold are the colors of Transylvania.

"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise,
as he pressed the sweet girl to his heart, "Erdely* and Hungary
united! I shall win glory for your colors!"

* Transylvania.

The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released
her, "Remember me!"

"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the
youth fervently.

And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding
farewell, he hurried from the apartment.

Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.

"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and
give you strength to cut down many Turks!"

"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the
young man, smiling.

"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century,
correcting himself.

A page waited at the gate with two horses saddled and bridled.

"I shall not require you--you may remain at home," said Imre, as,
taking the bridle of one of the horses, vaulting lightly into the
saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the
castle.

As he rode under the cross, he checked his horse and looked back.
Was it of his grandmother's words, or of the golden-haired Jolanka
that he thought?

A white handkerchief waved from the window. "Farewell, light of my
soul!" murmured the youth; and kissing his hand, he once more
dashed his spurs into his horse's flank, and turned down the steep
hill.

Those were strange times. All at once the villages began to be
depopulated; the inhabitants disappeared, none knew whither. The
doors of the houses were closed.

The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's
song as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had
lost their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets,
where the grass began to grow.

Imre Bardy rode through the streets of the village without meeting
a soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through
the kitchen windows.

Evening was drawing on, and a slight transparent mist had
overspread the valley. Imre was desirous of reaching Kolozsvar*
early on the next morning, and continued his route all night.

* Klausenburg.

About midnight the moon rose behind the trees, shedding her silvery
light over the forest. All was still, excepting the echo of the
miner's hammer, and the monotonous sound of his horse's step along
the rocky path. He rode on, lost in thought; when suddenly the
horse stopped short, and pricked his ears.

"Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the
cannon yet."

The animal at last proceeded, turning his head impatiently from
side to side, and snorting and neighing with fear.

The road now led through a narrow pass between two rocks, whose
summits almost met, and a slight bridge, formed of one or two
rotten planks, was thrown across the dry channel of a mountain
stream which cut up the path.

As Imre reached the bridge, the horse backed, and no spurring could
induce him to cross. Imre at last pressed his knee angrily against
the trembling animal, striking him at the same time across the neck
with the bridle, on which the horse suddenly cleared the chasm at
one bound and then again turned and began to back.

At that instant a fearful cry arose from beneath, which was echoed
from the rocks around, and ten or fifteen savage-looking beings
climbed from under the bridge, with lances formed of upright
scythes.

Even then there would have been time for the horseman to turn back,
and dash through a handful of men behind him, but either he was
ashamed of turning from the first conflict, or he was desirous, at
any risk, to reach Kolozsvar at the appointed time, and instead of
retreating by the bridge, he galloped towards the other end of the
pass, where the enemy rushed upon him from every side, yelling
hideously.

"Back, Wallachian dogs!" cried Imre, cutting two of them down,
while several others sprang forward with the scythes.

Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right
and left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and
taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to
slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of
the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above
the rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him
as he passed.

He was only a few paces from the spot, when a gigantic figure,
armed with a short broad-axe, and with a Roman helmet on his head,
descended from the rock in front of him, and seizing the reins of
the horse forced him to halt. The young man aimed a blow at his
enemy's head, and the helmet fell back, cut through the middle, but
the force of the blow had broken his sword in two; and the horse
lifted by his giant foe, reared, so that the rider, losing his
balance, was thrown against the side of the rock, and fell
senseless to the ground.

At the same instant a shot was fired toward them from the top of
the rock.

"Who fired there?" cried the giant, in a voice of thunder. The
bloodthirsty Wallachians would have rushed madly on their
defenseless prey, had not the giant stood between him and them.

"Who fired on me?" he sternly exclaimed. The Wallachians stood
back in terror.

"It was not on you, Decurio, that I fired, but on the hussar,"
stammered out one of the men, on whom the giant had fixed his eye.

"You lie, traitor! Your ball struck my armor, and had I not worn a
shirt of mail, it would have pierced my heart."

The man turned deadly pale, trembling from head to foot. "My
enemies have paid you to murder me?" The savage tried to speak, but
words died upon his lips.

"Hang him instantly--he is a traitor!"

The rest of the gang immediately seized the culprit and carried him
to the nearest tree, from whence his shrieks soon testified that
his sentence was being put in execution.

The Decurio remained alone with the young man; and hastily lifting
him, still senseless, from the ground, he mounted his horse, and
placing him before him ere the savage horde had returned, he had
galloped some distance along the road from whence the youth had
come, covering him with his mantle as he passed the bridge, to
conceal him from several of the gang who stood there, and
exclaiming, "Follow me to the Tapanfalva."

As soon as they were out of sight, he suddenly turned to the left,
down a steep, hilly path, and struck into the depth of the forest.

The morning sun had just shot its first beams across the hills,
tinting with golden hue the reddening autumn leaves, when the young
hussar began to move in his fevered dreams, and murmured the name
"Jolanka."

In a few moments he opened his eyes. He was lying in a small
chamber, through the only window of which the sunbeams shone upon
his face.

The bed on which he lay was made of lime-boughs, simply woven
together, and covered with wolves' skins. A gigantic form was
leaning against the foot of the bed with his arms folded, and as
the young man awoke, he turned round. It was the Decurio.

"Where am I?" asked the young man, vaguely endeavoring to recall
the events of the past night.

"In my house," replied Decurio.

"And who are you?"

"I am Numa, Decurio of the Roumin* Legion, your foe in battle, but
now your host and protector."

* The Wallachians were, in the days of Trajan, subdued by the
Romans, with whom they became intermixed, and are also called
Roumi.

"And why did you save me from your men?" asked the young man, after
a short silence.

"Because the strife was unequal--a hundred against one."

"But had it not been for you, I could have freed myself from them."

"Without me you had been lost. Ten paces from where I stopped your
horse, you would inevitably have been dashed to pieces by huge
stones which they were preparing to throw down upon you from the
rock."

"And you did not desire my death?"

"No, because it would have reflected dishonor on the Roumin name."

