Apafi wrote with trembling hand, and read, "Whereas"—The Pasha tore the parchment away from him in anger and roared out, "'Whereas,—since'—what is the use of such roundabout expressions? Write as is the custom, 'We, Michael Apafi, Prince of Transylvania, command you, miserable slave, that as soon as you receive this writing, without fail you appear before us at once in Klein-Selyk.' Then stop."
It required some effort on the part of Apafi to make the Pasha understand that it was not the custom to use such terms with the Hungarian nobility. At last he gained permission to write as seemed best to him, only the contents were to be decisive and authoritative.
The circular letter was finished at last. The Pasha ordered a man to mount his horse at once, and gave him instructions to deliver this at full speed.
Apafi shook his pen and sighed to himself;—"I would like to see the man who can tell me what will be the result of all this."
"Now, until the convention assembles, stay with me here in camp."
"May I not go back to my wife and child at home?" asked Apafi, with throbbing heart.
"The devil! That you may run away from us? That is the way all these Hungarians treat the rank of prince. The men we do not wish lie down on us and beg for the honor, and those we do wish take to flight." And with that the Pasha showed Apafi to his tent and left him, at the same time giving the order to the sentinel stationed at the entrance as a mark of honor, to be sure not to let him escape.
"He got into a pretty scrape that time!" sighed Apafi, in deep resignation. The only hope that remained for him now was that the men summoned would not appear for the convention.
A few days later, in the early morning while Apafi was still in bed, there entered his tent suddenly Stephen Run, John Daczo and Stephen Nalaczy, with all the rest of the noble Szeklers to whom the letter had been sent.
"For God's sake!" cried out Apafi, "what are you here for?"
"Why, your majesty summoned us here," replied Nalaczy.
"That's true, but you might have had the sense not to come. What can we do now?"
"Enthrone your majesty with all due ceremony and if necessary, defend you in true Szekler fashion," said Stephen Run.
"You are too few for that, my friends."
"Have the goodness just to look out in front of the tent," began Nalaczy, and drawing aside the curtain, he showed him a crowd of Szeklers with swords and lances, who had remained without. "We are here cum gentibus to prove to your grace that if we acknowledge you as our Prince, this is not done in mere jest."
Apafi shrugged his shoulders and began to draw on his boots. But he was so thoughtful and melancholy with it all, that an hour passed before he was dressed, for he took up each article of dress the wrong way, and put on his coat before he thought of his waistcoat. Several hundred of the nobility had assembled in Selyk at his call, more than he expected or even wished.
When Ali Pasha came out of his tent, in the presence of all assembled he took Apafi by the hand and threw about him a new green velvet cloak, set on his head a cap bordered with ermine, and gave the States assembled to understand that they were to receive this man from this time as their true Prince. The Szeklers roared out a huzza, raised Apafi on their shoulders and set him on a platform covered with velvet that Ali Pasha had ordered built for him.
"Now let the lords betake themselves to the church—and do you give your oath to your Prince according to your custom and swear fealty to each other. The bells have already been rung at my order. Have mass said in due form."
"Pardon me, but I am of the Reformed Church," protested Apafi.
"That suits me all the better. The affair can be conducted with less formality. There is his Reverence Franz, the Magyar, he shall preach the sermon."
Apafi let them do as they would, only nervously stroking his moustache and shrugging his shoulders when he was questioned. Nalaczy and the rest of the Szeklers considered it proper to meet him in the church with all the reverence due to princes. The Reverend Franz extemporized a powerful sermon, in which he assured them in thundering language that the God of Israel who had called David from his sheep to the kingly throne and exalted him above all his enemies, would now too maintain his chosen one in his good pleasure, though his foes were as numerous as the blades of grass in the field, or the sands of the seashore.
