The Poor Plutocrats

All the four and twenty had black crape wound round their faces, their clothes had the lining turned outwards and they were well provided with swords, csákánys[46] and muskets. Fatia Negra himself rode a vigorous black stallion and held in his hand a broad, naked sword.

The horse of the Uhlan lieutenant took fright at the sight of the black faces and began to rear, it was as much as his rider could do to prevent him from springing over the parapet of the bridge.

Fatia Negra and his band halted in the centre of the bridge and did not budge from the spot.

The lieutenant was a brave soldier, who never lost his presence of mind; he tightened the reins of his plunging horse and turning towards Black-Mask, exclaimed: "Who are you, what do you want, and why do you block up the bridge?"

A deep, thundrous manly voice replied to him from afar: "I am Fatia Negra. The treasure which you have with you is mine,—it has been stolen from me. I now want to have it back again. I have brought hither a man to every man of yours, we are as strong as you. I meet you openly in the light of day. Give me back my gold or you shall have a taste of my iron."

The lieutenant, who was one of the best swordsmen and one of the bravest heroes in the regiment, did not think twice about accepting the challenge, but put spurs to his steed and fell upon the adventurer who awaited him in the middle of the bridge.

He encountered a terrible antagonist. Fatia Negra warded every blow and countered instantly; the young officer was thrown into confusion by the superior dexterity of his opponent, and it was only a soldier's sense of honour that induced him to continue an attack which was bound to end fatally for himself: practised fencers always know at once whether they can vanquish their antagonist or not. At the same time it was really surprising that Fatia Negra did not immediately take advantage of his strength and skill. He seemed to be sparing his enemy, nay, he even retreated before him step by step.

Meanwhile the melée on the bridge had become general. The lancers hastened to the assistance of their leader, the black masks slashed away at them with their csákánys, and soon there were very few among the combatants who had not received a lance thrust or a csákány blow. The adventurers were forced by the lancers to the opposite end of the bridge, when the miller, who lived in the mill beside the bridge, thrust his head out of the window and shouted: "Take care, soldiers! the beams of the bridge have been sawn through!"

Was this the fact? Was it the plan of the adventurers to entice the horses on to the bridge in order that it might break down beneath their weight?—or was the miller also an accomplice and only shouted this because the soldiers were gaining the upperhand? In either case the warning cry had a magical effect upon the pursuers, for they immediately turned back in alarm and strove to reach their own end of the bridge again.

And now they perceived what a two fold trap the cunning adventurers had set for them, for whilst the lancers had been fighting with the mounted robbers, a large band of footpads armed with firearms had surrounded the post wagons in their rear, disarmed the postillions and were now engaged in attempting to overturn the wagons into the ditch by the roadside.

The lancers dashed towards the wagons and freed them in a moment from the hands of the mob which, on their appearance, dispersed among the brushwood by the roadside from whence they began firing.

Not far from the bridge was a csárdá, and there the cavalry and the post-wagons sought a refuge. And indeed they needed it. The number of the footpads armed with guns was about a couple of hundred; they enfiladed the whole road and, more than that, it was easy to perceive that some of the tall roadside poplars had been sawn through beforehand so that they might be made to fall down and thus make it impossible for the post wagons across the road behind the backs of the soldiers, to force their way through.

The soldiers had, indeed, no reason to fear that the rabble, nine-tenths of which had no professional knowledge of the art of war, would boldly storm the csárdá, for in such a case the soldiers would know how to defend themselves vigourously, well provided as they were with carbines; but they were well aware of one thing, to wit, that if they allowed themselves to be surprised after nightfall they were lost, for the robbers could then set fire to the house over their heads and burn them alive.

For their lives they cared nothing; it is a soldier's business to die; but how to save the enormous sum of money intrusted to them—that was the problem. Four and twenty horsemen in a solid mass might, with a desperate effort, cut their way through a mob, despite every obstacle, but to take the heavy wagons along with them was impossible, for the road in front was barred by the mob; the bridge and the road behind by the felled poplars.

Fortunately, the officer in command had read the history of Napoleon's Russian campaign and he recollected how the guard on one occasion had saved the military chest from the Cossacks when the wagon, from want of horses, had to be left behind. He now applied his knowledge practically.

The ducats were taken out of the post-wagons and distributed among the soldiers; knapsacks, cartridge-boxes, belts and shakos were filled with the treasure; not a cent was left in the wagons, yet they nailed down the chests inside them carefully that it might take all the longer to break them open. Then they mounted the postilions and the civilians on the spare horses, hastily threw open the gates and the whole band rushed into the courtyard.

A sharp volley poured in upon them from every side; some of them were wounded, but none mortally, for their assailants either fired from afar or aimed badly. And this was well, for every dead man among them would have been worth 100,000 guldens.

Fatia Negra and his horsemen stood close at hand with their loaded muskets pointed in their hands, but they did not fire.

"Let the lancers run if they like!" cried Fatia Negra. "Give all your attention to the wagons!"

