The Poor Plutocrats

THE UNDISCOVERABLE LADY

Squire Gerzson Satrakovics thought it best after that night at the csárdá to go back to Arad. This wondrous event, the clue to which he could not hit upon anyhow, must needs interest Hátszegi most of all. It would be a terrible thing to appear before him with the tidings that the lady who was intrusted to his care, had been lost on the way; yet, nevertheless, this was the first thing he must say, and after that they would consult together as to what was to be done to find her and where they were to look for her.

Never had Mr. Gerzson approached a bear's den with such beating of heart as he now approached Hátszegi's chambers. His breath almost failed him as he seized the handle of the street door and wished it might prove locked in order that it might take a longer time to open it.

And locked indeed the door proved to be, he had to ring. Thus he had, at any rate, a respite, for he must await the result of the ringing. And a long time he had to wait too, so long indeed that it was necessary to ring again. Even then there was no response. Then he rang a third time, and after that he went on ring-ring-ringing for a good half hour. At last the bellrope remained in his hand and he put it into his pocket that it might testify to the fact that he had been there. Then, for the first time, he noticed that the shutters were all up—the surest sign that nobody was at home.

Gerzson explained the matter to his own satisfaction by supposing that the whole household was at the races. It was the last day of the races and he reached the course just as the betting was at its height and everybody's attention was concentrated on the event of the moment. At such time the crowd has no eyes for men, everyone is occupied with the horses. Mr. Gerzson therefore had plenty of time to scrutinize all who were present, but look as he would he could not see Leonard anywhere.

At last he could stand the suspense no longer, and during the interval between two races, he descended from the grand-stand, in a corner of which he had ensconced himself in order to get a better view of the field, and mingled in the ring with his brother sportsmen awaiting resignedly for the expression of amazed and horrified inquiry which he expected to see in all faces the moment they perceived him.

But how taken aback was he when the first man who cast eyes on him gave vent to a loud: Ha! ha! ha! whereupon everybody else began laughing also and pointing their fingers at him and exclaiming: "Why here's Gerzson! Gerzson has come back again!"

"Have you all gone mad?" cried Gerzson, confused by this inexplicable hubbub.

He really fancied that he had fallen among a lot of lunatics, till at last Count Kengyelesy forced his way through the crowd towards him, put both his hands on his hips and began to quiz him: "Well, you are a pretty fellow!—you are a pretty squire of dames, I must say!"

"But what's the matter? What has happened? Why do you laugh?"

"Listen to him!" cried the count, turning to the bystanders. "He actually has the impertinence to ask us why we laugh! Come, sir! where did you leave the Baroness Hátszegi?"

"I don't see what there is to laugh at at such a question?" replied Gerzson, in whose mind all sorts of dark forebodings began to arise.

"What have you done with the baroness? What have you done with our friend Leonard's wife, I say?" persisted the count.

"That is a perfect riddle to me," growled Gerzson in a low voice.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the count, "it is a riddle to him what has become of his travelling companion."

"But can any of you tell me what has happened to her? Is she alive?"

The count clapped his hands together and flung his round hat upon the ground.

"Now, that is what I call a leetle too strong! He asks: is she alive? Why, comrade, where have you been in hiding all this time?"

"A truce to jesting," cried Gerzson fiercely. "Tell me all you know about it, for it is no joking matter for me, I can assure you."

On perceiving that Gerzson was seriously angry, Kengyelesy drew nearer to him and enlightened him without any more beating about the bush: "Well then, my dear friend, let me tell you that you have behaved very badly. First of all you made all four of Hátszegi's horses lame; in the second place you compelled his poor wife to spend a night in a csárdá of the puszta, and in the third place you got so drunk that you began to quarrel with her and at last did not know whether you were boy or girl. The poor little woman has grown almost grey with terror, and after you had fallen to the ground in liquor she sent the coachman to town for fresh horses and, leaving you under the table, tried to make her way back to Arad."

"That is not true," interrupted Gerzson, his whole face purple with rage.

"What is not true?"

"Where is the baroness?"

"Stop, stop, my friend! Don't run away! You'll never catch her up, for, early this morning, she drove back to Hidvár in a postchaise with her husband."

"That can not be true. Did you see her?"

"I saw her through my own field glass. But we all saw her—did we not, gentlemen?"

Many of those present admitted that they had indeed seen the baroness.

"But my dear fellow," said the perturbed Gerzson, "this is no joke. On the contrary, my adventure with the baroness is somewhat tragical, and I'll trouble you to expend no more of your feeble witticisms on me."

