St. Peter's Umbrella: A Novel

"Found!" he murmured. He thought he would have fallen from his chair in his joy.

"And to whom does it belong? To the Church?" asked Gyuri.

"It may be yours once," said Mrs. Szliminszky. "It will be Veronica's when she marries; the priest of Glogova told me so himself. 'It will belong to my sister,' he said, 'unless she makes a present of it to the Church when she marries.'"

"Oh, no," said the lawyer, shaking his head. "At least, I mean ... What am I saying? What were we speaking about? It is fearfully warm, I'm stifling. Please, Mr. Mravucsán, could we have the window open?"

"Of course," and the mayor ran to open it.

"Button up your coat, Wladin!"

A fresh spring air entered by the window, and a slight breeze put out both the candles.

"Kisses allowed," called out Klempa.

A branch of lilac was just outside the window, and spread its delicious perfume through the room, decidedly more pleasant than the fumes of tobacco smoke which had filled it a minute before.

Madame Krisbay, startled by the sudden darkness, gave vent to a little scream, and Klempa seized the opportunity to exclaim:

"I assure you it was not I!"

There was a general confusion in the darkness, but Mrs. Szliminszky, wanting to prove she was above being troubled by such trifles, quietly continued her conversation with Gyuri.

"It is a pretty little legend, Mr. Wibra. I am not easily imposed upon, and, besides, we are Lutherans; but I must say it is a very pretty legend. But the umbrella is really wonderful. Sick people are cured if they stand under it; a dead man rose to life again when it touched him. It is of no use your shaking your head, for it is true. I know the man himself, he is still alive. Altogether the things that umbrella has done are wonderful, especially the fact that it has brought luck and riches to the priest of Glogova."

A dark suspicion took possession of Gyuri, and when the candles were relighted, it was to be seen he was as pale as death.

"Is the priest rich?" he asked.

"Very rich," answered Mrs. Szliminszky.

He drew nearer to her, and suddenly seized hold of her hand, pressing it convulsively. The good lady could not make out why. (If he had done so a minute sooner, she could have understood it, but the candles were alight now!)

"He found something in the umbrella, did he not?" he asked, panting.

Mrs. Szliminszky shrugged her white shoulders, half visible through the lace insertion of her dress.

"Why, what could he find in an umbrella? It is not a box, nor an iron case. But for the last fourteen years people have come from great distances to be married under the umbrella, and they pay generously for it. And then when a rich person is dying anywhere beyond the Bjela Voda, from the Szitnya right as far as Kriván, they send for the priest of Glogova to hear their confession, and after their death, to bury them under the umbrella."

Veronica, to whom the mayor's wife had been showing the embroidered table-cloth, calling her attention to the fineness of the linen, now caught a few words of the conversation.

"Are you speaking of our umbrella?" she asked amiably, leaning toward them.

Gyuri and Mrs. Szliminszky started.

"Yes, my dear," answered the latter, slightly confused.

Gyuri smiled mischievously.

"I see," said Veronica, "you don't believe the story."

"No, I do not."

"Really?" asked the girl reproachfully; "and why?"

"Because I never believe nonsense, and because ..."

He had nearly said too much, but he kept back the words that rose to his lips when he saw how wounded the girl appeared at his incredulity. She smiled, turned her head away, and gazed silently at her plate. Gyuri was silent too, though he felt inclined to cry out:

"I am rich at last, for in the handle of that umbrella there are unknown treasures."

It is remarkable that if good luck befalls a man, his first wish (for he still has wishes, even if they are all fulfilled) is to communicate it to others; he would like trumpets sounded, heralds to be sent round to announce it to the whole world. But then comes doubt, the everlasting "perhaps." And so it was with Gyuri.

"What is the umbrella like, Miss Veronica?" he asked.

Veronica closed her lips firmly, as though she considered it unnecessary to answer him, then thought better of it, and said:

"It is not much to look at; it is of faded red stuff, looks a thousand years old, and is patched all over."

"With a border of small green flowers?"

"Have you seen it?"

"No, I only asked."

"Yes, there is a border of green flowers on it."

"Could I see it?"

"Certainly. Do you wish to?"

"That is what I am going to Glogova for."

"Why, if you don't believe in it?"

"Just for that very reason. If I believed in it I should not go."

"You are a heathen."

She drew her chair away from him, at which he at once became serious.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked contritely.

"No, but you frighten me," and her lovely oval face expressed disappointment.

"I will believe anything you like, only don't be afraid of me."

Veronica smiled slightly.

"It would be a shame not to believe it," struck in Mrs. Szliminszky, "for it is a fact—there is plenty to prove it. If you don't believe that, you don't believe anything. Either the miracles in the Bible are true, and if so, this is true too, or ..."

But she could not finish her sentence, for at that moment Madame Krisbay rose from the table, saying she was tired, and would like to retire to her room, and Mrs. Mravucsán led her and Veronica to two small rooms opening on to the courtyard. In the doorway Gyuri bowed to Veronica, who returned it with a slight nod.

"Shall we start early in the morning?" he asked.

She bowed with mock humility.

"As you like, Mr. Thomas," she said.

Gyuri understood the reference, and answered in the same strain:

"It depends upon how long the saints sleep."

Veronica turned her head, and shook her fist playfully at him.

"I will pay you out!" she said.

Gyuri could hardly take his eyes off her, she looked so pretty as she spoke. Let the saints look like that if they could!