The cavalry soon escaped from the mob of sharpshooters, leaped over the barriers and began galloping rapidly back to Széb safe and sound. And they had need to haste, for it was easy to foresee that as soon as the cry of victory behind their backs had changed into a cry of fury, it would be a sign that Fatia Negra's band was rushing after them.

And, indeed, scarce a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when they could perceive clouds of dust whirling up behind them which proved that the audacious adventurers, after discovering the fraud, were actually in pursuit.

What unheard of audacity! In broad daylight, on the King's highway, within the borders of a highly civilized, well-organized state, a troop of adventurers dares to attack an equal number of trained soldiers. Gold must have turned the heads of the men who had the audacity to do such a thing! Yet they did it.

The soldiers saw the cloud of dust behind their backs gradually draw nearer, the neutral ground between gradually diminished, the fellows were capitally mounted, there could be no doubt of that.

The lieutenant ordered his men to halt and face the foolhardy bandits. He arranged them two deep and spread them out so that they extended right across the road. He himself stood in the centre a little in advance of the rest; the civilians were in the rear.

Presently single shapes were discernible through the approaching cloud of dust. The robbers were galloping along in no regular order with intervals of from ten to twenty yards between each one of them.

More than a thousand yards in front of his comrades galloped Fatia Negra. His splendid English thoroughbred, as if it would outstrip the blast which whirled the dust aloft, flew along with him and seemed to share the blind fury of his master who waved his flashing sword above his horse's head and bellowed at his opponents from afar like a wild beast.

"We'll seize the fellow before his companions come up," said the lieutenant to his men. "Cut him down from his horse and capture him alive."

"Hurrah!" roared the lonely horseman, now only a yard off. "Hurrah!"—the next moment he was in the midst of them.

And now began a contest which, had it been recorded in the chronicles of the Crusades, would have been regarded as an act of heroism that only awaited immortality from a poet great enough to sing it. Fatia Negra, alone and surrounded, fought single-handed in the midst of the hostile band. His light sword flashing in his hand like lightning, never stayed to parry but attacked incessantly. Handless swords and headless shakos flew around him in the air and whithersoever his horse turned its head, an empty space gaped before him, every antagonist retreating before him. So close was the melée that the soldiers stood in each other's way and could not use their firearms for fear of shooting their comrades. The lieutenant was the only man who did not avoid him. Like a true soldier who considers wounds an honour, he did not trouble himself to recollect that his adversary was superior to him both in strength and skill, but strove incessantly to urge his horse towards him. Twice he struck the fellow but he did not seem to feel the blow. Once he dealt him a skilful thrust in the side, but the sword bent nearly double without entering his body. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Fatia Negra—he must have put on a coat of mail beneath his jacket—and the same instant he countered so savagely that if the lieutenant had not dodged his head, he must have lost it. As it was the sword pierced through his shako and out poured the gold pieces by thousands on to the highroad.

At the sight of the shower of gold pieces, Fatia Negra roared like a demon. What he had done hitherto was a mere joke—now the battle began in grim earnest.

"Down with your heads, down with your headpieces!" he thundered, and with the fury of a lion he flung himself on his opponents, everyone of whom wore on his head the dangerous magnet which irresistibly attracted his flashing sword.

He himself was invulnerable. Neither sword nor lance could penetrate his shirt of mail. And meanwhile his companions were rapidly galloping up. Now another shako flew into the air and the horse's hoofs trampled the falling ducats in the mud.

"Shoot down his horse!" cried the voice of the post-office functionary from the rear, and the same instant three pistol shots resounded. At the third, which struck him full in the chest, the animal reared high in the air. Fatia Negra, perceiving the danger, and before the horse had time to fall and crush him, leaped from the saddle on to the ground.

And now he attacked the enemy on foot. He was blind now. He saw nothing before him but blood and ducats—he was drunk with both.

All at once he observed that he was alone, and, fighting the air—he no longer felt the contact of swords, or skulls or human bodies. After the officer had been wounded, the post-office functionary took the command and concluded it advisable not to await the arrival of the whole robber band. It was his duty to save the money. He ordered the soldiers to turn back and make the best of their way to Szászvár, the money that had been already spilt was given up for lost. It was of no use for mere men to attempt to grapple with such a devil incarnate as Fatia Negra.

"After them, after them!—Give me a horse!" roared Fatia Negra to his comrades as they came galloping up, whereupon they all leaped from their nags, not so much indeed for the sake of giving him a mount as for the sake of grabbing the scattered heaps of ducats.

"Let that alone; it won't run away" cried the adventurer. "The bulk of it is galloping in front of us—follow me!"

And at that, without waiting their decision, he seized one of the horses, swung himself into the saddle and dashed after the lancers. Nobody followed him. The robbers were wise enough to perceive that if they left lying here these thousands of ducats, actually won, in order to run after ten times as many which they had still to catch, (not to mention the broken heads which they were sure to get into the bargain), the loafing members of the confraternity who were following behind them on foot, would pocket the booty nicely at their ease, so they stayed where they were, with the comfortable persuasion that Fatia Negra would be sure to turn back when he perceived he was alone.