"You are a chivalrous man, Decurio!"

"I am what you are; I know your character, and the same feeling
inspires us both. You love your nation, as I do mine. Your nation
is great and cultivated; mine is despised and neglected, and my
love is more bitterly devoted. Your love for your country makes
you happy; mine deprives me of peace. You have taken up arms to
defend your country without knowing your own strength, or the
number of the foe; I have done the same. Either of us may lose, or
we may both be blotted out; but though the arms may be buried in
the earth, rust will not eat them."

"I do not understand your grievances."

"You do not understand? Know, then, that although fourteen
centuries have passed since the Roman eagle overthrew Diurbanus,
there are still those among us--the now barbarous people--who can
trace their descent from generation to generation, up to the times
of its past glory. We have still our traditions, if we have
nothing more; and can point out what forest stands in the place of
the ancient Sarmisaegethusa, and what town is built where one
Decebalus overthrew the far-famed troops of the Consulate. And
alas for that town! if the graves over which its houses are built
should once more open, and turn the populous streets into a field
of battle! What is become of the nation, the heir of so much
glory?--the proud Dacians, the descendants of the far-famed
legions? I do not reproach any nation for having brought us to
what we now are; but let none reproach me if I desire to restore my
people to what they once were."

"And do you believe that this is the time?"

"We have no prophets to point out the hour, but it seems yours do
not see more clearly. We shall attempt it now, and if we fail our
grandchildren will attempt it again. We have nothing to lose but a
few lives; you risk much that is worth losing, and yet you assemble
beneath the banner of war. Then war. Then what would you do if
you were like us?--a people who possess nothing in this world among
whom there is not one able or one instructed head; for although
every third man bears the name of Papa, it is not every hundredth
who can read! A people excluded from every employment; who live a
miserable life in the severest manual labor; who have not one noble
city in their country, the home of three-fourths of their people.
Why should we seek to know the signs of the times in which we are
to die, or be regenerated! We have nothing but our wretchedness,
and if we are conquered we lose nothing. Oh! you did wrong for
your own peace to leave a nation to such utter neglect!"

"We do not take up arms for our nation alone, but for freedom in
general."

"You do wrong. It is all the same to us who our sovereign may be;
only let him be just towards us, and raise up our fallen people;
but you will destroy your nation--its power, its influence, and
privileges--merely that you may live in a country without a head."

A loud uproar interrupted the conversation. A disorderly troop of
Wallachians approached the Decurio's house, triumphantly bearing
the hussar's csako on a pole before them.

"Had I left you there last night, they would now have exhibited
your head instead of your csako."

The crowd halted before the Decurio's window, greeting him with
loud vociferations.

The Decurio spoke a few words in the Wallachian language, on which
they replied more vehemently than before, at the same time
thrusting forward the kalpag on the pole.

The Decurio turned hastily round. "Was your name written on your
kalpag?" he asked the young man, in evident embarrassment.

"It was."

"Unhappy youth! The people, furious at not having found you, are
determined to attack your father's house."

"And you will permit them?" asked the youth, starting from bed.

"I dare not contradict them, unless I would lose their confidence.
I can prevent nothing."

"Give me up--let them wreak their bloody vengeance on my head!"

"I should only betray myself for having concealed you; and it would
not save your father's house."

"And if they murder the innocent and unprotected, on whom will the
ignominy of their blood fall?"

"On me; but I will give you the means of preventing this disgrace.
Do you accept it?"

"Speak!"

"I will give you a disguise; hasten to Kolozsvar and assemble your
comrades,--then return and protect your house. I will wait you
there, and man to man, in open honorable combat, the strife will no
longer be ignominious."

"Thanks, thanks!" murmured the youth, pressing the Decurio's hand.

"There is not a moment to lose; here is a peasant's mantle--if you
should be interrogated, you have only to show this paszura,* and
mention my name. Your not knowing the language is of no
consequence; my men are accustomed to see Hungarian gentlemen visit
me in disguise, and having only seen you by night, they will not
recognize you."

* Everything on which a double-headed eagle--the emblem of the
Austrian Government--was painted, engraved or sculptured, the
Wallachians called paszura.

Imre hastily took the dress, while Decurio spoke to the people,
made arrangements for the execution of their plans, and pointed out
the way to the castle, promising to follow them immediately.

"Accept my horse as a remembrance," said the young man, turning to
the Decurio.

"I accept it, as it would only raise suspicion were you to mount
it; but you may recover it again in the field. Haste, and lose no
time! If you delay you will bring mourning on your own head and
disgrace on mine!"

In a few minutes the young man, disguised as a Wallachian peasant,
was hastening on foot across the hills of Kolozsvar.

It was past midnight.

The inhabitants of the Bardy castle had all retired to rest.

The iron gate was locked and the windows barred, when suddenly the
sound of demoniac cries roused the slumberers from their dreams.

"What is that noise?" cried Jozsef Bardy, springing from his bed,
and rushing to the window.

"The Olahok!"* cried a hussar, who had rushed to his master's
apartments on hearing the sounds.

* Olah, Wallachian--ok, plural.

"The Olah! the Olah!" was echoed through the corridors by the
terrified servants.

By the light of a few torches, a hideous crowd was seen before the
windows, armed with scythes and axes, which they were brandishing
with fearful menaces.

"Lock all the doors!" cried Jozsef Bardy, with calm presence of
mind. "Barricade the great entrance, and take the ladies and
children to the back rooms. You must not lose your heads, but all
assemble together in the turret-chamber, from whence the whole
building may be protected. And taking down two good rifles from
over his bed, he hastened to his elder brother Tamas's apartments,
and overlooked the court.

Have you heard the noise?" asked his brother as he entered.

"I knew it would come," he replied, and coolly continued to pace
the room.

"And are you not preparing for defense?"

"To what purpose?--they will kill us all. I am quite prepared for
what must inevitably happen."

"But it will not happen if we defend ourselves courageously. We
are eight men--the walls of the castle are strong--the besiegers
have no guns, and no place to protect them; we may hold out for
days until assistance comes from Kolozsvar."