Kengyelesy shrugged his shoulders. "I did not know you would take it so seriously, but so it is."

"From whom did you hear all this, from the baroness?"

"No—from Hátszegi."

An idea suddenly flashed through Gerzson's brain.

"Did you speak to the baroness herself?"

"No. I only saw her through the carriage window when they drove away."

"Was she veiled?"

"No, my friend. It was her very self I assure you."

"Thank you. And now, if you like, you can go on amusing yourself at my expense. Adieu!"

Only when he had got home and flung himself on the sofa in a state of stupor, did he begin to reflect a little calmly on what he had heard. There was so much about the affair that was startling and incomprehensible, true and untrue, probable, incredible, shameful and exasperating, that he could make neither head nor tail of it.

That the baroness had returned must be true, for they all maintained that she had come back while he was lying drunk. It is true that he had got drunk, but he had no recollection of having been quarrelsome and misbehaving himself. Strain his memory as he might, all he could call to mind was Henrietta, with her angelically gentle face, sitting before him at the table and telling him the legends of the Transylvanian Alps—all the rest was a blank.

Up he jumped at last and began pacing up and down the room. At last, after much reflection, his mind was made up, he had formed a plan.

"I'll be off. I'll be off immediately. I'll go straight to her. I am determined to learn from her own lips exactly what happened to me and how I came to make such a fool of myself. I will speak to her myself."

And immediately he ordered his coachman to put the horses to; but he told not a living soul whither he was going, even to the coachman he only mentioned the first stage.

At a little booth at the end of the town he bought four and twenty double rolls and a new wooden field flask. When they came to the River Maros, he descended to the water's edge, rinsed out his flask at least twice and then filled it with water, finally thrusting both the rolls and the flask into his travelling knapsack. After that he drew on his mantle, clambered up into the back part of the coach, stuck his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his fist and never closed an eye till morning.

And it must be admitted that Mr. Gerzson's mode of travelling on this occasion was decidedly eccentric. On reaching a village he would tell his coachman where to go next but he never told him more than one stage in advance. Every morning he would consume one of his rolls and wash it down with the lukewarm brackish water of the Maros—and bitter enough he found the taste of it too. He never quitted the carriage for more than two or three minutes at a time, and he presented his pistols point blank at everyone who approached him with inquisitive questions.

Only twice during the night did he allow the horses an hour or two of rest—and then away over stock and stone again.

The coachman, who was unaccustomed to such queer ways, presently shook his head every time he received orders to go on further, but by dawn of day he had had about enough of the job.

"Your honour," said he, "are we going to stop at all? It would do the horses no harm if they had a little rest."

"What's that to you, you rascal, eh?" roared Mr. Gerzson, "I suppose you're sleepy, you lazy good-for-nothing? Off the box then, you hound, you! I'll drive the horses myself, you gallows-bird!"

The old fellow, who had been in the service of the family for twenty years and had never had so many insulting epithets thrown at his head before explained that he did not speak for himself but for the horses.

"If they perished on the spot, Sirrah, what business is it of yours? When one pursues the enemy in time of war, does one think of food or fodder?"—whence the coachman concluded that there was some one whom the squire meant to cut to pieces.

It was only when they came to the road leading to Hidvár that the coachman began to suspect that they were about to go in that direction. It was now the evening of the second day and both man and beast were tired to death. It was indispensable that they should stay the night here, for if they passed Hidvár they would have to go on the whole night before they reached the next stage—or come to grief on the road, which was much more probable.

"You will stop in front of the castle!" commanded Mr. Gerzson when they were crossing the castle bridge.

The coachman looked back and shook his head. He did not like it at all.

"Shan't we turn into the castle yard?" enquired he.

"No!" bellowed Squire Gerzson, so venomously that the "why not?" he was about to say, stuck in the poor coachman's throat like a fish-bone.

"Now listen to me," said Gerzson, when they had fairly got across to the other side: "Keep your eyes open and try and take in what I am going to say to you. I don't know how long I may remain inside there—possibly some time. At any rate you must not loiter about here with the horses but go on to the priest and beg him, civilly, mind, to kindly accommodate my nags in his stable and give them two bushels of maize. As soon as I return I'll settle with him, but don't say anything about payment, or else you will offend him. Kiss his hand, for he is a priest and you are only a lazy vagabond. If you hear no news of me by to-morrow morning, put the horses into the carriage again and return to Arad where Count Kengyelesy will tell you what to do next."