Soon after the Szliminszky pair started for home, accompanied by a man carrying a lantern. Mrs. Szliminszky had made Wladin put on a light spring coat, hung a long cloak over his shoulders, tied a big woollen scarf round his neck, and having ordered him only to breathe through his nose, once they were out, she turned to Gyuri again.

"Yes, it is a beautiful legend, it made a great impression on me."

"Poor legends!" returned Gyuri. "If we were to pick some of them to pieces, and take the romance out of them, their saintly odor, their mystery, what strange and simple truths would be left!"

"Well, they must not be picked to pieces, that is all. Wladin, turn up the collar of your coat."

The lawyer thought for a minute.

"Perhaps you are right," he said.

After a short time Gyuri also asked to be shown to his room.

"The magnet has gone!" muttered the lawyer's clerk.

Hardly had the door closed when Kukucska, the butcher, exclaimed:

"Now we are free!"

He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, thus showing the head of an ox tatooed on his left arm, then winked knowingly at Mravucsán. The mayor seemed to understand the look, for he went to a cupboard and pulled out one of the drawers, from which he took a pack of cards. The knave of spades was missing, but that did not make any difference to the intelligent members of Bábaszék society, for they had once before played "Preference" with those cards, and the last player had simply received one card less when they were dealt out, though he was supposed to have the knave of spades, and it was called the "spirit card." If they were playing spades, the last player in imagination threw the knave on it, saying: "I play the spirit card!" So now, in spite of this small difficulty, they decided to play, and the game lasted till daylight. The Senators, the butcher, and the clergyman played, the lawyer's clerk dealt, and Klempa looked on, having no money to lose, and went from one player to the other, looking over their shoulders, and giving them advice what to play. But one after the other sent him away, declaring he brought them bad luck, which rather depressed him. So the poor schoolmaster wandered from one to the other, till at last he took a seat between the clergyman and the butcher, dropped his weary head on the table, and went to sleep, his long beard doubled up, and serving as a pillow. But he was to have a sad awakening, for that mischievous Pál Kukucska, seeing the beard on the table, conceived the idea of sealing it there; and fetching a candle and sealing-wax, they dropped some on the beard in three places, and Mravucsán pressed his own signet ring on it. Then they went on playing, until he should awake.

Other incidents, and not very pleasant ones either, were taking place in the house. Madame Krisbay, to whom the mayor's wife had given her own bedroom, would not go to bed with the enormous eider-down quilt over her, for she was afraid of being suffocated during the night. She asked for a "paplan" (a kind of wadded bed cover), but Mrs. Mravucsán did not possess such a thing, so she brought in her husband's enormous fur-lined cloak and threw it over madame, which so frightened the poor nervous woman that she was attacked by migraine, and the mayor's wife had to spend the night by her bed, putting horse-radish on her temples.

An unpleasant thing happened to Veronica too. As soon as she was alone in the Mravucsáns' best bedroom, she locked the door, hung a cloak on the door-handle so that no one could look through the key-hole, drew the curtains across the tiny windows which opened on to the courtyard, and then began to undress. She had taken off the bodice of her dress and unfastened her skirt, when all at once she became aware of two bright eyes watching her intently from under the bed. It was a kitten, and it was gazing at her as intently and admiringly as though it had been a prince changed by some old witch into the form of a cat. Veronica, alarmed, caught up her skirt and bodice, and put them on again.

"Go along, you tiresome kitten," she said; "don't look at me when I'm undressing."

She was such an innocent child, she was ashamed to undress before the kitten. She dressed again, and tried to drive it out of the room, but it hid itself under the bed, then jumped on a cupboard, and it was quite impossible to get rid of it. Mrs. Mravucsán, hearing the noise from the next room, called out:

"What is the matter, my dear?"

"I can't drive the cat out."

"Never mind, she won't hurt you."

"But she always watches me," answered Veronica.

She put her candle out, and began to undress in the dark, but that tiresome cat walked into the middle of the room again, and her eyes shone more than ever.

"Wait a bit, you curious little thing," said Veronica. "I'll get the best of you yet."

She made a barricade of chairs, then got inside it, as though she were in a fortress, and began to undo her boots. Do you think that barricade made any impression on the kitten? Not a bit of it. There she was again, on the top of the chairs, from there one jump took her on to the washing-stand, and another on to Veronica's bed. There she was seized upon and a shawl bound round her head.

"Now, kitty, stare at me if you can!"

And after that she managed to undress in peace.

CHAPTER II.
NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL.

She was a nice little thing, he decided; not a bit unpleasant like other girls of that age he knew, who were thoughtless, useless creatures. Veronica was an exception. And she seemed to have taken to him too.

He passed again in revision all her words, her movements, and as he went on, he found among the smiles, the softened voice, the unwatched moments, certain signs of coldness here and there, as though she were putting a restraint upon herself.

But he was so happy now, that he did not need the friendship of a silly girl. He was a rich man now, a nabob beginning from to-day. He would live like a prince henceforward, spend the winter in Budapest, or on the Riviera, in Monaco, and the summer at Ostend; in fact, he would be a grand gentleman, and not even look at poor priests' sisters. (How tiresome it was, his thoughts would always return to Veronica.)