"We shall lose," replied Tamas coldly, and without the slightest
change of countenance.

"Then I shall defend the castle myself. I have a wife and
children, our old grandmother and our sisters are here, and I shall
protect them, if I remain alone."

At that instant Barnabas and old Simon entered with the widowed
sister.

Barnabas had a huge twenty-pound iron club in his hand; grinding
his teeth, and with eyes darting fire, he seemed capable of meeting
single-handed the whole troop.

He was followed by the widow, with two loaded pistols in her hand,
and old Simon, who entreated them not to use violence or exasperate
the enemy.

"Conduct yourselves bravely!" replied the widow dryly; "let us not
die in vain."

"Come with me--we shall send them all to hell!" cried Barnabas,
swinging his club in his herculean arm as if it had been a reed.

"Let us not be too hasty," interrupted Jozsef; we will stand here
in the tower, from whence we can shoot every one that approaches,
and if they break in, we can meet them on the stairs."

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Simon, "what are you going to do? If
you kill one of them they will massacre us all. Speak to them
peaceably--promise them wine--take them to the cellar--give them
money--try to pacify them! Nephew Tamas, you will speak to them?"
continued the old man, turning to Tamas, who still paced up and
down, without the slightest visible emotion.

"Pacification and resistance are equally vain," he replied coldly;
"we are inevitably lost!"

"We have no time for delay," said Jozsef impatiently; "take the
arms from the wall, Barnabas, give one to each servant--let them
stand at the back windows of the house, we two are enough here.
Sister, stand between the windows, that the stones may not hit you;
and when you load, do not strike the balls too far in, that our aim
may be the more secure!"

"No! no!--I cannot let you fire," exclaimed the old man,
endeavoring to drag Jozsef from the window. "You must not fire
yet--only remain quiet."

"Go to the hurricane, old man! would you have us use holy water
against a shower of stones?"

At that instant several large stones were dashed through the
windows, breaking the furniture against which they fell.

"Only wait," said Simon, "until I speak with them. I am sure I
shall pacify them. I can speak their language and I know them all--
just let me go to them."

"A vain idea! If you sue for mercy they will certainly kill you,
but if you show courage, you may bring them to their senses. You
had better stay and take a gun."

But the old man was already out of hearing, and hurrying
downstairs, he went out of a back door into the court, which the
Wallachians had not yet taken possession of.

They were endeavoring to break down one of the stone pillars of the
iron gate with their axes and hammers, and had already succeeded in
making an aperture, through which one of the gang now climbed.

Old Simon recognized him. "Lupey, my son, what do you want here?"
said the old man. "Have we ever offended you? Do you forget all
that I have done for you?--how I cured your wife when she was so
ill, and got you off from the military; and how, when your ox died,
I gave you two fine bullocks to replace it? Do you not know me, my
son Lupey?"

"I am not your son Lupey now; I am a 'malcontent!'" cried the
Wallachian, aiming a blow with a heavy hammer at the old man's
head.

Uttering a deep groan, Simon fell lifeless to the ground.

The rest of the party saw the scene from the tower.

Barnabas rushed from the room like a maddened tiger, while Jozsef,
retiring cautiously behind the embrasure of the window, aimed his
gun as they were placing his uncle's head upon a spike, and shot
the first who raised it. Another seized it, and the next instant
he, too, fell to the earth; another and another, as many as
attempted to raise the head, till, finally, none dared approach.

The widow loaded the guns while Tamas sat quietly in an armchair.

Meanwhile Barnabas had hurried to the attic, where several large
fragments of iron had been stowed away, and dragging them to a
window which overlooked the entrance, he waited until the gang had
assembled round the door, and were trying to break in; when lifting
an enormous piece with gigantic strength, he dropped it on the
heads of the besiegers.

Fearful cries arose and the gang, who were at the door, fled right
and left, leaving four or five of their number crushed beneath the
ponderous mass.

The next moment they returned with redoubled fury, dashing stones
against the windows and the roof, while the door resounded with the
blows of their clubs.

Notwithstanding the stones which were flying round him, Barnabas
stood at the window dashing heavy iron masses, and killing two or
three men every time.

His brother meanwhile continued firing from the tower, and not a
ball was aimed in vain. The besiegers had lost a great number, and
began to fall back, after fruitless efforts to break in the door,
when a footman entered breathless to inform Barnabas that the
Wallachians were beginning to scale the opposite side of the castle
with ladders, and that the servants were unable to resist them.

Barnabas rushed to the spot.

Two servants lay mortally wounded in one of the back rooms, through
the windows of which the Wallachians were already beginning to
enter, while another ladder had been placed against the opposite
window, which they were beginning to scale as Barnabas entered.

"Here, wretches!" he roared furiously, and, seizing the ladder with
both hands, shook it so violently that the men were precipitated
from it, and then lifting it with supernatural strength, he dashed
it against the opposite one, which broke with the force of the
weight thrown against it, the upper part falling backwards with the
men upon it, while one of the party remained hanging from the
window-sill, and, after immense exertions to gain a footing, he too
fell to the earth.

Barnabas rushed into the next room grinding his teeth, his lips
foaming, and his face of a livid hue; so appalling was his
appearance, that one of the gang, who had been the first to enter
by the window, turned pale with terror, and dropped his axe.

Taking advantage of this, Barnabas darted on his enemy, and
dragging him with irresistible force to the window, he dashed him
from it.

"On here! as many as you are!" he shouted furiously, the blood
gushing from his mouth from the blow of a stone. "On! all who wish
a fearful death!"

At that instant, a shriek of terror rose within the house.

The Wallachians had discovered the little back door which Simon had
left open, and, stealing through it, were already inside the house,
when the shrieks of a servant girl gave the besieged notice of
their danger.

Barnabas, seizing his club, hurried in the direction of the sounds;
he met his brother on the stairs, who had likewise heard the cry,
and hastened thither with his gun in his hand, accompanied by the
widow.