Then he turned upon his heel and set off towards the castle.

It was already evening. In the upper story seven of the windows were lit up and the moon shone into the eighth. That was Henrietta's bedroom. Squire Gerzson knew it. He was quite at home in the castle.

At the hall entrance he encountered Leonard's huntsman, an impertinent, bony, jowly loafer whom he had never been able to endure. The fellow barred the way.

"Good evening your honour."

"Why should you wish me good evening, you stupid jackass! Do you suppose I have travelled five and twenty miles for the pleasure of wishing you good evening? Who's at home?"

"Nobody."

"Go along with you, you sodden-headed son of a dog. Nobody at home and seven windows in the upper story all alight!"

"It is true the rooms are lit up, but that is on account of her ladyship—they are sitting up with her."

"Then where's your master?"

"He has trotted into Klausenburg for the learned doctor."

"What is the matter with her ladyship?"

"I don't know. They say she is mad."

"You are mad yourself, you stupid beast. Who told you that?"

"I saw it, I heard it myself, and others also have seen that she is mad."

"Cannot I speak to her?"

"How can you? That's just the mischief of it, that she cannot be spoken to."

"You rascal, I tell you your master is at home. I am sure of it."

Long-legs shrugged his shoulders and began to whistle.

"Look ye here, my son," said Gerzson, scarcely able to contain himself, "the fist that you see in my pocket here is pulling the trigger of a revolver and I have a jolly good mind to send a bullet in between your onion chawing teeth, so I should advise you not to try any of your tom-foolery on me. On this occasion I have not come to pay your master a visit but for other reasons. Speak the truth, sirrah! Is your master at home or is he not?"

"I have just told you that there is not a soul at home except her ladyship, and she is mad."

At that same moment Gerzson thought he heard a fiddle in the upper story.

"What, music here!" he cried.

The fellow laughed.

"Yes, they are trying to cure the sick baroness by playing to her."

"But I hear the sound of men's voices also as if there were guests here."

"Where? I hear nothing. It is only the dogs barking in the enclosure."

"You did not hear it, sirrah?"

"I heard nothing."

"Very well, my son, I see you have orders to make a fool of me; but it strikes me that both you and your master will have to get up pretty early to do that. You need not be so anxious to guard the door, I shall not try to force my way up to your master. I'll wager he will come and see me first. Wait a bit."

And with that Gerzson sat down on the step, tore a leaf out of his pocketbook and, placing it on his knee, wrote with his pencil the following words: "Sir, I declare you to be a miserable coward. If you want to know why, you will find me at the parson's, there I will tell you and after that we can arrange our little business between ourselves.

"GERZSON SATRAKOVICS."

Mr. Gerzson had even taken the trouble to provide himself with sealing-wax and matches so he could seal his letter without any difficulty and the step served him as a table.

But suppose even this letter did not make Hátszegi come forth? Struck by this idea he tore open the note again and added this postscript: "If you do not give me proper satisfaction, I will wait for you at the gate of your own castle and shoot you down like a dog!!"

Surely that would be enough!

Again he sealed the letter and was about to hand it to the huntsman when it suddenly occurred to him that Hátszegi might chuck the note unopened into the fire. Now, therefore, he wrote on the outside of it, just below the address: "If you don't open this letter, I will have an exact copy of it posted upon the notice-board of the club at Arad."

"And now, you door-keeping Cerberus," said he, "take this and give it to your master, wherever he may be."

He wasted no more words upon the fellow, but went straight to the dwelling of the old priest who was awaiting him in his porch.

"I must beg your reverence for a night's lodging, I am afraid," said Squire Gerzson, cordially pressing the old clergyman's hand. "There is serious illness at the baron's house so I don't want to incommode them with my company. All I want is a place whereon to lay my head. My wants are few. You know me of old."

"Gladly will I share with your honour the little I have. God hath brought you hither. I am glad you did not stay at the castle. The company there is not fit for your honour."

"Then there is company there, eh? What sort of folks are they?"

"Folks I should not care about meeting. Drahhowecz and Muntya, and Harastory, and Brinkó, and Bandán, and Kerakoricz, and . . ."

"That will do," interrupted Mr. Gerzson, aghast at so many odd, strange names not one of which he had ever heard of before. "New comers, I suppose?"