Sleep would not come, how could it be expected? One scheme after the other passed before his mind's eye, like the butterflies in the Glogova woods. And he chased them all in turn. Oh! if it were only daylight, and he could move on. His watch was ticking on the table beside his bed; he looked at it, the hands pointed to midnight. Impossible! It must be later than that; his watch must be slow! Somewhere in the distance a cock crew, as much as to say: "Your watch is quite right, Mr. Wibra." He heard faint sounds of music proceeding from the "Frozen Sheep" in the distance, and some one on his way home was singing a Slovak shepherd's song.

Gyuri lighted a cigar, and sat down to smoke it and think things over. How strangely the umbrella had been found—at least he had not found it yet, it was not yet in his possession, and when he came to look at the facts, he found he was not much nearer to it than he had been. Until now he had supposed it had been thrown away as a useless rag, and he had had little hope of finding it. And now, what had happened? Things were quite different to what they had imagined them; for as it turned out, the umbrella was a treasure, a relic in a church. What was to be done about it? What was he to say to the priest to-morrow? "I have come for my umbrella"? The priest would only laugh at him, for, either he was bigoted and superstitious, in which case he would believe St. Peter had brought the umbrella to his sister, or he was a Pharisee, and in that case he would not be such a fool as to betray himself.

The wind was rising, and the badly fitting windows and door of the little room that had been allotted to him were rattling, and the furniture cracked now and then. He could even hear the wind whistling through the Liskovina Wood, not far from the house. Gyuri blew out the light and lay down again under the big eider-down quilt, and imagined he saw the corpse Mr. Mravucsán had spoken of, hanging from a tree, waving from side to side in the wind, and nodding its head at him, saying: "Oh, yes, Mr. Wibra, you'll be well laughed at in the parish of Glogova."

The lawyer tossed about on the snow-white pillows, from which an odor of spring emanated (they had been out in the garden to air the day before).

"Never mind," thought he, "the umbrella is mine after all. I can prove it in a court of justice if necessary. I have witnesses. There are Mr. Sztolarik, Mrs. Müncz and her sons, the whole town of Besztercebánya."

Then he laughed bitterly.

"And yet, what am I thinking of? I can't prove it, for, after all, the umbrella does not belong to me, but to the Müncz family, for the old man bought it. So only that which is in the handle belongs to me. But can I go to the priest and say: 'Your reverence, in the handle of the umbrella is a check for 200,000 or 300,000 florins, please give it to me, for it belongs of right to me'?"

Then Gyuri began to wonder what the priest would answer. He either believed the legend of the umbrella, and would then say: "Go along, do! St. Peter is not such a fool as to bring you a check on a bank from Heaven!" Or if he did look in the handle and find the receipt, he would say: "Well, if he did bring it, he evidently meant it for me." And he would take it out and keep it. Why should he give it to Gyuri? How was he to prove it belonged to him?

"Supposing," thought our hero, "I were to tell him the whole story, about my mother, about my father, and all the circumstances attending his death. Let us imagine he would believe it from Alpha to Omega; of what use would it be? Does it prove that the treasure is mine? Certainly not. And even if it did, would he give it to me? A priest is only a man after all. Could I have a lawsuit, if he would not give it me? What nonsense! Of course not. He might take the receipt out of the handle, and what proofs can I bring then that it was ever in it?"

The perspiration stood on his forehead; he bit the bed-clothes in his helpless rage. To be so near to his inheritance, and yet not be able to seize hold of it!

"Black night, give counsel!" was Gyuri's prayer. And it is best, after all, to turn to the night for help. Gyuri was right to ask its advice, for it is a good friend to thought. Among the Golden Rules should be written: "Think over all your actions by night, even if you have decided by day what course to take!" For a man has night thoughts and day thoughts, though I do not know which are the better. I rather think neither kind is perfect. For daylight, like a weaver, works its colors into one's thoughts, and night covers them with its black wings. Both of them paint, increase and decrease things—in one word, falsify them. Night shows the beloved one more beautiful than he is, it strengthens one's enemies, increases one's troubles, diminishes one's joy. It is not kind of it; but night is sovereign, and is answerable to no one for its actions. Take things as they come, but do not put aside serious thought when you are seeking the truth. Though, of course, you do not really seek the truth; even if it comes to meet you, you get out of its way. I ought to have said, do not despise the night when you are trying to find the way out of a thing. Night will show you what to do, without your even noticing it. If it can do it in no other way, it brings you gentle sleep, and gives you advice in dreams.

After a time the wind dropped, the music at the "Frozen Sheep" ceased, and Gyuri heard nothing but a rhythmic murmur, and all at once he seemed to be in the woods of Glogova, chasing butterflies with Veronica.

As they ran on among the bushes, an old man suddenly appeared before them, with a golden crook, a glory round his head, and his hat hanging by a bit of string from his neck.

"Are you Mr. Wibra?" he inquired.

"Yes; and you?"

"I am St. Peter."

"What do you want?"

"I wish to sign a receipt for your happiness."

"For my happiness?"

"I see you cannot get your umbrella, and my friend Gregorics has asked me to help you. So I am quite willing to sign a paper declaring that I did not give the umbrella to the young lady."

"It is very good of you, but I have neither paper nor ink here. Let us go back to the village."

"I have no time for that; you know I have to be at the gates of Heaven, and I can't stay away for long."

"Well, what am I to do, how am I to get my umbrella?"

St. Peter turned his back, and began to walk back the way he had come, but stood still beside a large oak-tree, and made a sign to Gyuri to approach. Gyuri obeyed.