This little church could never have dreamed that it would one day be the scene of a convention and a princely election. And Apafi could certainly never have dreamed that all this would have been fulfilled for him. He had neither ear nor eye for the consecration nor for the sermon, for his mind was constantly busied with the thought of what might become of his wife and child and where would they find refuge if he should fall into the hands of Kemény and they should be driven from house and home. Then it occurred to him that somewhere in the land of the Szeklers he had a brother, Stephen Apafi, with whom he had always had the friendliest relations, and who would certainly take care of them if he saw them in misery. These thoughts made him forget everything about himself so completely that when at the conclusion of the assembly all present rose and began the Te Deum, he too arose, quite ignoring the fact that these services were in his honor. But some one behind laid his hands on his shoulders and pressed him down into his place, telling him in a low, familiar voice that he was to remain seated. Apafi looked around and fell back on his seat in astonishment, for the man behind him was no other than his brother Stephen.
"You here, too!" said Apafi to him, deeply affected.
"I was a little belated," said Stephen, "but I arrived in time and will stay as long as you command."
"Will you also run into danger?"
"My brother, our fate lies in God's hand, but we too have something in hand which will have a little to say," and with that he laid his hand on his sword hilt. "Kemény has forfeited the love of his country,—I need not tell you why. You have good cause to triumph and the ways and means will not fail you."
"But if it should prove otherwise? what is then to become of my wife—have you not seen her?"
"I have just come from there. That is why I was late."
"You have talked with her? What did she say about my affairs? Is she very much worried?"
"Not in the least. On the contrary, she is very much pleased, and thinks Transylvania could not have found a better prince; that you deserve this honor much more than any of the great lords, who have no thought except for tyranny or carousal, and she regrets very much that her child is still so young she cannot come to strengthen and encourage you."
"I should have been much better pleased had she been chosen prince," said Apafi, half in vexation and half in jest.
"Look out," said Stephen, "the young woman is so accustomed to managing affairs at home that if you do not keep the crown firmly on your own head we shall yet live to see her wearing it on hers. This, of course, I speak only in jest."
There is many a truth spoken in jest.
His Excellency, Prince John Kemény, was meantime tarrying mid sport and pleasure in Hermanstadt. This good lord had a perfect passion for eating, and would not have given up his dinner if the last spoke in the last wheel of the state carriage had been broken. Among his counsellors his cook stood first. The entire town-hall was at his disposal and had been taken possession of by his attendants. In the courtyard spur-clanking cuirassiers amused themselves with Transylvanian-Saxon serving-women. A few German musketeers stationed on guard, had leaned their weapons against the gate-post and entered into friendly relations with the boys who were carrying the food away from the table, at the same time singing with merriment Hungarian songs quickly picked up, and dancing as they sang. On the other hand, the Hungarian guards were sitting in their yellow cloaks with green fastenings, leaning silently against the wall. They gave no heed to the tankards of wine set in their hands, except to pour them down at a single draught and return the mighty cup to the friendly butler. The latter could hardly hold himself up—smiled at all, the happy and the unhappy, and marched off backward to the cook, who, carrying everything on high, now brought in on a silver dish a great tart decked with flowers and sugar, representing the Tower of Babel; and again a huge porcelain bowl, from which came the spicy fragrance of a hot punch; and again a great wooden platter, on which rested a whole roast peacock in all his plumage. With difficulty could he make his way across the courtyard with his amazing burdens, for the crowds had gathered there for the adjustment of their affairs, and were waiting until the prince should leave the table. Meantime they got wine, roasts and pastry; everything except what they came for—justice.
In the banquet-hall were the lords and ladies, all somewhat mellow with drink. The meal had lasted some time and was still far from finished. French cookery seemed to have reserved its most wonderful products for this princely feast. The three natural kingdoms had been taxed to tickle the palates of men. Everything considered appetizing and extraordinary, from the days of Lucullus down to the time of the French gourmand, had been brought together there. All kinds of native and foreign wines were taken from great silver coolers and poured into richly cut and colored Venetian glasses. The rarest game, cooked in all sorts of ways, was set out on silver dishes; then followed transparent, rosy, quivering jellies, preserved fruits from the Indies, ragouts of cocks' combs, delicacies made of snails, lobsters and rare sea fish, dishes that the guests could only by the wildest fancy imagine appetizing, after they were already sated with what was good; artichokes, oysters, turtles, the enjoyment of which I should, for my part, count a punishment, great pasties and rose-stained swans' eggs in large baskets, which the guests, by way of diversion could cook for themselves over a small spirit lamp placed before each one. Finally came countless other wonderful dishes, the names of which would be hardly recognizable by ordinary mortals and in abundance sufficient for six times as many guests. There were all kinds of spicy drinks to suit the taste of each one. Behind each guest was stationed a page, who as soon as the guest turned his head, immediately removed his full plate and gave him a clean one.