He, however, never gave them a thought, but putting spurs to his horse, pursued the soldiers. In vain. He had no longer a blood horse beneath him and was unable to overtake the bearers of the lost treasure. Nor did they halt again to give him anything to do. Looking back from time to time, they saw how a single horseman was galloping after them, with his sword blade firmly gripped between his teeth, and a shuddering recollection of the old nursery tales of nether-world monsters came over them.

The solitary horseman pursued them right up to the toll-house of Szászvár, and even when he gave up the pursuit the toll-man saw him for a long time trotting round about the outskirts of the town shaking his fist and shouting imprecations. Once or twice he drew near enough to fire his pistols through the doors and windows of the toll-house, and so great was the spell of terror surrounding the person of the terrible adventurer that nobody ventured outside the city wall to try and capture him; nay, the burgesses even remained under arms in the streets all night guarding the principal entrances for fear lest Fatia Negra and his band might take it into their heads to formally besiege the place, and, had it only depended upon his will to do so, he would assuredly have made the attempt.

But it never came to that. On returning to the place of combat Fatia Negra found his horsemen still searching in the mud and darkness for the lost ducats, and made an attempt to reorganize his band, which did, indeed, do a little maurauding on its own account; but when the news reached him, through one of his paid spies, that four hundred infantry with a cannon had reached Szászvár from Szeb—the very word "a connon" had such an effect upon the robbers that they scattered in every direction as if a tempest had dispersed them. Next morning there was not a trace of them anywhere.

CHAPTER XXI

The news spread like lightning through the six confederated counties and everyone seized his sword and musket. So old Gerzson Satrakovics whom everybody had laughed at, was right after all. It was universally agreed that a stop must be put to this sort of thing once for all. There was no waiting now for the meetings of Quarter Sessions. The lord-lieutenants of the counties proclaimed the statarium,[47] called out the banderia[48] and gathered together the county pandurs[49] and the militia, in order by their combined efforts, to extirpate the evil without having recourse to the assistance of the military—a measure always repugnant to the freedom-loving Magyars.

Squire Gerzson was elected the leader of this vast hunt, whose area extended over hundreds of square miles, by all the six counties concerned—it was generally felt that this was but due to him for the neglect of his warnings—and Mr. Gerzson proved on this occasion that if he was not a great strategist, at any rate he was a great beater up of game. His plan was to occupy all the mountain roads and passes leading out of the six counties with armed bands of militia, while at the same time he himself advanced slowly along the highroads with his gentlemen-volunteers joining hands together from place to place. Between various groups of the volunteers were regular lines of pandurs who had to thoroughly scour all the forests they came to. The encircling network of this gigantic army of beaters grew narrower and narrower day by day and was to converge towards a fixed point which Squire Gerzson said he would more definitely indicate later on.

Moreover there was a flying column admitted to the full confidence of its leader, whose duty it was to appear suddenly and unexpectedly in all parts of the closely environed region, in order to head off anything like a definite plan of defence on the part of the adventurers and track them down more easily. The leadership of this special corps was entrusted to young Szilard Vamhidy, upon whose ingenuity, determination and ability Squire Gerzson professed to place the utmost reliance.

As soon as he had received this important charge, Szilard took horse and set off at the head of his four and twenty pandurs. First of all he went in the direction of the Alps of Bihár and along a narrow mountain path and through a melancholy, uncanny, region with not a living plant by the wayside and not a morsel of moss on the naked rock. No sound is to be heard there but the eternal sighing of the wind, and in the dizzy depths below the traveller sees nothing but dense, dreary forests crowding one upon another with the Alpine eagles circling and screaming above them.

It was just the place for a hunted band of robbers to turn upon their pursuers for a last life and death struggle,—here where even the bodies of the slain would never be found. For not once in two years does a wanderer chance to come this way, and long before that time the wolves and the vultures will have dispersed the bones of the fallen.

Yet this time the robber bands did not fall in with their pursuers, a sufficient proof that Szilard's plan was skilfully laid and unanticipated. For had Fatia Negra had any idea of his design, it is absolutely inconceivable that he would not have laid in wait for him on this spectre-haunted path, where ten resolute men could have held a whole army at bay.

For hours Szilard's long troop of horsemen pursued their way along without meeting a soul. Late in the afternoon they came upon the first shepherd's hut. The herdsman himself was out in the forest with his flocks; there was nobody at home but a lame dog which barked at them.

In the evening they met a mounted countryman carrying maize to be ground at the mill, him they took along with them as guide.

After that they travelled all night long, passing through Skeritora and Nyigsa, till they came to the cataract of Vidra, which they reached at dawn of day.

The houses of these Alpine villages are so far apart that next neighbours cannot even see each other's dwellings, as there is at least half a league between them. This circumstance and the night-season favoured Szilard's plans. They could surround each house, one by one, without the inhabitants of the other houses being aware of what had happened in the first ones.—A fruitless labour for they found nothing of a suspicious nature.