"I'll tell you what, my friend, don't think too long about it, but marry Veronica, and then you will have the umbrella too."

"Come," said Gyuri, catching hold of the golden crook. "Come and ask her brother to give his permission."

He pulled hard at the crook, but at that moment a strong hand seemed to pull him back, and he awoke.

Some one was knocking at the door.

"Come in," he said sleepily.

It was the Mravucsáns' farm-servant.

"I've come for your boots," he announced.

Gyuri rubbed his eyes. It was day at last, the sun was smiling at him through the window. His thoughts were occupied with his dream, every incident of which was fresh in his mind. He thought he heard St. Peter's voice again saying: "Marry Veronica, my friend, and then you will have the umbrella too."

"What a strange dream," thought Gyuri; "and how very much logic it contains! Why, I might have thought of that solution myself!"

By the time Gyuri was dressed, it was getting late, and every member of the Mravucsán household was on foot. One was carrying a pail to the stables, another a sieve, and near the gate which last night's wind had partly lifted off its hinges, Gyuri's coachman was examining the damage done. Seeing his master advancing toward him, he took off his hat with its ostrich feathers (part of the livery of a Hungarian coachman is a kind of round hat, with two ends of black ribbon hanging from it at the back, and some small ostrich tips in it).

"Shall I harness the horses, sir?"

"I don't know yet. Here, my good girl, are the ladies up?"

"They are breakfasting in the garden," answered the maid he had accosted. "Please walk this way."

"Well, then, you may harness, János."

Gyuri found the ladies seated round a stone table under a large walnut-tree. They had finished breakfast, only madame was still nibbling a bit of toast. He was received with ironical smiles, and Veronica called out:

"Here comes the early riser!"

"That title belongs to me," said Mravucsán, "for I have not been to bed at all. We played cards till daybreak. Klempa is still asleep with his beard sealed to the table."

"A nice sort of thing for grown-up folks to do!" remarked Mrs. Mravucsán.

Gyuri shook hands with them all, and Veronica got up and made a deep courtesy.

"Good-morning, early riser," she said. "Why are you staring at me so?"

"I don't know how it is," stammered Gyuri, gazing at the girl's beautiful face, "but you seem to me to have grown."

"In one night?"

"You were quite a little girl yesterday."

"You appear to be dazed!"

"I certainly am when I look at you."

"You seem to be sleepy still. Is this the time of day to get up?"

The playful, gentle tone was delightful to Gyuri, and he began to be quite talkative.

"I fell asleep for a short time, and if the servant had not woke me, I should be asleep still. Oh, if he had only waited five minutes longer!"

"Had you such a pleasant dream?" asked Mrs. Mravucsán. "Will you take some coffee?"

"If you please."

"Won't you tell us your dream?"

"I was going to marry—in fact, had got as far as the proposal."

"Did she refuse you?" asked Veronica, raising her head, the beauty of which was enhanced by the rich coronet of hair, in which she had stuck a lovely pink.

"I don't know what would have happened, for at the critical moment the servant woke me."

"What a pity, we shall never know how it would have turned out!"

"You shall know some time."

"How?"

"I will tell you."

"How can you do that? Dreams cannot be continued from one night to another like novels in a periodical."

Gyuri drank his coffee, lit a cigar, and from out the cloud of smoke he replied in a mysterious voice, his eyes turned heavenward:

"There are such dreams, as you will see. And how did you sleep?"

Thereupon Mrs. Mravucsán began to tell the story of Veronica's adventure with the kitten. Every one laughed, poor Veronica was covered with blushes, and Mrs. Mravucsán, finding the opportunity a good one, launched upon a little lecture.

"My dear child, exaggeration is never good, not even in modesty. You will have to get used to such things. What will you do when you are married? You will not be able to shut your husband out of your room."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Veronica. "How can you say such dreadful things!"

And she jumped up, blushing furiously, and ran away to the gooseberry-bushes, where her dress got caught, and in trying to move on, the gathers got torn. Thereupon there was a rush for needle and thread, and the confusion was heightened when the carriage drove up, the two handsome black horses pawing the ground impatiently.

(The lawyer's business must be a good one; he must have lied a lot to be able to buy such horses!)

Every member of the household had some task allotted to her. Anka must wrap up the ham in a cloth, Zsuzsa must run and fetch the fresh bread that had been baked for the occasion. Some one else must bring knives and forks. Would they like a little fruit packed in the basket? The foreign lady would be glad of something of the kind. And should she put a small pot of jam in too?

"But, my dear Mrs. Mravucsán, we shall be at home by dinner-time!"

"And supposing something happens to prevent it? You never can know."

And off she went to her storeroom, while the mayor tried to persuade them to stay at least an hour longer; but it was of no use, the travellers had made up their minds to start; not even the possibility of seeing Klempa wake up would induce them to change their plans.

They got into the carriage, the two ladies on the back seat, and Gyuri on the box with the coachman, but his face turned toward the ladies. Whether he would hold out in that uncomfortable position till Glogova remained to be seen.

"To Glogova," said Gyuri to the coachman, and János cracked his whip and the horses started, but hardly were they out of the yard, when the mayor's wife came tripping after them, calling out to them at the top of her voice to stop. They did so, wondering what had happened. But nothing serious was the matter, only Mrs. Mravucsán had unearthed a few apples in her storeroom, with which she filled their pockets, impressing upon them that the beautiful rosy-cheeked one was for Veronica. Then they started again, with a great amount of waving of handkerchiefs and hats, until the house, with its smoking chimneys and its large walnut-tree, was out of sight.

