’Midst the Wild Carpathians

I A Hunt in the Year 1666

Before us lies the valley of the Drave, one of those endless wildernesses where even the wild beast loses its way. Forests everywhere, maples and aspens a thousand years old, with their roots under water; magnificent morasses the surface of which is covered, not with reeds and water-lilies, but with gigantic trees, from the dependent branches of which the vivifying waters force fresh roots. Here the swan builds her nest; here too dwell the royal heron, the blind crow, the golden plover, and other man-shunning animals which are rarely if ever seen in more habitable regions.

Here and there on little mounds, left bare during the long summer drought by the receding waters, sprout strange and gorgeous flowers, such perhaps as the earth has not brought forth since the Flood overwhelmed her. In this slimy soil every blade of grass shoots up like gigantic broom; the funnel-shaped convolvuluses and the evergreen ground-ivy put forth tendrils as stout and as strong as vine branches, which, stretching from tree to tree, twine round their stems and hang flowery garlands about the dark, sombre maples, just as if some hamadryad had crowned the grove dedicated to her.

But it is only when evening descends that this realm of waters begins to show signs of life. Whole swarms of waterfowl then mount into the air, whose rueful, monotonous croaking is only broken by the melancholy piping of the bittern and the whistle of the green turtle.

Suddenly a wild tumult filled the courtyard, and, to the great terror of the servants assembled there, four-and-twenty mounted Albanians, armed with swords and lances, and headed by a big-headed Turkish Aga, dashed up to the door.

“Is your master at home?” cried the Aga dictatorially to Andy, who stood rooted to the spot with fright. “For if he is,” continued he, without waiting for an answer, “tell him to come here. I have something to say to him.”⁠—Andy still could not find his voice.⁠—“If, however,” proceeded the Turk emphatically, “if he won’t come, I’ll go and fetch him.”

And with these words he sprang from his horse, and was crossing the threshold, when Andrew plucked up sufficient courage to stammer⁠—“But, most gracious sir.⁠ ⁠…” The Turk turned savagely upon him.

“It were better, my son, if you did not chatter so much!” said he, and forthwith he plunged into the vestibule.

At that very moment Apafi, startled by the clatter of the sabres, came out of his wife’s chamber. He was not a little alarmed when he found himself face to face with this unexpected guest.

“Are you Michael Apafi?” asked the Turk wrathfully.

“The same, at your service, gracious sir,” returned Apafi meekly.

“Good! My master, his Highness, the famous Ali Pasha, commands you to instantly get into your carriage, and come to my lord’s camp at Kis-Selyk without a single attendant.”

“The Sublime Sultan has heard how honestly, discreetly, and manfully thou hast borne thy doleful captivity, and how thou didst win the hearts of thy fellow-captives, insomuch that they all looked up to thee, though among slaves there is no distinction of rank. For which cause therefore, and also having regard to the fact that the present Prince of Transylvania, John Kemeny, would fain rebel against the Sublime Porte, the illustrious Padishah, I say, has for these reasons resolved to raise thee without delay to the throne of Transylvania and keep thee there.”

“Me! You are pleased to jest with your servant, most gracious sir!” stuttered Apafi.

His eyes were blinded by excess of light.

“Nay, thou hast not the slightest cause to be amazed thereat. The Padishah has but to nod, and pashas and princes become slaves, beggars, or corpses. He nods again, and beggars and slaves rise up into their places. Thou art highly favoured, for thou hast found grace before him. Use it discreetly then, but beware of abusing it!”

“But, most gracious sir, does it occur to you how I’m to become a prince?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll make thee one.”

“But Transylvania has got another prince, John Kemeny.”

“Leave that to me also. I’ll dispose of him.”

Apafi shrugged his shoulders. He felt that he had never been in such a mess in all his life.

“My wife was quite right in her presentiment that a great misfortune was about to befall me,” thought he to himself.

The Pasha began again.

“Summon therefore a Diet at once, so that the installation may take place as speedily as possible.”

The sleeves of her long striped kaftan hang slovenly down, and her dirty turban gives you the impression that she has slept in it for weeks together.

The trysting-place which the two shapes are cautiously making for is a cavern covered with bushes. Both shapes glide, at the same time, into the cavern, from the dark depths of which they can see the fortress without being seen themselves. The old woman, with a hideous smile, whispers something in the man’s ear.

“Are you quite sure?” inquired the squinter, with a searching look.

“So certain that I make bold to claim one-half of the promised reward in advance.”

“That I can quite understand,” replied the man with an insulting smile; “but I will make bold not to pay it. I prefer sticking to my principle of paying as I go along, sentence by sentence.”

“Ask then!” murmured the hag greedily.

“When does the Beg return? I lay five ducats on that question.”

“The answer to it costs ten. That is my lowest price.”

“There’s your money then! Now speak!”

The woman counted the gold pieces, put them in her bosom, and replied⁠—

“The Beg comes home this evening.”

“Where is the subterranean way by which he arrives?”

“The answer to that costs one hundred ducats.”

“There you are! Don’t count them, but answer me!”

The woman took the money, pointed to the yawning chasm behind them, and said⁠—

“We are on the very spot.”

As Denis Banfi, after quitting his wife’s chamber, was descending the spiral staircase which led to the hall, he saw a young horseman come galloping at full speed into the courtyard.

The horseman was covered with blood and foam. As he sprang from his horse the beast collapsed altogether; but the rider rushed pell-mell towards Banfi, who, recognizing in him one of his captains, Gabriel Benkö, went to meet him, and asked him what was the matter.

“Sir,” began the gasping knight, catching his breath, “Ali Pasha is attacking Banfi-Hunyad.”

“Is that all?” said Banfi gruffly, not displeased that Fate had given his irritated temper something to rend and tear. “Send Veer hither!” he cried to his retainers; “and you, when you have got your breath, just tell me how the matter went.”

“I must be brief, my lord. I come from the thick of the fight. Yesterday a troop of Kurdish freebooters appeared before Banfi-Hunyad. Your lordship’s captain, Gregory Söter, anticipating that they had come to levy blackmail, went out against them with the castle bands, engaged in combat with them, drove them from beneath the walls after a sharp contest, and, following up his advantage, sounded a charge and pursued the fugitives in the direction of Zenlelke.