"I was sure their names would be quite unfamiliar to your honour," remarked the priest smiling, and he led his guest into his narrow dwelling, looking cautiously round first of all to make sure that nobody was listening. Once inside he carefully barred the door, seated his guest at the carved wooden table, which was covered with a pretty covering made from foal-skin, and filled a dish with fresh maize pottage, adding thereto a ham bone and a jug of mead. Mr. Gerzson fell to, like a man, on the very first invitation; and each armed with a wooden spoon, attacked the maize pottage from different points till their assiduously tunnelling spoons met together in the centre of the large platter.

"A capital dish, your reverence, really capital."

"Very good for poor folks like we are, I admit. I know you don't have fare like this in Hungary."

"I suppose we don't know how to prepare it properly," said Gerzson.

And then the priest explained how hot the water must be when maize meal or sweet-broom meal has to be mixed with it, how the whole mess must be stirred with a spoon, how a little finely grated cheese has to be added to it, and how it had then all to be tied up in a cloth like a plum-pudding and have milk poured over it. And Squire Gerzson listened to him as attentively as if he had come all the way from Arad to Hidvár on purpose to learn the art of cooking maize pottage. And after that they pledged each other's health in long draughts from the mead jug.

"And now," said the priest when they had well supped, "I know that your honour spent all last night upon the road. You must be tired and instead of boring yourself by listening to my uninteresting gossip, it would be better, methinks, if we both went to bed."

"I shouldn't mind lying down at all, but alas! I have an appointment here with some one."

"May I ask with whom?"

"I have written the baron a letter and I await a reply."

"He will not send one: he is too much taken up with his pleasures just now."

"My letter contains things which a man durst not ignore."

"Was your letter an insulting one?"

"I don't wish to advertise its contents."

"Very good. But for all that you may as well lie down. The ways of the baron are incalculable. Even when he is angry he knows what he is about."

"Then we'll wait for him till morning."

"Meanwhile repose in peace. My humble dwelling is not very luxurious, but let your honour imagine that it is a hunting hut in the forest."

"But where then will your reverence sleep?"

"I'll go out to the bee-house. I can sleep there excellently well, I have a couch of linden leaves."

THE SHAKING HAND

Whoever in an evil hour encountered Fatia Negra had a shaking hand for the rest of his life.

Ever since that meeting at the csárdá Henrietta's hand also trembled to such an extent that it was only with the utmost difficulty that she could sign her own name.

What happened to her after that meeting? Whom did she recognize in Fatia Negra? How did she get home?—all these things remained eternal secrets. The lady was never able to tell it to anybody. Perchance she herself regarded it as a dream.

The poor lady used now to pray all day. For hours at a time she would kneel before the altar of the castle chapel returning thence to her perpetual walking to and fro, to and fro, kneeling down to pray again when she was tired out. And so she went on from morning to evening, nay, till late into the night, sometimes till midnight, sometimes till the dawn of the next day, up and down, up and down, between four walls, and then on her knees again a-praying.

She never appeared in the dining-room; her meals were sent to her room. She scarcely touched them, it was difficult to understand how she kept body and soul together.

She only quitted her chamber to go to chapel. At such times she would frequently meet domestics or strangers in the castle corridors, but she looks at nobody and says not a word. She does not notice that they are there, that they are amazed at her, that they greet her. No one has heard her speak for a long time.

And therefore they think her mad. At first only the domestics whispered this among themselves, then the villagers—and in a month's time it was notorious through Transylvania that the youthful Baroness Hátszegi was out of her mind.

Early one morning, as Henrietta was returning from chapel, there suddenly appeared before her a ragged woman who must have been hidden in some niche as the servants had not seen her or driven her out.

"Stop one moment, my lady," whispered the woman and Henrietta seemed to hear in that whisper the voice of an old acquaintance, though she did not recognize the face. It was half masked in a cloth and the little she could see of it was disfigured by wounds and scars like the face of one who had been badly injured by fire. Henrietta was horrified at the sight of her, she looked so dreadful.

"Don't be frightened, my lady," said the woman falling down on her knees before her and seizing Henrietta's dress to prevent her from escaping, "I am Anicza."

Henrietta fixed her eyes upon the woman full of stupid amazement, and vainly sought in her face for some trace of the ideal loveliness which only the other day, so it seemed, had made her so charming. She began to fancy that the woman was under some evil spell and that if anyone could but repeat the talismanic word, her former loveliness would be restored to her.