As they passed Mrs. Müncz's shop she was standing at the door in her white cap, nodding to them with her gray head, which seemed cut into two parts by the broad-rimmed spectacles. At the smithy they were hammering away at the priest's broken chaise, and farther on various objects which had been left unsold at yesterday's fair were being packed in boxes, and then put in carts to be taken home again. They passed in turn all the tiny houses, with their brightly-painted doors, on which the names of the owners were printed in circles. At the last house, opposite the future Jewish burial-ground, two pistol-shots were fired.

The travellers turned their heads that way, and saw Mr. Mokry in his new suit, made by the noted tailor of Besztercebánya, with his hat in one hand, and in the other the pistol he had fired as a farewell greeting. On the other side of the road was the dangerous windmill, its enormous sails throwing shadows over the flowering clover-fields. Luckily it was not moving now, and looked like an enormous fly pinned on the blue sky.

There was not a breath of wind, and the ears of wheat stood straight and stiff, like an army of soldiers. Only the sound of the horses' hoofs was to be heard, and the woods of Liskovina stretched before them like a never-ending green wall.

The Third Devil

PART V

CHAPTER I.
MARIA CZOBOR'S ROSE, THE PRECIPICE, AND THE OLD PEAR-TREE.

The Liskovina Wood is quite like a park, with the exception that there is not much variety in the way of trees, the birch, the favorite tree of the Slovaks, being predominant. But of flowers there were any amount. The ferns grew to a great height, the Anthoxantum had flowered, and in its withered state filled the whole wood with its perfume. Among plants, as among people, there are some which are only pleasant and agreeable to others after their death. What a difference there is in the various kinds of plants! There is the gladiolus, the most important part of which is the bulb it hides under the earth; whoever eats it dreams of the future.

Much simpler is the ox-eye daisy, for it will tell you without any ceremonies if the person you are thinking of loves you very much, a little, or not at all; you have only to pull off its snow-white petals one by one, and the last one tells you the truth.

The wild pink provides food for the bee, the lily serves as a drinking-cup for the birds, the large dandelion is the see-saw of the butterflies. For the Liskovina woods are generous, and provide beds for all kinds of insects, strawberries for children, nosegays for young girls, herbs for old women, and the poisonous aconite, which the peasants in that part called the "Wolf-killer."

Whether it ever caused the death of a wolf is doubtful, for wolves have their fair share of sense, and probably, knowing something of botany, they tell their cubs: "Don't touch the Aconitum Lycotinum, children; it is better to eat meat."

It was delightful driving in the shady woods, though Madame Krisbay was alarmed each time a squirrel ran up a tree, and was in constant fear of the robbers who had killed the rich innkeeper.

"Why, that was eighty years ago, madame!"

"Well, and their sons?"

She was restless till they had got clear of the wood and had come to a large barren plain, with here and there a small patch of oats, stunted in their growth.

But after that they came to another wood, the far-famed "Zelena Hruska," in the shape of a pear. Supposing robbers were to turn up there!

And Gyuri was just wishing for their appearance while madame was thinking with horror of them. As he sat face to face with the girl, he decided to marry her—because of the umbrella. The girl was certainly pretty, but even had she not been so, the umbrella was worth the sacrifice. St. Peter had told him what to do, and he would follow his advice. Superstition, at which he had laughed the day before, had taken possession of him, and made a place for itself among his more rational thoughts. He felt some invisible power pushing him on to take this step. What power was it? Probably St. Peter, who had advised him in his dream to take it. But how was he to set to work? That was what was troubling him the whole time. How convenient it would be if there were some romance nowadays, as in olden times or in novels; for instance, if robbers were now to appear on the scene, and he could shoot them down one after the other with his revolver, and so free Veronica, who would then turn to him and say:

"I am yours till death!"

But as matters were at present, he did not dare to take any steps in the right direction; the words he had so well prepared seemed to stick in his throat. Doubts arose in his mind; supposing she had not taken a fancy to him! Supposing she were already in love! She must have seen other men besides himself, and if so, they must have fallen in love with her. Something ought to happen to help matters on a little.

But no robbers came, there probably were none; it was a poor neighborhood, nothing grew there, not even a robber.

After they had passed the wood, they saw an old castle among the trees, on the top of a hill. It was the Castle of Slatina, had formerly belonged to the Czobors, and was now the property of the Princes of Coburg.

They had to stop at an inn to feed the horses, and Veronica proposed their going to look at the castle, of which an old man had charge; he would show them over it. The innkeeper assured them some of the rooms were just as the Czobors had left them; in the court were a few old cannon, and in the house a collection of curious old armor, and some very interesting family portraits, among them that of a little girl, Katalin Czobor, who had disappeared from her home at the age of seven. Veronica was very interested in the child.

"And what happened to her?" she asked.

"The poor child has never turned up to this day!" sighed the innkeeper.

"And when was it she disappeared?"

"About three hundred years ago," he answered with a smile, and then accompanied his guests up the mountain path that led to the castle.

They were silent on their return, only Madame Krisbay remarking:

"What a mouldy smell there was in there!"

Veronica had caught sight of a beautiful rose on a large bush near the half-ruined walls of the bastion.

"What an exquisite flower!" she exclaimed.