Tired out, the band, early in the morning, reached the house beneath the waterfall; here they felt the need of halting. Szilárd put some questions to the guide and then dismissed him, commanding him to return to Skeritora.

When the guide had mounted, the pandur sergeant observed to Szilard: "I fancy, your honour, that that rascal does not mean to return to Skeritora, but as soon as he is out of sight will turn back and give the alarm beforehand in all the districts on our line of march."

"I fancy so too."

"But then every suspected person will get wind of the whole affair and have time to bolt."

"That is just what I want. The trouble is at present that they lie so still."

And with that he ordered half of his pandurs to lie down and sleep and the other half to remain awake and so relieve each other every three hours. So the pandurs rested till midday and then the sergeant began to urge Szilard to set off again or else they would arrive too late.

"It is too early yet," replied Szilard, and he spent a good half of the afternoon there doing nothing. Only then did he take horse again, complaining to everyone how much yesterday's ride had taken it out of him, and asking everybody he met on the road, coming or going, where the next village lay?—how to get to it?—and in what direction the highroad lay?

The old pandurs naturally began murmuring among themselves. "Oh!" said they, "if he keeps on blurting out his whole line of route like this, we shall only have the empty nests of the robbers to thresh out for our trouble."

"And this chap thinks, forsooth, that he will capture Fatia Negra!" growled the veteran sergeant.

But no sooner did they get beyond the fenced fields than Szilard suddenly turned his horse's head and leading the way to the other side of the mountain-stream, cut his way through the forest, ordering his comrades to hurry after him as speedily as possible. What he was aiming at, nobody had the least idea. If he meant to lose his way in the forest he was setting about the best way to do it.

Suddenly he ordered his followers to dismount and lead their horses by their bridles up to the top of the mountain. The old sergeant now guessed what he was after, but did not approve of it.

"There is no path for a horse up this mountain," said he.

"Silence, sir! I know what I am about. Follow me!"

And so, for a good half hour, cursing their leader bitterly beneath their breaths, they painfully struggled after him up the dangerous path and then, suddenly, a marvellous sight met their gaze. An immense cavern gaped open before them through which, as through a tunnel, they could reach the valley on the other side. This was the so-called "Roman Gate." Many believe that the Romans dug this passage through the mountain, but this marvellous piece of workmanship has been carried out on too vast a scale for anybody else but Nature to be its architect; it is possible, however, that the Romans may have used this passage for their campaigns.

And now the pandurs understood the plan of their young leader and were ready to follow him blindly through fire and water.

In another half hour they had passed through the "Roman Gate" and reached the valley beyond, and by next morning Vamhidy had lit down like a thunderbolt from the sky where nobody expected him.

By the evening he had run down eight persons who were under very strong suspicion. After dusk the same day he sent the following letter to Gerzson by one of his men: "I feel certain I hold the thread of the whole conspiracy in my hands. We are on their track."

At nightfall he encamped in a lonely mill, which he chose because, in case of necessity, it could easily be defended. He had reasons for thinking that he might be attacked in the night.

The mill was built over a rushing mountain-stream so that the stream shot through and under the building, over the wheels. In front, three sluices confined within the basin the collected flood of water which was here very deep. A broad, thick board, laid across three stout piles, formed the bridge which connected the foot-path sloping down from the forest, with the foot-path on the opposite side.

Towards evening his pickets came and told Vamhidy that a blind beggar wanted to speak to him and in secret, so that nobody could hear.

Szilard ordered the blind man to be led in. He seemed to be a muscular, athletic fellow with broad shoulders and a huge body—what a pity he was blind.

"Domnule, are we quite alone?" inquired the blind man when he stood before Vamhidy.

"We are quite by ourselves; what is it you want, my good fellow?"

"Thank you, sir, for calling me a good fellow, for I was good for something once upon a time, and will be so again. I am the famous Juon Tare whose eyes were burnt out in the Lucsia Cavern when they wanted to catch Fatia Negra, and the monster set the whole cavern on fire. I want the head of Fatia Negra. I am after that head now and when I get it all my woe will cease. Do you want that head Domnule?—I can tell you where it is."

"Well?"

"Have you pluck enough not to be afraid of him, Domnule?"

"I am afraid of nothing."

"And yet many brave men fall back at the sight of that black face, which never changes, which is just like steel and which they fancy neither sword nor bullet can hurt; but my nails have torn his body and I have seen his blood flow."

"Say where he is!"

"Close at hand."

"In which direction?"

"Ah! Domnule!" sighed Juon Tare, "how can I answer that, I who can see neither heaven nor earth?"

"Then how do you know that he is hard by?"

"Ah, Domnule, I can recognize him by his voice, and if I do not hear him speak, I can recognize the sound of his footsteps when I hear him draw nigh. Nobody else has his trick of walking. Sometimes he goes as softly as a spectre so that only the ears of a blind man can detect his footfall and at other times he tramps as if the whole earth beneath him were hollow and it resounds at every step. Oh, I have often heard him approaching when he was still far, far away."

"But do you know anything certain about him?"