"You cannot recognize me your ladyship for my face was burnt to death in the Lucsia Cavern. Oh, if it had only always been what it is now. I am much better as I am now. God has punished me because I let my soul be lost for the sake of my fair face. I am not vain now as I used to be. Yes, God has smitten all of us on account of our sins, as your ladyship already knows; but none has he smitten so hard as me. I denounced all my kinsfolk and acquaintances to the tribunal to be avenged on one man who had deceived me,—all of them were taken except him and he escaped. And now I am a beggar, an accursed creature whom everyone drives from his door, but what care I?—I never feel hungry. They took away all my father's property—heaven only knows how much there was, more than twenty thousand ducats, I think, and it would have been mine for I am his only child. I was summoned before the court, they said they would reward me for denouncing the society, they said they would give me a thousand ducats. Ha, ha, ha! a thousand ducats for making myself the wretched creature I am! But I did not come here to frighten your ladyship, I came here to humbly beg a favour. Gracious lady, the magistrates told me that a mixed commission will be appointed to try the forgers and that his lordship, the baron, will be the president of this commission; on him depends the life and death of everyone concerned."

Henrietta felt obliged to lean against the wall.

"My lady, I do not expect impossibilities, I cannot wish that the guilty should remain unpunished—justice is justice! But the leader of the whole gang was Fatia Negra, he planned everything, the others only carried out his orders. And now there is a lot of false witnesses ready to swear that my father was the ring-leader and throw all the blame upon him, but it was Fatia Negra and nobody else as God knows."

Every time the peasant woman mentioned Fatia Negra's name a spasmodic twitch convulsed Henrietta's pale features.

"Gracious lady," continued Anicza, "I implore you by the tender mercies of God not to abandon me. Grant me my petition! Either let them kill me or lock me up with the others. I implore you, my lady, to speak or write to your husband (if these things must be in writing) on my behalf. Do not let me perish. God will not be angry with you for protecting me."

Henrietta was now even less able to speak than before. But though she could not express herself in words, she placed one hand on the girl's head and raised the other tremulous hand to heaven, as one who takes a solemn oath before God. Then she tore herself away from Anicza, who had stooped to kiss the hem of her garment, and hastened back to her own room. On reaching the threshold of the house she looked back and saw that the girl had sunk down in the dust and was gratefully kissing the very traces of the footsteps of the departing lady.

On reaching her room Henrietta paced up and down it for a long time, wringing her hands as she went and moaning loudly: "My God! my God!" Then she flung herself down on her couch, writhing like one in mortal agony.

But soon she strengthened her heart and sat down at the writing-table. What had become of that beautiful handwriting of hers which had resembled copper plate? Scarcely legible letters now issued from her trembling hand, dumb witnesses of the terror of her heart, and yet write she must for it was her petition to her husband. Ah! that she should be forced to write to him.

Her letter was as follows:

"DREAD SIR: Tremulously and submissively I approach you. In the name of an unhappy creature I appeal to your compassion. You will be the judge of a lot of wretched men. Be merciful to them. By the grace of heaven I implore you, condemn them not! In the name of God, I implore you not to sign their death warrants. By the terrors of eternity I implore you do not ruin these men, for they are most innocent. N. N."

She durst not subscribe her own name.

And now she waited, she watched for the moment when Leonard quitted his room and, slipping in, laid the petition on the couch where he would be sure to find it. Nobody observed her.

The same day she encountered him, she had in fact sought for such an encounter. It was in the great armoury. Leonard, as soon as he perceived his wife, began humming some mad operatic tune, an opera bouffé air and bawled through the door to the dog-keeper to unleash the hounds.

The pale lady nevertheless approached him, with tottering but determined footsteps, and folding both her trembling hands as if in prayer, stood mutely in front of the door through which Leonard would have to pass, like some dumb spirit from another world. But Leonard merely shrugged his shoulders and passed her by, whistling all the time.

Again, on the following day, the timid petition lay on Leonard's table, written in the same tremulous characters. Henrietta had written it again, and again had crept into his chamber and in whatever part of the house the magnate might now be found, he everywhere encountered this pale tremulous figure who pressing her hands together and without uttering a word gazed at him beseechingly, imploringly—only they two knew why.

On the third day Leonard again found the petition and again encountered Henrietta.

This time he spoke to her.

"My dear Henrietta, have you read 'The Mysteries of Paris?'"

Henrietta, as usual, only stared at the speaker with frightened eyes and said nothing.

"How did you like the description of Bicètre? A horrible place, eh? I have noticed that you have been behaving in rather a peculiar way lately. In fact, the whole district has been talking about it and saying that you are a little crazy. I have been asked all sorts of questions about it too.—Hitherto I have always told everybody that it is not true.—But if once I should say that it is true, then, you will be most certainly shut up in a mad house. Regulate your conduct accordingly."

THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD

Of late Mr. Gerzson Satrakovics had invented for himself a peculiar sort of pastime.

He had renounced bear hounds and grey hounds and all other kinds of dogs, he did not care a jot when partridge shooting began, but he hung up his gun on a nail and began regularly visiting one after another the session courts of the counties of Arad, Biehar and Temes, in all of which he was a justice of the peace, and moving resolutions.

The object of these resolutions was to induce the three counties to endeavour with their united strength, and in conjunction with the Transylvanian counties of Hunyad, Fehér and Zarand, to extirpate the robber bands that had so long been terrorizing the whole district. He compiled lists of the atrocities perpetrated in the various localities and connected them all with the name of one particular robber, the notorious "Fatia Negra." He produced convincing proofs of the existence of a combination extending from the depths of the dungeons to the summits of the mountains which was held together by the magic influence of this one man and he left no stone unturned to bring him to book.

He, naturally, became quite a laughing stock for his pains, and his acquaintances could not for the life of them understand what had come to the man.

"Why, old fellow!" said Count Kengyelesy to him one day, after he had been indulging in an unusually fiery philippic at Quarter Sessions, "why, old fellow, what sort of venom have you swallowed that makes you perorate so savagely against this worthy Fatia Negra. If anybody has cause to complain against him it is I, for he relieved me of 1,000 ducats on the high road, and so cleverly did the rascal manage it, that I cannot find it in my heart to bear him any ill-will. But what have you got to do with him I should like to know? What is all this cock and bull story you keep on spouting out concerning organized robber bands and mysterious chieftains? Is it your ambition, my friend, to become public prosecutor?"

"Yes, it is, and public prosecutor I will be, too. I want six counties to place their armed constabulary at my beck and call, and if they do, I'll wager that I'll so purify all these Alpine regions that the robbers will not have a single lurking hole left."

"Rubbish! Don't make a fool of yourself. Besides, they say that Fatia Negra has flown to America."

"Newspaper lies. He is here, I know he is."

"And suppose he is, what harm can he do? This band has been cut off to the very last man. They have all been sentenced heavily, the older men to twenty years penal servitude, the younger men to penal servitude for life. I had it from Hátszegi himself who was the president of the mixed commission that tried them, and signed the judgment himself. The whole fraternity is now sitting in chains in the trenches of Gyula Fehérvár and we have seen the last of it."

"What guarantee have you of that?"

"What guarantee?—why the security of the whole region ever since. Why, everyone there can now sleep with open doors and if you yourself were to lie dead drunk in the public thoroughfare you would not have your money stolen from your pocket any more."

Squire Gerzson protested vehemently against the assumption that he was in the habit of sprawling tipsily on the king's high road.

"I'll tell you," said he, "why everything is so secure just now. The confiscated gold of Fatia Negra is still at Gyula Fehérvár, as a forfeit to the crown, and, sooner or later, must be sent to Vienna. Fatia Negra is not dead, his robber band has not been captured and does not sit in irons at Gyula Fehérvár, and the present tranquillity and imagined security suit their plans nicely. The band now pretends to have vanished, but just you wait till the gold is sent under convoy from Gyula Fehérvár to Vienna—and you will see some fun."

"How do you know that?"

"I know it sir, because I know that this man, this brazen faced, iron-fisted man is not such a chicken-hearted creature as to allow a half-million or so to be snatched from him without stirring every nerve and muscle to try and win it back again. For I know that hitherto he has always triumphed over the power of the law and has always escaped from the most dangerous ambushes."

"Well, all I can say is that I do not understand what you have to do with this worthy man."

The falsely coined gold pieces deposited at Gyula Fehérvár, had, after the trial was over, to be sent to Hungary to be recoined. The precious consignment filled two post-wagons and was of the estimated value of a million and a half. Four and twenty Uhlans were told off to escort it. This was a more than sufficient protection for the most costly treasure at ordinary times. Moreover, in Hungary, cavalry has always inspired the mob with terror. During the disturbances at the time of the cholera outbreak, two squadrons of Hussars were easily able to quell the whole riot. It was impossible to calculate how many robbers and peasants the four and twenty Uhlans were capable of coping with. So, at least, the county magistrates believed.

The soldiers were commanded by a lieutenant, the post-wagons were under the charge of an official accountant and a comptroller. All the postillions were provided with pistols and it was strictly ordered that the wagons were not to travel on the high-road after six o'clock. There was no lack of precaution, anyhow!