The old caretaker had a legend about that too. From this spot beautiful Maria Czobor had sprung from the walls, and thrown herself down the precipice, for her father wished her to marry an officer in the Emperor's army, and she was in love with a shepherd. The latter had planted a rose-bush on this spot, and every year it bore one single blossom. Gyuri dropped behind the others, and begged the old man to give him the rose.

"My dear sir, what are you thinking of? Why, the poor girl's spirit would haunt me if I were to do such a thing!"

Gyuri took out his purse and pressed two silver florins into the man's hand, upon which, without further ado, he took out his knife and cut the rose.

"Won't the young lady's spirit haunt you now?" asked Gyuri, smiling.

"No, because with part of the money I will have a Mass said for the repose of her soul."

Gyuri ran after the ladies with the rose in his hand, and offered it to Veronica.

"Here is Maria Czobor's rose," he said. "Will you give me your pink in exchange?"

But she put her hands behind her back, and said coldly:

"How could you have the heart to pick it?"

"I did it for your sake. Will you not exchange?"

"No; I would not for the world wear that flower; I should think I had stolen it from that poor girl."

"Will you really not accept it?"

"No!"

Gyuri threw the rose away, and it rolled down the hillside in the dust and dirt.

Veronica gazed pityingly after the flower as long as it was visible, then turned angrily to Gyuri.

"Is that the way to treat a flower? Had it hurt you in any way?"

"Yes," answered the lawyer shortly.

"Did it prick you?"

"It informed me of a very unpleasant fact."

"What was it?"

"It whispered the continuation of my last night's dream to me."

"What a little chatterbox!"

She turned her big eyes upon Gyuri and spoke in a jesting tone.

"I should have had a refusal!"

Veronica threw back her head, and turned her eyes toward heaven.

"Poor Mr. Wibra!" she exclaimed. "What misfortune to be refused in a dream!"

"Pray go on, make as much fun of it as you like," he said bitterly.

"And are you sure you would have been refused?"

"Yes, now I am sure of it," he answered sadly. "You might guess now of whom I dreamed."

"Of me?" she asked surprised, and the smile died away on her lips. "Of me?" she stammered again, then was silent, descending the hill quietly in madame's wake with bent head. She had lifted the skirt of her dress a little to prevent its dragging in the dust, and her little feet were partly visible as she tripped along with regular steps, treading on the grass and flowers, which, however, were not crushed by her footsteps, but rose again as she passed on.

A tiny lizard crossed their path, its beautiful colors shining in the sunlight. But what a sad fate befell it! Just at that moment a giant (well known in Besztercebánya) came that way, murmuring: "Why should it live?" and bringing down a heavy heel severed the poor lizard's head from its body.

Veronica just then turned round, and saw the cruel action; she felt inclined to cry over the poor lizard, but did not dare to say anything, for she herself began to be afraid of this Goliath, so she only murmured under her breath: "Wretch!"

When they were farther down the hill she saw before her the rose he had thrown away; there it lay, dirty and dusty, among the stones by the roadside, and, obeying a sudden impulse, she bent and picked it up, blowing the dust off its rosy petals, and then she placed it in the bosom of her dress, where it seemed as though it were in its right place at last. She did not say a word, nor did she look at that dreadful Goliath, but turned away her head, so that he could not see her face. But Goliath was quite satisfied at seeing the rose where he had wished it to be, and out of gratitude would have liked to restore the lizard to life, but that was of course impossible.

At the foot of the hill the carriage was waiting, and the travellers took their places again, this time with an uncomfortable feeling. Silently they sat opposite each other, one looking to the right, the other to the left, and if their eyes happened to meet they hastily turned them away. When they spoke, their remarks were addressed to Madame Krisbay, who began to notice that something had happened.

But what? Only a few childish words to which their minds had given a more serious meaning than they were meant to have, and had increased in size as once the professor's narrow cell in Hatvan, which the devil enlarged to such an extent that the whole town had place in it. Well, in those few words, everything was contained.

But now something else happened. I don't know how it was, but I think a pin dropped, and at the same moment Veronica bent down as though to look for it. In doing so the pink fell out of her hair into Gyuri's lap, and he picked it up in order to return it to her. But she made him a sign to keep it.

"If it would not stay in my hair, and fell into your lap, you may as well keep it."

Would it not have stayed in her hair? Was it quite an accident? thought Gyuri, as he smelt the flower. What a pleasant odor it had! Was it from her hair?

Now they were driving beside the Brána, the far-famed Brána, which quite shuts this part of the country off from the rest of the world, like an immense gate. That is why it is called the Brána, or gate. It is no common mountain, but an aristocrat among its kind, and in fine weather it wears a hat, for its summit is hidden in clouds. Several small streams make their way down its side, flowing together at the foot, and making one broad stream.

"That is the Bjela Voda," explained Veronica to Madame Krisbay, "we are not far from home now."

They still had to drive through one wood, and then the little white cottages of Glogova would be before them. But this was the worst bit of the road, crooked and curved, full of ruts and rocks, and so narrow that there was hardly room for the carriage to pass.

János turned round and said with a shake of his head:

"The king himself would grow crooked here!"

"Take care, János, that you don't upset us!"

János got down from his seat, and fastened one of the wheels firmly, for there was no brake to the carriage; and now the horses had to move at a funeral pace, and sometimes the road was so narrow between two hills that they could see nothing but the blue sky above them.