"Go, sister!" said Jozsef, "take my wife and children to the
attics; we will try to guard the staircase step by step. Kiss them
all for me. If we die, the villains will put us all in one grave--
we shall meet again!"

The widow retired.

The two brothers silently pressed hands, and then, standing on the
steps, awaited their enemies. They did not wait long.

The bloodhounds with shouts of vengeance rushed on the narrow stone
stairs.

"Hah! thus near I love to have you, dogs of hell!" cried Barnabas,
raising his iron club with both hands, and dealing such blows right
and left, that none whom it reached rose again. The stairs were
covered with the dead and wounded, while their death cries, and the
sound of the heavy club, echoed fearfully through the vaulted
building.

The foremost of the gang retreated as precipitately as they had
advanced, but were continually pressed forward again by the members
from behind, while Barnabas drove them back unweariedly, cutting an
opening through them with the blows of his club.

He had already beaten them back nearly to the bottom of the stairs,
when one of the gang, who had concealed himself in a niche, pierced
him through the back with a spike.

Dashing his club amongst the retreating crowd, he turned with a cry
of rage, and seizing his murderer by the shoulders, dragged him
down with him to the ground.

The first four who rushed to help the murderer were shot dead by
Jozsef Bardy, who, when he had fired off both his muskets, still
defended his prostrated brother with the butt-end of one, until he
was overpowered and disarmed; after which a party of them carried
him out to the iron cross, and crucified him on it amidst the most
shocking tortures.

On trying to separate the other brother from his murderer, they
found them both dead. With his last strength Barnabas had choked
his enemy, whom he still held firmly in his deadly grip, and they
were obliged to cut off his hand in order to disengage the
Wallachian's body.

Tamas, the eldest brother, now alone survived. Seated in his
armchair he calmly awaited his enemies, with a large silver
chandelier burning on the table before him.

As the noise approached his chamber, he drew from its jeweled
sheath his broad curved sword, and, placing it on the table before
him, proceeded coolly to examine the ancient blade, which was
inscribed with unknown characters.

At last the steps were at the door; the handle was turned--it had
not even been locked.

The magnate rose, and, taking his sword from the table, he stood
silently and calmly before the enemies, who rushed upon him with
fearful oaths, brandishing their weapons still reeking with the
blood of his brothers.

The nobleman stood motionless as a statue until they came within
two paces of him, when suddenly the bright black steel gleamed
above his head, and the foremost man fell at his feet with his
skull split to the chin. The next received a deep gash in the
shoulder of his outstretched arm, but not a word escaped the
magnate's lips, his countenance retained its cold and stern
expression as he looked at his enemies in calm disdain, as if to
say, "Even in combat a nobleman is worth ten boors."

Warding off with the skill of a professed swordsman every blow
aimed at him, he coolly measured his own thrusts, inflicting severe
wounds on his enemies' faces and heads; but the more he evaded them
the more furious they became. At last he received a severe wound
in the leg from a scythe, and fell on one knee; but without
evincing the slightest pain, he still continued fighting with the
savage mob, until, after a long and obstinate struggle, he fell
without a murmur, or even a death-groan.

The enraged gang cut his body to pieces, and in a few minutes they
had hoisted his head on his own sword. Even then the features
retained their haughty, contemptuous expression.

He was the last man of the family with whom they had to combat,
but more than a hundred of their own band lay stretched in the
court and before the windows, covering the stairs and rooms with
heaps of bodies, and when the shouts of triumph ceased for an
instant, the groans of the wounded and the dying were heard from
every side.

None now remained but women and children. When the Wallachians
broke into the castle, the widow had taken them all to the attics,
leaving the door open, that her brothers might find refuge in case
they were forced to retreat; and here the weaker members of the
family awaited the issue of the combat which was to bring them life
or death, listening breathlessly to the uproar, and endeavoring,
from its confused sounds, to determine good or evil.

At last the voices died away, and the hideous cries of the
besiegers ceased. The trembling women believed that the
Wallachians had been driven out, and, breathing more freely, each
awaited with impatience the approach of brother--husband--sons.

At last a heavy step was heard on the stairs leading to the garret.

"This is Barnabas's step!" cried the widow, joyfully, and still
holding the pistols in her hand, she ran to the door of the garret.

Instead of her expected brother, a savage form, drunken with blood,
strode towards her, his countenance burning with rage and triumph.

The widow started back, uttering a shriek of terror, and then with
that unaccountable courage of desperation, she aimed one of the
pistols at the Wallachian's breast, who instantly fell backwards on
one of his comrades, who followed close behind. The other pistol
she discharged into her own bosom.

And now we must draw a veil over the scene that followed. What
happened there must not be witnessed by human eyes.

Suffice it to say, they murdered every one, women and children,
with the most refined and brutal cruelty, and then threw their dead
bodies out of the window from which Barnabas had dashed down the
iron fragments on the besiegers' heads.

They left the old grandmother to the last, that she might witness
the extermination of her whole family. Happily for her, her eyes
had ceased to distinguish the light of sun, and ere long the light
of an eternal glory had risen upon them.

The Wallachians then dug a common grave for the bodies, and threw
them all in together. The little one, whom his parents loved so
well, they cast in alive, his nurse having escaped from the attics
and carried him downstairs, where they had been overtaken by the
savages.

"There are only eleven here!" cried one of the gang, who had
counted the bodies, "one of them must be still alive somewhere--
there ought to be twelve!" And then they once more rushed through
the empty rooms, overturning all the furniture, and cutting up and
breaking everything they met with. They searched the garrets and
every corner of the cellars, but without success.

At last a yell of triumph was heard. One of them had discovered a
door which, being painted of the same color as the walls, had
hitherto escaped their observation. It concealed a small apartment
in the turret. With a few blows of their axes it was broken open,
and they rushed in.

"Ah! a rare booty!" cried the foremost of the ruffians, while, with
bloodthirsty curiosity, the others pressed round to see the new
victim.

There lay the little orphan with the golden hair; her eyes were
closed and a death-like hue had overspread her beautiful features.