"I will tell you everything, Domnule, beginning at the beginning. You see that I am blind, a blind beggar, for begging is my trade. So long as my wife was alive, I had no need to turn beggar, for she worked for me and kept me. But she died. After that I would gladly have died of hunger, but she left me a little son, a child but two years old and I go a begging for him. Above the brook here on the King's highway is a stone bridge built by the county. Early in the morning my little son is wont to lead me hither and then returns to the village, little mite as he is the wife of the scrivener looks after him, and in the evening he comes and fetches me home again. Whatever is given me by charitable wayfarers I share with my poor hostess, who is poorer than any beggar. Yesterday something happened. It was this. I was sitting outside there at the end of the bridge and as I had not heard a human voice about me for a long time and it was extremely hot, slumber weighed heavily upon me. I struggled hard against it but it was too much for me. I was afraid that if I fell across the road a cart might go over me. So I laid myself down under the arch of the bridge. I knew the place well for I had often sheltered there from the storm. Suddenly I was awakened by those familiar footsteps. They passed across the bridge over my head. I will take my oath that it was he. He stood still in the middle of the bridge. Shortly afterwards I heard the sound of many more footsteps coming, some from the left and some from the right. Men were coming in all directions towards the bridge, and there in the middle of it they stood; I counted them—there were four and twenty of them."

Szilard now began to listen attentively.

"Then he spoke. Oh, even if I had had the light of both my eyes, I could not have seen him so plainly before me as I saw him in my blindness when I heard him speak. It was indeed he, at the very first word I recognized him; but when I tell you what he said, then you also will recognize him Domnule. Those four and twenty men are a sworn confederacy. It was a secret plot they were hatching at that place, where nobody could surprise them, as it is girt about with woods on every side. He called his companions here to tell them of the measures that were being taken against them. He told them they had no need to fear all that the six counties were doing but that the little band which was zig-zagging through the whole district was greatly to be feared. It was the cause of all the mischief and must be put out of the way. But his comrades made no reply. They grumbled and muttered among themselves and at last they said that this would be a difficult thing to do. They all said they would not tackle the pandurs because they were better shots than any robber and were used to hunting and all its wiles. In vain were all the assurances of Fatia Negra; they said they meant to hide away as best they could. 'Then hide and be d——d to you,' said their leader, 'I will tackle them single-handed. I'll seek them out and show you that they too are but mortal men.' Those were his last words to them; they scattered again, to the right and left, and I heard their departing footsteps over my head. But believe me, sir, Fatia Negra will try to do what he said."

"What! come and attack us?—alone, against so many?"

"You do not believe what I say, sir, but so it will be."

"Nay, my good fellow, but are you quite certain you did not dream it all?"

"Domnule, in the first moment of my amazement that is what I fancied myself. How can a blind man know whether he is awake or dreaming. I therefore drew forth my pocket-knife and with the point of it I cut a cross in my left arm. Look, sir, there it is!"

Juon tucked up the wide shirt sleeve from his herculean arm and Szilard was astonished to see the half healed and cross-like scar—it had been a deep gash.

"So now, sir," pursued Juon, "you can see that I am not dreaming. Watch well, for Fatia Negra will come. Not to-night for he awaits you on the road by which you came. But to-morrow he will know that you have dodged him by going through the 'Roman Gate' and to-morrow night you can safely reckon upon him."

Szilard charged Juon not to say a word to anybody about what he had told him and promised him a reward if what he had said really came to pass.

That night nothing happened, and till the afternoon of the next day he lingered idly at the mill. Towards midday they heard in the forest a loud barking of dogs; the miller said it was no doubt the lord of the manor hunting bears.

"He chooses a very inopportune time," growled Vamhidy, "he will scare my game away."

The hunters were not long in issuing from the forest, they seemed to have lost the track of the bear.

Vamhidy sent word to the gentlemen that he would be much obliged to them if they would postpone their amusement to some more convenient season as business of a graver sort was going on here. Word was at once brought back that the company was quite ready to do as he said. The dogs were quickly leashed again, the beaters recalled by signals and the whole hunt came straight towards the mill. A few moments later Vamhidy recognized in the leader of the hunt—Leonard Hátszegi.

It was an unwelcome surprise on both sides, but Hátszegi was the first to recover himself, and he greeted him with as radiant a countenance as if he had never had any cause of quarrel with him.

"We both of us seem to be on a hunting expedition your honour!" said he.

"Mine is an official pursuit."

"And mine pure pastime. Had I known you would have taken this road, I should certainly not have engaged in such a mal-apropos diversion. But it is over now, we are all going back. My bear may run—how about yours?"

"No sign of him yet."

"Well, I could regale you with no end of interesting anecdotes concerning the hunted adventurer, for I have had more than one famous rencontre with him myself. If it were only worth your while to pay us a visit at Hidvár I could promise you the heartiest reception—not only on my own part but also on the part of my wife."

"I am much obliged to your lordship," replied Vamhidy cooly, "but I am bound by instructions from which I cannot depart. It is not pleasure that brings me hither. Besides I have got a sure clue at last which I must follow up and I know not whither it may lead me."