"This place is only fit for birds," muttered János.

"Don't you like this part of the country?"

"It is like a pock-marked face," he replied. "It is not the sort of place one would come to to choose a wife."

Gyuri started. Had the man discovered his intentions?

"Why do you think so?"

"My last master, the baron (János had been at some baron's before in Sáros county), used to say to his sons, and he was a clever man too, 'Never look for a wife in a place where there are neither gnats, good air, nor mineral springs!'"

At this both Veronica and Gyuri were obliged to laugh.

"That's a real Sáros way of looking at things. But, you see, you have vexed this young lady."

"According to your theory I shall have to be an old maid!" said Veronica.

But János vigorously denied the possibility of such a thing.

"Why, dear me, that is not likely; why ... you ..."

He wanted to say something complimentary, but could not find suitable words, and as chance would have it, his next words were nearer to swearing than to a compliment, for the shaft of the carriage broke. The ladies were alarmed, and Gyuri jumped down from his seat to see the extent of the damage done. It was bad enough, for it had broken off just near the base.

"What are we to do now?" exclaimed János. "I said this place was only fit for birds, who neither walk nor drive."

"Oh, that is nothing serious," said Gyuri, who at that moment was not to be put out by a shaft, nor by a hundred shafts.

"Give me your axe, and you go and hold the horses. I'll soon bring you something to fasten the shaft to, and strengthen it."

He took the axe out of the tool-box under the coachman's seat, said a few words to reassure the ladies, and then jumped the ditch by the side of the road.

There were some trees there, but they were as rare as the hairs on the head of an old man. First came a birch, then a hazelnut bush, then a black-thorn, then a bare piece of ground without any trees, and then again a few old trees. So it was rather difficult to find a suitable tree; one was too big, another too small; so Gyuri went on and on in search of one, and got so far that soon the carriage was out of sight, and only Veronica's red sunshade was to be seen in the distance, like a large mushroom. At length his eyes fell on a young birch, which grew near to a small precipice. It was too big for a seedling and too small for a tree, but well-grown and promising. All the same it must be sacrificed, and down came the axe.

But hardly had two or three blows been struck, when a voice was heard, crying out:

"Reta! Reta!" (Help! Help!)

Gyuri started and turned round. Who had called? The voice seemed quite close, but no one was visible far and near.

Again the call for help was repeated, and now it seemed to come out of the earth, and Gyuri immediately concluded it came from the precipice, and ran toward it.

"Here I am!" he called out. "Where are you and what is the matter?"

"I am down the precipice," was the answer; "help me, for God's sake!"

Gyuri looked down, and saw a figure there in a black coat, but he could not see much of it, for it would have been dangerous to have gone too near to the edge.

"How did you manage to get down there?"

"I fell in yesterday evening," answered the man in the black coat.

"What! Yesterday evening! And can't you get out?"

"It is impossible, for there is nothing to hold on to, and if I catch hold of any projecting bits, they give way, and I fall back with them."

"You are in a bad way altogether! And has no one passed here since then?"

"No one comes this way. I was prepared for the worst when I heard the sound of blows in the neighborhood. Thank God you came! Help me if you can, good man, whoever you may be, and I will reward you!"

"I will help you of course with the greatest pleasure, but I must think first how to manage it. If I let down the trunk of a small tree could you climb up it?"

"I am very weak from want of sleep and from hunger," answered the man, his voice getting weaker from shouting.

"Poor fellow! Wait a moment!"

He had suddenly remembered the apples Mrs. Mravucsán had put in his pockets that morning.

"Hallo, there! Lookout! I am going to throw down a few apples to go on with while I think over what I am to do."

He took the apples out of his pockets, and rolled them down one after the other.

All of a sudden he remembered that Veronica's was among them. Supposing she were vexed at his giving it away!

"Have you got them?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Please don't eat the red one, it is not mine."

"Very well, I will not eat it."

"You seem to be of the better class?"

"I am the parish priest of Glogova."

Gyuri, surprised, fell a step backward. How strange! The parish priest of Glogova! Could anything more unexpected have happened?

"I will get you out, your reverence; only wait a few minutes."

Back he ran to the carriage, which was waiting in the valley below. From this point the country round about looked like the inside of a poppy head cut in two. He did not go quite up to the carriage, but as soon as he was within speaking distance, shouted at the top of his voice to János:

"Take the harness off the horses, and bring it here to me; but first tie the horses to a tree."

János obeyed, grumbling and shaking his head. He could not make out what his master needed the harness for. He had once heard a wonderful tale of olden times, in which a certain Fatépö Gábor (tree-felling Gábor) had harnessed two bears to a cart in a forest. Could Gyuri be going to do the same?

But whatever it was wanted for, he did as his master told him, and followed him to the precipice. Here they fastened the various straps together, and let them down.

"Catch hold of them, your reverence," called out Gyuri, "and we will pull you up."

The priest did as Gyuri said, but even then it was hard work to get him up, for the ground kept giving way under his feet; however, at length they managed it.

But what a state he was in, covered with dirt and dust; on his face traces of the awful night he had passed, sleepless and despairing, suffering the pangs of hunger. He hardly looked like a human being, and we (that is, my readers and I) who knew him years before would have looked in vain for the handsome, youthful face we remember. He was an elderly man now, with streaks of gray in his chestnut hair. Only the pleasant, amiable expression in his thin face was the same. He was surprised to see such a well-dressed young man before him—a rarity on the borders of the Glogova woods.