Her aunt, with an instinctive foreboding, had concealed her here
when she took the others to the attic.

The orphan grasped a sharp knife in her hand, with which she had
attempted to kill herself; and when her fainting hands refused the
fearful service, she had swooned in despair.

"Ah!" cried the Wallachians, in savage admiration, their
bloodthirsty countenances assuming a still more hellish expression.

"This is a common booty!" cried several voices together.

"A beautiful girl! A noble lady! ha, ha! She will just suit the
tattered Wallachians!" And with their foul and bloody hands, they
seized the young girl by her fair slight arms.

"Ha! what is going on here?" thundered a voice from behind.

The Wallachians looked round.

A figure stood among them fully a head taller than all the rest.
He wore a brass helmet, in which a deep cleft was visible, and held
in his left hand a Roman sword. His features bore the ancient
Roman character.

"The Decurio!" they murmured, making way for him.

"What is going on here?" he repeated; and seizing the fainting girl
in the arms of a Wallachian, he ordered him to lay her down.

"She is one of our enemies," replied the savage insolently.

"Silence, knave! Does one of the Roumin nation seek enemies in
women? Lay her down instantly."

"Not so, leader," interrupted Lupey; "our laws entitle us to a
division of the spoil. This girl is our booty; she belongs to us
after the victory."

"I know our laws better than you do, churl! Due division of spoil
is just and fair; but we cast lots for what cannot be divided."

"True, leader: a horse or an ox cannot be divided, and for them we
cast lots, but in this case--"

"I have said it cannot, and I should like to know who dares to say
it can!"

Lupey knew the Decurio too well to proffer another syllable, and
the rest turned silently from the girl; one voice alone was heard
to exclaim, "It can!"

"Who dares to say that?" cried the Decurio; "let him come forward!"

A young Wallachian, with long plaited hair, confronted the Decurio.
He was evidently intoxicated, and replied, striking his breast with
his fist: "I said so."

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips, than the Decurio, raising
his left hand, severed the contradictor's head at one stroke from
his body; and as it fell back, the lifeless trunk dropped on its
knees before the Decurio, with its arms around him, as if in
supplication.

"Dare anyone still say it can?" asked Numa, with merciless rigor.

The Wallachians turned silently away.

"Put the horses immediately to the carriage; the girl must be
placed in it, and brought to Topanfalvo. Whoever has the good
fortune of winning her, has a right to receive her as I confide her
to you; but if anyone of you should dare to offend her in the
slightest degree, even by a look or a smile, remember this and take
example from it," continued the Decurio, pointing with his sword to
the headless body of the young man. "And now you may go--destroy
and pillage."

At these words the band scattered right and left, the Decurio with
the fainting girl, whom he lifted into the carriage and confided to
some faithful retainers of the family, pointing out the road across
the hills.

In half an hour the castle was in flames and the Wallachians,
descending into the cellars, had knocked out the bottoms of the
casks, and bathed in the sea of flowing wine and brandy, singing
wild songs, while the fire burst from every window enveloping the
blackened walls; after which the revelers departed, leaving their
dead, and those who were too helplessly intoxicated to follow them.

Meanwhile they brought the young girl to the Decurio's house, and
as each man considered that he had an equal right to the prize,
they kept a vigilant eye upon her, and none dared offend her so
much as by a look.

When the Decurio arrived, they all crowded into the house with him,
filling the rooms, as well as the entrance and porch.

Having laid out the spoil before them on the ground, the leader
proceeded to divide it into equal shares, retaining for himself a
portion of ten men, after which most of the band dispersed to their
homes; but a good many remained, greedily eyeing their still
unappropriated victim, who lay pale and motionless as the dead on
the couch of lime-boughs where they had laid her.

"You are waiting, I suppose, to cast lots for the girl?" said Numa
dryly.

"Certainly," replied Lupey, with an insolent leer; "and his she
will be who casts highest. If two, or ten, or twenty of us should
cast the same, we have an equal right to her."

"I tell you only one can have her," interrupted Numa sternly.

"Then those who win must cast again among each other."

"Casting the die will not do; we may throw all day long, and two
may remain at the end."

"Well, let us play cards for her."

"I cannot allow that, the more cunning will deceive the simpler."

"Well, write our names upon bricks, and throw them all into a
barrel; and whichever name you draw will take away the girl."

"I can say what name I please, for none of you can read."

The Wallachian shook his head impatiently.

"Well, propose something yourself, Decurio."

"I will. Let us try which of us can give the best proof of courage
and daring; and whoever can do that, shall have the girl, for he
best deserves her."

"Well said!" cried the men unanimously. "Let us each relate what
we have done, and then you can judge which among us is the
boldest."

"I killed the first Bardy in the court in sight of his family."

"I broke in the door, when that terrible man was dashing down the
iron on our heads."

"But it was I who pierced his heart."

"I mounted the stairs first."

"I fought nearly half an hour with the noble in the cloth of gold."

And thus they continued. Each man, according to his own account,
was the first and the bravest--each had performed miracles of
valor.

"You have all behaved with great daring, but it is impossible now
to prove what has happened. The proof must be given here, by all
of us together, before my eyes, indisputably."

"Well, tell us how," said Lupey impatiently, always fearing that
the Decurio was going to deceive them.

"Look here," said Numa, drawing a small cask from beneath the bed--
and in doing so he observed that the young girl half opened her
eyes, as she glanced at him, and then closed them. She was awake,
and had heard all.

As he stooped down, Numa whispered gently in her ear: "Fear
nothing," and then drew the cask into the middle of the room.

The Wallachians stared with impatient curiosity as he knocked out
the bottom of the cask with a hatchet.

"This cask contains gunpowder," continued Decurio. "We will light
a match and place it in the middle of the cask, and whoever remains
longest in the room is undoubtedly the most courageous; for there
is enough here to blow up not only this house, but the whole of the
neighboring village."

At this proposition several of the men began to murmur.