"Bravo! So you are on his track at last, eh! Take care my friend it is not a false clue. These rascals are very crafty."

"It is a real clue that I have discovered. You must know that before the confiscated gold captured in the Lucsia Cavern was sent to Vienna, every coin of it was marked with a little cross, a very simple official precaution, but it has proved very useful to us. Now I have come upon these marked ducats among the people here. They themselves, I believe, are innocent and can give the name of the persons from whom they received them; and so, by tracing the various intermediaries, we shall come at last, upon the original dispensers of these ducats. I can imagine how Fatia Negra will laugh when he hears that the soldiers of six counties are hunting for him in the depths of the forests and tapping every rotten tree-stump in search of him while he is sitting comfortably in some large theatre and eyeing the ballet-dancers through his opera glass; but he will be very much surprised when, one fine day, without any preliminary siege-operations we shall tap at his own door and enquire: 'Is Fatia Negra at home?'"

Hátszegi laughed heartily.

"Not a bad idea, upon my honour! I myself am inclined to think that the worthy highwayman will be sooner found in a coffee house than in a forest. I only regret that I did not mark my own coins so that I might recognize them again."

And so laughing and whistling, he returned to his party which appeared to consist of mere dependents and gave them his orders.

"Unpack the horses and get lunch ready," said he, "we will not go any further."

Then he turned again to Vamhidy.

"Since we are obliged to capitulate to superior force, would you be so good as to pick out with me a nice, round, shadowy spot in the forest where we may encamp and share with each other our provisions which have thus become the spoils of war?"

"Thank you, my lord," replied Vamhidy coldly, "but I have already had my lunch."

His lunch, by the way, had consisted of a maize cake baked in the ashes.

"Then won't you allow your men to drink my health in a glass of wine, since they are actually on my domains?"

"My pandurs are not allowed to drink; they have to remain sober. They must not leave the mill without my leave and your lordship must not camp out here although the mill is your property. For just now I am 'verbiro,'[50] here with the right to open and close every door as I may think fit."

"Then I shall know how to respect your authority. All the same, I do not withdraw my offer. My castle and every house and shanty on my estate is at your disposal and if you should not find me at home at Hidvár, as I have to be off early to-morrow morning to Szeb, my wife will be delighted to see you."

And with that he threw his gun across his shoulder and tripped away with well bred nonchalance across the field, and, calling to his party to follow him, disappeared in the depths of the forest from which he had just emerged.

And now it was evening and the heavens were full of stars and Szilard began to gaze at the stars and as he did so he forgot all about the official burdens that weighed so heavily upon his shoulders, all about Fatia Negra and the robbers. He fancied that his eyes encountered among the stars the eyes of "another" whom slumber and happiness had deserted just as they had deserted him.

How close to each other chance had brought them once more! He had only to accept her husband's invitation in order to meet her face to face. What would they not have to say to one another?

The night was quite still, the whole region was dumb save for the gurgling of the water rushing through the sluices. The pandurs were snoring in the living room, for they were allowed to sleep till two o'clock. Only Vamhidy kept watch with a single pandur who was guarding the prisoners in the cellar.

"The Lord God bless thee!" a hushed voice suddenly resounded from among the brown bushes and Szilard distinguished by the light of the rising moon a tall dark shape approaching the mill path. It was blind Juon.

"How did you know anyone was here?" enquired Szilard suspiciously.

"I heard you sigh, sir, once or twice and I knew you were awake for I warned you beforehand to watch—to-night he will be upon you."

"Who?"

"Who? Why Fatia Negra."

"So you think he will be bold enough?"

"I know that he is already on the way."

"And where were you just now?"

"I was working in the mill-ditch."

"At night! What were you doing there?"

"I have removed the supporting beam underneath the bridge leading across the reservoir! It was a hard bit of work but I had the strength to do it."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because he will come from the opposite side and immediately he steps on the middle of the bridge the plank will give way beneath him and he will fall into the water like a mouse in a trap."

"What is the good of that, he will only swim out again."

"Yes, but his pistols will then be full of water and he will be unable to use them against you."

Szilard began to perceive that he had a most determined ally with all sorts of ideas in his head that had never occurred to himself.

"But surely, my poor fellow, you do not imagine that anybody will be mad enough to face so many armed men alone."

"I don't know, sir, but I also do not know whether you yourself may not be alone among so many armed men, for I hear snoring among the very guard you told off to watch the cellar."

Szilard was startled. He immediately hastened to the place indicated and there, sure enough, he saw the sentry stretched at full length across the cellar door. He angrily hastened to arouse him and seized the sleeper by the arm; but all his efforts were powerless to awake the fellow,—he might just as well have been dead.

"Try to wake the others, sir," said Juon.

The pandurs lay in long rows stretched out upon the straw in the meal magazine.

Szilard spoke to them, first gently, then loudly, and at last angrily, calling them by name, one after the other; but not one of them awoke. He tore the sleepers away from their places, but they were not aware of it; as soon as he let them go they rolled back again into their former positions.