"How can I show you my gratitude?" he exclaimed, with a certain pathos which reminded one strongly of the pulpit.

He took a few steps in the direction of the stream, intending to wash his hands and face, but he stumbled and felt a sharp pain in his back.

"I must have hurt myself last night, when I fell, I cannot walk very well."

"Lean on me, your reverence," said Gyuri. "Luckily my carriage is not far off. János, you go on cutting down that tree, while we walk slowly on."

They certainly did go slowly, for the priest could hardly lift his left foot, and frequently stumbled over the roots of trees. The carriage was some way off, so they had plenty of time for conversation, and every now and then they sat down to rest on the trunk of a fallen tree.

"Tell me, your reverence, how did you come to be in this part of the country late at night?"

And then the priest related how he had expected his sister home yesterday, who had gone to meet her governess. As time went on, and there were no signs of them, he began to feel anxious, and toward evening became so restless that he did as he had often done before, and walked to the borders of the little wood. He walked on and on, finding the way by keeping his eye on the hills on both sides, and listened for the sounds of wheels in the distance. All at once it occurred to him that they might have gone round by the Pribalszky mill, which was a longer but prettier way to Glogova, and Veronica, his sister, was fond of the shade there. Of course that was what they had done, and they must have arrived at home long ago while he was looking for them. So the best way was to turn back at once, and in order to get home as soon as possible, he unfortunately struck across a side path. In his haste he must have stepped too near to the edge of the precipice and had fallen in.

"My poor little sister!" he sighed. "How anxious she must be about me!"

Gyuri would have liked to turn the priest's sorrow into joy.

"We will soon reassure the young lady, and your reverence will feel all right after a night's rest. In two or three days it will seem like an amusing incident."

"But which might have ended in a horrible death if Divine Providence had not sent you to help me."

"It really does seem as though Divine Providence had something to do with it. The shaft of my carriage broke, or I should never have come near that precipice."

"If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget your kindness to me, and your name will always have a place in my prayers. But how thoughtless of me! I have not even asked you your name yet."

"Gyuri Wibra."

"The well-known lawyer of Besztercebánya? And so young! I am glad to make the acquaintance of such an honorable man, sir, who is beloved in the whole of Besztercebánya; but I should be much more pleased if a poor man now stood before me, to whom I could give a suitable reward. But how am I to prove my gratitude to you? There is nothing I possess which you would accept."

A smile played around Gyuri's mouth.

"I am not so sure of that. You know we lawyers are very grasping."

"Is there really something, or are you joking?"

The lawyer did not answer immediately, but walked on a few steps toward an old wild pear-tree, which had been struck by lightning, and not far from which the carriage was standing.

"Well, yes," he answered then, slowly, almost in a trembling voice, "there is something I would gladly accept from you."

"And what is it?"

"It has just struck me that there is something in my carriage which you might give me."

"In your carriage?"

"Yes, something you do not know of yet, and which I should be very happy to possess."

The priest took him by the hand.

"Whatever it may be, it is yours!"

In another minute they had reached the pear-tree.

"There is my carriage."

The priest looked that way, and saw, first a red sunshade, then a black straw hat under it, with some white daisies in it, and beneath it a sweet, girlish face. It all seemed so familiar to him, the sunshade, the hat, and the face. He rubbed his eyes as though awaking from a dream, and then exclaimed, catching hold of the lawyer's arm:

"Why, that is my Veronica!"

The lawyer smiled quietly and bowed.

"That is," went on the priest in his kind, gentle voice, "for the future she is your Veronica, if you wish."

By this time Veronica had seen and recognized her brother, had jumped out of the carriage and run to meet him, calling out:

"Here we are, safe and sound. How anxious you must have been! And our carriage is broken to bits; and oh! if you had only seen the horses! All sorts of things have happened, and I have brought Madame Krisbay."

The priest embraced her, and was glad she seemed to know nothing of his accident. How sensible of Gyuri not to have mentioned it!

"Yes, yes, my darling, you shall tell me everything in order later on."

But Veronica wanted to tell everything at once, the carriage accident in Bábaszék, the supper at Mravucsáns' (oh, yes! she had nearly forgotten, Mr. Mravucsán had sent his kind regards), then to-day's journey, the loss of her earring and its recovery ...

The priest, who was slowly beginning to understand things, here broke in upon her recital.

"And did you give the finder of it a reward?"

She was silent at first at the unexpected question, then answered hurriedly:

"No, of course not, how can you think of such a thing? What was I to give? Besides, he would not accept anything."

"I am surprised at that, for he has since then applied to me for a reward."

"Impossible!" said Veronica, casting a side-glance at Gyuri. Strange doubts had arisen in her mind, and her heart began to beat.

"And what does he ask for?" she asked in a low voice.

"He wants a good deal. He asks for the earring he found, and with it its owner. And I have promised him both!"

Veronica bent her head; her face was suffused with burning blushes, her bosom heaved.

"Well? Do you give no answer? Did I do right to promise, Veronica?"

Gyuri took a step toward her, and said, in a low, pleading voice:

"Only one word, Miss Veronica!" then stood back under the shade of the pear-tree.

"Oh! I am so ashamed!" said Veronica trembling, and bursting into tears.

A breeze came up just then across the Brána, and shook the pear-tree, which shed its white petals, probably the last the old tree would bear, over Veronica's dress.