"If any are afraid they are not obliged to remain," said the
Decurio dryly.

"I agree," said Lupey doggedly. "I will remain here; and perhaps,
after all, it is poppy-seeds you have got there--it looks very much
like them."

The Decurio stooped down, and taking a small quantity between his
fingers, threw it into the Wallachian's pipe, which immediately
exploded, causing him to stagger backwards, and the next instant he
stood with a blackened visage, sans beard and moustache, amidst the
jeers and laughter of his comrades.

This only exasperated him the more.

"I will stay for all that!" he exclaimed; and lifting up the pipe
which he had dropped, he walked over and lit it at the burning
match which the Decurio was placing in the cask.

Upon this, two-thirds of the men left the room.

The rest assembled around the cask with much noise and bravado,
swearing by heaven and earth that they would stay until the match
burned out; but the more they swore, the more they looked at the
burning match, the flame of which was slowly approaching the
gunpowder.

For some minutes their courage remained unshaken, but after that
they ceased to boast, and began to look at each other in silent
consternation, while their faces grew paler every instant. At last
one or two rose and stood aloof; the others followed their example,
and some grinding their teeth with rage, others chattering with
terror, they all began to leave the room.

Only two remained beside the cask; Numa, who stood with his arms
folded leaning against the foot of the bed; and Lupey, who was
sitting on the iron of the cask with his back turned to the danger,
and smoking furiously.

As soon as they were alone, the latter glanced behind him and saw
the flame was within an inch of the powder.

"I'll tell you what, Decurio," he said, springing up, "we are only
two left, don't let us make food of each other; let us come to an
understanding on this matter."

"If you are tired of waiting, I can press the match lower."

"This is no jest, Numa; you are risking your own life. How can you
wish to send us both to hell for the sake of a pale girl? But I'll
tell you what--I'll give her up to you if you will only promise
that she shall be mine when you are tired of her."

"Remain here and win her--if you dare."

"To what purpose?" said the Wallachian, in a whining voice, and in
his impatience he began to tear his clothes and stamp with his
feet, like a petted child.

"What I have said stands good," said the Decurio; "whoever remains
longest has the sole right to the lady."

"Well, I will stay, of course; but what do I gain by it? I know
you will stay, too, and then the devil will have us both; and I
speak not only for myself when I say I do not wish that."

"If you do not wish it, you had better be gone."

"Well, I don't care--if you will give me a golden mark."

"Not the half; stay if you like it."

"Decurio, this is madness! The flame will reach the powder
immediately."

"I see it."

"Well, say a dollar."

"Not a whit."

"May the seventy-seven limited thunder-bolt strike you on St.
Michael's Day!" roared the Wallachian fiercely, as he rushed to the
door; but after he had gone out, he once more thrust his head in
and cried: "Will you give even a form? I am not gone yet."

"Nor have I removed the match; you may come back." The Wallachian
slammed the door, and ran for his life, till exhausted and
breathless he sank under a tree, where he lay with his tunic over
his head, and his ears covered with his hands, only now and then
raising his head nervously, to listen for the awful explosion which
was to blow up the world.

Meanwhile Numa coolly removed the match, which was entirely burnt
down; and throwing it into the grate, he stepped over to the bed
and whispered into the young girl's ear: "You are free!"

Trembling, she raised herself in the bed and taking the Decurio's
large, sinewy hands within her own, she murmured: "Be merciful! O
hear my prayer, and kill me!"

The Decurio stroked the fair hair of the lovely suppliant. "Poor
child!" he replied gently; "you have nothing to fear; nobody will
hurt you now."

"You have saved me from these fearful people--now save me from
yourself!"

"You have nothing to fear from me," replied the Dacian, proudly; "I
fight for liberty alone, and you may rest as securely within my
threshold as on the steps of the altar. When I am absent you need
have no anxiety, for these walls are impregnable, and if anyone
should dare offend you by the slightest look, that moment shall be
the last of his mortal career. And when I am at home you have
nothing to fear, for woman's image never dwelt within my heart.
Accept my poor couch, and may your rest be sweet!--Imre Bardy slept
on it last night."

"Imre!" exclaimed the starting girl. "You have seen him, then?--
oh! where is he!"

The Decurio hesitated. "He should not have delayed so long," he
murmured, pressing his hand against his brow; "all would have been
otherwise."

"Oh! let me go to him; if you know where he is."

"I do not know, but I am certain he will come here if he is alive--
indeed he must come."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because he will seek you."

"Did he then speak--before you?"

"As he lay wounded on that couch, he pronounced your name in his
dreams. Are you not that Jolanka Bardy whom they call 'The Angel'?
I knew you by your golden locks."

The young girl cast down her eyes. "Then you think he will come?"
she said in a low voice. And my relations?"

"He will come as soon as possible; and now you must take some food
and rest. Do not think about your relations now; they are all in a
safe place--nobody can hurt them more.

The Decurio brought some refreshment, laid a small prayer-book on
the pillow, and left the orphan by herself.

The poor girl opened the prayer-book, and her tears fell like rain-
drops on the blessed page; but, overcome by the fatigue and terror
she had undergone, her head ere long sank gently back, and she
slept calmly and sweetly the sleep of exhausted innocence.

As evening closed, the Decurio returned, and softly approaching the
bed, looked long and earnestly at the fair sleeper's face, until
two large tears stood unconsciously in his eyes.

The Roumin hastily brushed away the unwonted moisture, and as if
afraid of the feeling which had stolen into his breast, he hastened
from the room, and laid himself upon his woolen rug before the open
door.

The deserted castle still burned on, shedding a ghastly light on
the surrounding landscape, while the deepest silence reigned
around, only broken now and then by an expiring groan, or the
hoarse song of a drunken reveler.

Day was beginning to dawn as a troop of horsemen galloped furiously
towards the castle from the direction of Kolozsvar.

They were Imre and his comrades.

Silently and anxiously they pursued their course, their eyes fixed
upon one point, as they seemed to fly rather than gallop along the
road. "We are too late!" exclaimed one of the party at last,
pointing to a dim red smoke along the horizon. "Your castle is
burning!"

Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a
swifter pace. A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to
their view, its blackened walls still burning, while red smoke rose
high against the side of the hill.

The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly
down the declivity. In less than a quarter of an hour he stood
before the ruined walls.

"Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?" he
shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of
a half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined
portico.

The latter fell to his knees, imploring mercy, and declaring that
it was not he who killed them.

"Then they are dead!" exclaimed the unhappy youth, as, half-choked
by his sobs, he fell forward on his horse's neck.

Meanwhile his companions had ridden up, and immediately sounded the
Wallachian, whom, but for Imre's interference, they would have cut
down.

"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he
continued; "have you not left one alive? Accursed be the sun that
rises after such a night!"

The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of fresh-raised mould.
"They are all there!" he said.

Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down.

His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass
was least red.

They then began to dig twelve graves with their swords. Imre
watched them in silence. He seemed unconscious what they were
about.

When they had finished the graves they proceeded to open the large
pit, but the sight was too horrible, and they carried Imre away by
force. He could not have looked on what was there and still retain
his senses.

In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that
there were only eleven bodies in the grave.

"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of
hope passing over his pale features; "which is it?--speak! Is
there not a young girl with golden locks among them?"

"I know not," stammered his comrade, in great embarrassment.

"You do not know?--go and look again." His friend hesitated.

"Let me go--I must know," said Imre impatiently, as the young man
endeavored to detain him.

"O stay, Imre, you cannot look on them; they are all headless!"

"My God!" exclaimed the young man, covering his face with both
hands, and, bursting into tears he threw himself down with his face
upon the earth.

His comrades questioned the Wallachian closely as to what he knew
about the young girl. First he returned no answer, pretending to
be drunk and not to understand; but on their promising to spare his
life, on the sole condition that he would speak the truth, he
confessed that she had been carried away to the mountains, where
the band were to cast lots for her.

"I must go!" said Imre, starting as if in a trance.

"Whither?" inquired his comrades.

"To seek her! Take off your dress," he continued, turning to the
Wallachian, "you may have mine in exchange," and, hastily putting
on the tunic, he concealed his pistols in the girdle beneath it.

"We will follow you," said his comrades, taking up their arms; "we
will seek her from village to village."

"No, no, I must go alone! I shall find her more easily alone. If
I do not return, avenge this for me," he said, pointing to the
moat; then, turning to the Wallachian, he added sternly: "I have
found beneath your girdle a gold medallion, which my grandmother
wore suspended from her neck, and by which I know you to be one of
her murderers, and, had I not promised to spare your life, you
should now receive the punishment that you deserve. Keep him
here," he said to his comrades, "until I have crossed the hills,
and then let him go."

And taking leave of his friends, he cast one glance at the eleven
heaps, and at the burning castle of his ancestors, and hastened
toward the mountains.

The hoary autumn nights had dyed the leaves of the forest. The
whole country looked as if it had been washed in blood.

Deep amidst the wildest forest the path suddenly descends into a
narrow valley, surrounded by steep rocks at the foot of which lies
a little village half concealed among the trees.

It seemed as if the settlers there had only cleared sufficient
ground to build their dwellings, leaving all the rest a dense
forest. Apart from the rest, on the top of a rock, stood a
cottage, which, unlike others, was constructed entirely of large
blocks of stone, and only approachable by a small path cut in the
rock.

A young man ascended this path. He was attired in a peasant's garb
and although he evidently had traveled far, his step was light and
fleet. When he had ascended about halfway, he was suddenly stopped
by an armed Wallachian, who had been kneeling before a shrine in
the rock, and seeing the stranger, rose and stood in his path.

The latter pronounced the Decurio's name, and produced his pazsura.

The Wallachian examined it on every side, and then stepped back to
let the stranger pass, after which he once more laid down his
scythe and cap, and knelt before the shrine.

The stranger knocked at the Decurio's door, which was locked, and
an armed Wallachian appeared from behind the rocks, and informed
him that the Decurio was not at home, only his wife.

"His wife?" exclaimed the stranger in surprise.

"Yes, that pale girl who fell to him by lot."

"And she is his wife."

"He told us so himself, and swore that if any of us dared so much
as lift his eye upon her, he would send him to St. Nicholas in
paradise."

"Can I not see her?"

"I would not advise you; for if the Decurio hears of it, he will
make halves of you; but you may go around to the window if you
like--only let me get out of the way first, that the Decurio may
not find me here."

The stranger hastened to the window, and looking in, he saw the
young girl seated on an armchair made of rough birch boughs, with a
little prayer-book on her knee; her fair arm supporting her head,
while a mass of golden ringlets half veiled her face, which was as
pale as an alabaster statue; the extreme sadness of its expression
rendering her beauty still more touching.

"Jolanka!" exclaimed the stranger passionately.

She started at the well-known voice, and, uttering a cry of joy,
rushed to the window.

"Oh, Imre!" she murmured, "are you come at last!"

"Can I not enter? can I not speak with you?"

The young girl hastened to unbar the door, which was locked on the
inside, and as Imre entered she threw herself into his arms, while
he pressed her fondly to his heart.

The Wallachian, who had stolen to the window, stood aghast with
terror and, soon as the Decurio arrived, he ran to meet him, and
related, with vehement gesticulations, how the girl had thrown
herself into the peasant's arms.

"And how did you know that?" asked Numa coldly.

"I saw them through the window."

"And dared you look through my window? Did I not forbid you? Down
on your knees, and pray!"

The Wallachian fell on his knees, and clasped his hands. "Rebel!
you deserve your punishment of death for having disobeyed my
commands; and if you ever dare to open your lips on the subject,
depend upon it, you shall not escape!" And with these words he
strode away, leaving the astonished informer on his knees, in which
posture he remained for some time afterwards, not daring to raise
his head until the Decurio's steps had died away.