"What has happened?" cried the confounded Szilard.

"There must be a traitor among them, sir, a hireling of Fatia Negra; he has his hirelings everywhere, in forests, in palaces, in dungeons, in barracks, everywhere. And this traitor has mingled thorn-apple juice in the drink of his comrades and they will now sleep on for a night and a day. The traitor himself is pretending to sleep along with his fellows but he is only awaiting the arrival of Fatia Negra and then up he will get and release the captives. It was an artful dodge, your honour!"

Szilard felt a tremor running through all his limbs.

"You see, sir, you are here alone, but Fatia Negra is never alone. But so far no great harm has been done. We will make him to be alone also. We cannot find out just now which of the four and twenty is a traitor. But we will bind the whole four and twenty hand and foot, and then the traitor also will be helpless."

Szilard began to perceive that this blind man was right in everything. His words must be listened to, for the danger was close at hand, there was no time for hesitation. So he quickly routed up all the halters in the mill and they set to work.

The blind giant laid the pandurs one by one across his knee and placing their hands behind their backs crosswise held them towards Szilard, who bound them fast. Three and twenty of them felt nothing of all this and the four and twentieth who did feel it thought it just as well to go on feigning slumber, for had it been discovered that he was awake one grip of those enormous fists would have made of him a sleeper indeed—for ever more.

"Is your sword sharp, sir?" enquired the blind man when this piece of work was done.

"Yes, and I have pistols likewise."

"Test them, sir, for I suspect they have been tampered with."

"What?"

"If ever, sir, you have pursued some wild beast, a bear or a buffalo, for instance, you know the rule surely: never rely upon any weapon which has not been freshly loaded by your own hand. Let us take the loading out of your pistols. It won't do to fire them off for we are lying in wait for big game and at such times one must keep very quiet."

Szilard hearkened to the warning and drew the loading out of both his well charged pistols. It is usual when the powder is taken out to blow down the barrel and as he did so now he remarked that something was wrong. The ramrod encountered some soft substance which he drew forth. Juon smelt it and pronounced it to be the wax of wild bees.

"You see, sir, you will not be able to discharge this pistol, for the touch holes are so plugged up that it will take you some hours to thoroughly clean them."

"At any rate I have still the firearms of my pandurs."

"Let us examine them also, sir!"

They did so forthwith and found that they too had been utterly ruined. And all this must have been done while Szilard had been sitting outside and his men had been sleeping!

"Then your sword is sharp, sir, eh?" enquired the blind man, "for I hear the footsteps of Fatia Negra."

The sensitive ears of the blind man "scented" so to speak the well known footfalls while they were still approaching on the distant forest paths.

The young man felt an involuntary shudder run through his body as the moment drew near when he would have to face the hunted foe. The magical mysteriousness which enveloped his pursuer; the marvellous audacity which ensured the success of all his projects; his gigantic bodily strength—all these things were sufficient to make any man's heart beat more quickly at the prospect of encountering Black-Mask in a life and death struggle at a lonely place.

But Szilard was resolved to see the business through. The strong will peculiar to men of his nature broke down his fear. He had no business to tremble, it was not permitted to him to fear. He who has a sword in his hand is never alone—a sword is also a man.

The blind man trembled in his stead. He feared for him. When Szilard returned with his naked sword, the blind man passed his finger along its edge from end to end to test its sharpness.

"A good sword, a very good sword, Domnule. Fear him not, but when he scrambles out of the water, rush upon him and strike at his neck. Do not aim at his body for this accursed one wears a coat of mail so that no weapon can pierce him. If he comes to close quarters, do not defend yourself but slash away at him, you may perhaps be wounded, but if you stand on the defensive, he will kill you. If he gets too much for you, call out and I will rush in and strangle him with my naked hands. Oh, what would I not give now for the sight of my two eyes."

And the blind man began to weep bitterly.

"That man killed my wife and blinded me and now when I hear him approach, when I hear him coming towards me all alone I cannot see him. I cannot rush in and close with him. Be valiant, Domnule, and God be with you. May the soul of my Mariora direct the edge of your sword and darken his eyes. Hearken!—is not that he approaching!"

And it was actually he. The tall elegant figure was descending the moonlight rocks with a light, elastic tread, dressed from head to foot in a black atlas mantle. Szilard saw him drawing nearer and nearer, step by step, to the mill behind a pillar of whose verandah he himself was concealed expectant.

At the very moment when he perceived this figure, his former terror gave way before a strange, resolute fury which now filled his heart, a feeling familiar only to those whose blood is set boiling whenever they are suddenly confronted by a pressing danger. He feared the man no longer, he burned to encounter him.

Blind Juon stood beside him and pressed his hand. They both of them began to listen intently, nature itself was as still as if the wind also would listen. Nothing was audible but the dull measured tramp of the approaching footsteps.

The black shape now footed the bridge; with a confident gait he approached the middle of it, another step and the bridge gave way beneath him and with an involuntary cry the man in black plunged into the water.