As Numa entered the house, the lovers hastened to meet him. For an
instant or two he stood at the threshold, regarding the young man
with a look of silent reproach. "Why did you come so late?" he
asked.

Imre held out his hand, but the Decurio did not accept it. "The
blood of your family is on my hand," he whispered. "You have let
dishonor come on me, and mourning on yourself."

The young man's head sunk on his breast in silent anguish.

"Take his hand," said Jolanka, in her low, sweet accents; and then
turning to Imre, "He saved your life--he saved us both, and he will
rescue our family, too."

Imre looked at her in astonishment.

The Decurio seized his arms and drew him aside. "She does not know
that they are dead," he whispered; "she was not with them, and
knows nothing of their fate; and I have consoled her with the idea
that they are all prisoners, she must never know the horrors of
that fearful night."

"But sooner or later she will hear it."

"Never! you must leave the place and the kingdom. You must go to
Turkey."

"My way lies towards Hungary."

"You must not think of it. Evil days await that country; your
prophets do not see them, but I know, and see them clearly. Go to
Turkey; I will give you letters by which you may pass in security
through Wallachia and Moldavia; and here is a purse of gold--do not
scruple to accept it, for it is your own, it belonged to THEM.
Promise me, for her sake," he continued earnestly, pointing to
Jolanka, "that you will not go to Hungary."

Imre hesitated. "I cannot promise what I am not sure I shall
fulfill; but I shall remember your advice."

Numa took the hands of the two lovers, and, gazing long and
earnestly on their faces, he said, in a voice of deep feeling, "You
love one another?"

They pressed his hand in silence.

"You will be happy--you will forget your misfortunes. God bless
and guide you on your way! Take these letters, and keep the direct
road to Brasso,* by the Saxon-land.** You will find free passage
everywhere, and never look behind until the last pinnacles of the
snowy mountains are beyond your sight. Go! we will not take leave,
not a word, let us forget each other!"

* Brasso, or Kyonstadt, a town in the southeast of Transylvania, on
the frontier of Wallachia.

** A district inhabited by a colony of Saxons.

The Decurio watched the lovers until they were out of sight; and
called to them, even when they could hear him no longer: "Do not go
towards Hungary."

He then entered his house. The prayer-book lay open as the young
girl had left it; the page was still damp with her tears. Numa's
hand trembled, as he kissed the volume fervently and placed it in
his bosom.

When night came on, the Roumin lay down on his wolf-skin couch,
where the golden-haired maiden, and her lover before her, had
slept, but it seemed as if they had stolen his rest--he could not
close his eyes there, so he rose and went out on the porch, where
he spread his rug before the open door; but it was long ere he
could sleep--there was an unwonted feeling at his heart, something
like happiness, yet inexpressibly sad; and, buried in deep reverie,
he lay with his eyes fixed on the dark blue starry vault above him
till past midnight. Suddenly he thought he heard the report of
some fire-arms at a great distance, and at the same moment two
stars sank beneath the horizon. Numa thought of the travelers, and
a voice seemed to whisper, "They are now happy!"

The moon had risen high in the heavens, when the Decurio was roused
from his sleep by heavy footsteps, and five or six Wallachians,
among whom was Lupey, stood before him.

"We have brought two enemies' heads," said the latter, with a dark
look at the Decurio; "pay us their worth!" and taking two heads
from his pouch he laid them on Numa's mat.

The Wallachians watched their leader's countenance with sharp,
suspicious glances.

Numa recognized the two heads by the light of the moon. They were
those of Imre and Jolanka, but his features did not betray the
slightest emotion.

"You will know them probably," continued Lupey. "The young
magnate, who escaped us at the pass, came for the girl in your
absence, and at the same time stole your money, and, what is more,
we found your pazsura upon him also."

"Who killed them?" asked the Decurio, in his usual calm voice.

"None of us," replied the Wallachian; "as we rushed upon them, the
young magnate drew two pistols from his girdle, and shot the girl
through the head first, and himself afterwards."

"Were you all there?"

"And more of us besides."

"Go back and bring the rest. I will divide the money you have
found on them among you. Make haste; and should one of you remain
behind, his share will be divided among the rest."

The Wallachians hastened to seek their comrades with cries of joy.

The Decurio then locked the door, and, throwing himself upon the
ground beside the two heads, he kissed them a hundred times, and
sobbed like a child.

"I warned you not to go toward Hungary!" he said bitterly. "Why
did you not hear me, unhappy children? why did you not take my
word?" and he wept over his enemies' heads as if he had been their
father.

He then rose, his eyes darting fire, and, shaking his terrible
fist, he cried, in a voice hoarse with rage: "Czine mintye!"*

* Czine mintye!--A Wallachian term signifying revenge.

In a few hours, the Wallachians had assembled before the Decurio's
house. They were about fifty or sixty, all wild, fearful-looking
men.

Numa covered the two heads with a cloth, and laid them on the bed,
after which he opened the door.

Lupey entered last.

"Lock the door," said Numa, when they were all in; we must not be
interrupted;" and, making them stand in a circle, he looked around
at them all, one by one.

"Are you all here?" he asked at last.

"Not one is absent."

"Do you consider yourselves all equally deserving of sharing THE
BOOTY?"

"All of us."

"It was you," he continued to Lupey, "who struck down the old man?"

"It was."

"And you who pierced the magnate with a spike?"

"You are right, leader."

"And you really killed all the women in the castle?" turning to a
third.

"With my own hand."

"And one and all of you can boast of having massacred, and
plundered, and set on fire?"

"All! all!" they cried, striking their breasts.

"Do not lie before Heaven. See! your wives are listening at the
window to what you say, and will betray you if you do not speak the
truth."

"We speak the truth!"

"It is well!" said the leader, as he calmly approached the bed;
and, seating himself on it, uncovered the two heads and placed them
on his knee. "Where did you put their bodies?" he asked.

"We cut them in pieces and strewed them on the highroad."

There was a short silence. Numa's breathing became more and more
oppressed, and his large chest heaved convulsively. "Have you
prayed yet?" he asked in an altered voice.

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