"Now, sir, rush in!" whispered Juon to Szilard. But the latter could not help thinking at that moment that it was an act of cowardice to attack a man when he could not defend himself, even though that man was a robber, so he allowed him to scramble out onto the other side.

The black mantle had fallen from the shoulders of Fatia Negra into the water and there he now stood before Szilard with his wet clothes clinging closely to his body like a statue of Antinous, a shape of athletic beauty.

In his girdle were a couple of pistols, in all probability rendered useless by the water and a long Arab yataghan almost as long as an ordinary sword but without the usual cruciform hilt.

Szilard barred the way.

For an instant Fatia Negra was taken aback by his antagonist's unexpected wariness and courage, but the next moment his drawn yataghan flashed in his hand and the second flash was the clash of the contending weapons.

And now happened what happens hundreds and thousands of times in actual life. At the very first onset Fatia Negra, the notorious, the practised, the invincible swordsman was disarmed by a young civilian who had never, perhaps, held a naked sword in his hand before and possessed no advantage over his opponent save the courage of an honest man as opposed to the effrontery of a malefactor—a marvel indeed!

Both of them had lunged at the same time, neither of them had parried, Szilard's sword cut through his adversary's wrist and at the same instant Fatia Negra's yataghan fell from his hand.

The wounded robber set up a howl like a wild beast and Juon, lurking beneath the verandah of the mill responded with another howl of joy that sounded like an echo. The blind man had recognized that Fatia Negra was in danger and at once rushed out upon him.

The disarmed adventurer lost his presence of mind along with his sword. His right hand suddenly sank helpless to his side and his stout heart was seized with a sort of paralysis. He perceived that this was the man sent by fate to announce to him that his last hour was at hand. He turned and fled toward the forest.

Szilard rushed after him.

"Take care," screamed blind Juon. But none heeded him. Fatia Negra flew away before his enemy. At first he left him far behind, but gradually the continuous loss of blood began to weaken him and it also occurred to him that even if he succeeded in distancing his adversary, he would still leave a trail of blood behind him. To complete his confusion the moon made the whole region as light as day. He was forced to sit down on a tree stump to tie up his wounded hand; at least he would stop the flow of blood and make the trail more difficult to follow.

While with the help of his left hand and his teeth he was binding up his useless right hand, his pursuer overtook him.

"Fatia Negra—surrender!"

The only reply the adventurer gave was to try to fire his pistols and finding them only flash in the pan he hurled them one after the other at his enemy's head. Szilard then had practical experience of the rumor that Fatia Negra could throw very well even with his left hand,—had he not leaped aside at the nick of time the pistols would have dashed his brains out.

Then up Fatia Negra started to his feet again and fled away still further. The pursuer and the pursued now sped along with pretty equal energy, though the loss of blood continued to weaken the robber. Yet he made one desperate effort to scale the steep side of the mountain. An ordinary man could rarely breast such an ascent, yet he tried it. But he soon found that even thus he could not shake off his enemy. He remained indeed some hundreds of paces behind but he could not dodge out of his sight in the now open glade.

On the brow of the hill the adventurer stopped to pant and surveyed the undulating thickly wooded hills stretching away on every side of him. He drew a silver whistle from his bosom and gave with it three penetrating signals which re-echoed from among the distant mountains. But it was only an echo, only the note of the whistle that he heard, he waited in vain for anything else. All his accomplices had evidently hidden away.

And again the pursuer overtook him. He waited till he was only two paces off and then he seized a stone weighing half a hundred weight and hurled it at him—the tree trunk behind which Szilard had taken refuge bent beneath the blow. Then Fatia Negra fled down towards the valley.

It was a desperate way for him to take, for down hill his adversary could cover the ground as quickly as he could; the distance between them was never more than ten paces, the wound the robber had received began to enervate his whole body, and he was not long in finding out that the hurling of missiles is a very profitless mode of warfare when you have only one hand at your disposal.

Panting hard he fled on further seeking refuge. And now he took to zigzagging through the wood in the hope of dodging his pursuer if only for an instant as a flying fox is wont to do when he is already nearing his hole whose entrance he does not wish to betray to his pursuer.

A little further on a stout quickset hedge barred their way. Fatia Negra burst through it and Szilard followed in the gap that he had made.

Suddenly a hunting lodge came in view—at least the antlers on the top of the porch and above the windows suggested that that was what it was intended for.

One of the windows looking out upon the forest stood open. Fatia Negra suddenly stopped short, waited till his adversary was close up to him and then shaking his fist at him sprang through the open window.

Vamhidy did not hesitate a moment about following the adventurer into the house. He forced his way through the window and found himself in a dark corridor at the extreme end of which the footsteps of the hunted adventurer were still resounding. And after him he ran straightway.

CHAPTER XXII

On the way back she met some charcoal burners and asked them about the lonely little house in the midst of the forest. Three of the four pretended not to understand: they did not remember ever seeing such a house they said. The fourth, however, told the lady in reply that in that house dwelt "Dracu."[51]