Behind the Prince stood the son of Ladislaus Csaki, who was proud that his son might fill the glass of the Prince, and the Prince needed to have it filled frequently. The Transylvanian feasters were wont to close their banquets by drinking each other down for a wager. John Kemény now called on the brave spirits for the wonted contest. Most of the guests declined the challenge. The sober ones expressed their thanks for the honor and excused themselves; only three took up the challenge. The first was Wenzinger, leader of the German troops, the second was Paul Beldi, general of the Szeklers and supreme judge of the court at Haromszek, a fine-looking man; his noble brow indicated rest, his gentle eyes were brightened a little by the wine, his silent lips opened in a smile; otherwise no effect of the drinking was to be seen. Opposite him was the third contestant, Dionysius Banfy, captain of the train bands at Klausenburg and general of the troops, a medium sized, broad shouldered, haughty man, with a touch of unbecoming affectation in his aristocratic countenance.
John Kemény was seated at the upper end of the table and at either side sat the wives of Banfy and Beldi. One of them, Banfy's wife, was a young woman barely twenty years old, who since her sixteenth year had been under the dominion of her husband. She hardly dared to raise her eyes, or if she did it was only to turn them to her husband. On the other side sat Beldi's wife, between her husband and the Prince; hers was still a dazzling beauty like that of a white rose, and now lighted up by the cheer of the feast, the healthy color seemed fairly to burn. There was an eloquent charm in her eyebrows, and when she let fall her lashes over her burning eyes her look was fascinating. Bethlen's wife at the opposite end of the table talked openly of the coquettish woman who had a marriageable daughter and yet dared appear with open bodice; but this gave all the more pleasure to the Prince, not less to the impetuous Banfy, and even to the gentle husband, who worshipped his wife.
The wager had electrified all the men, so that the music which sounded from the gallery throughout the feast now began to chime in with songs, when Gabriel Haller entered and hurrying to the Prince, whispered a few words to him with a serious look. Kemény stared at him, then emptied the glass in his hand and laughed loudly.
"Tell the news to the company that they too may know," he called out to Haller.
He hesitated.
"Out with it; you could hardly say anything more entertaining. Set your music to it, up there. It is a great joke."
The men all urged Haller to share his joke with them. "It is quite unimportant," said the man, with a shrug, "Ali Pasha has raised Michael Apafi to be Prince."
"Ha, ha, ha!"—The laughter went round the table. The Prince turned with absurd affectation first to one and then to another of the company. "Does any one of you know this man? Has anybody ever heard of him before?"
Banfy's wife clung with blanched face to her husband's arm, while he, leaning his elbows on the table said, not without annoyance; "I am a distant connection of the poor wretch. In fact, he married a relative of my wife. He was a long time in slavery to the Tartars, and the Turks, who are now angry with us, have undoubtedly set him free on condition that he should allow himself to be made prince. He must have lost his wits entirely."
Again the men laughed loudly.
"We will crown him at once," said Kemény, sarcastically, throwing back his head.
"That has been done already," said Haller.
"Where? By whom?" questioned the good-natured Prince, with contracted brow.
"In Klein-Selyk, by the State Convention."
Kemény indicated by a motion of the hand and uplifted eyebrow that he did not fully understand this reply.
"Who was present? Surely all the men of importance in the country are here with us."
"There were present Stephen Apafi, Nalaczy, Daczo and others, a couple of hundred Szekler nobility."
"Well, we will count them up as soon as we are through with other affairs," said the Prince, contemptuously. "Give Gabriel Haller a chair."
"They are not waiting for us, but are already coming against us; they are in Schassburg now."
"I suppose they will drive us out,—Michael Apafi with his two hundred Szeklers," said Kemény, laughing.
Wenzinger now arose and said in soldierly fashion; "Does your Highness wish me to have the army called together? we have eight thousand armed men. If it pleases your Highness, we will scatter these people so completely that there will be no two men left standing together."
"Keep quiet," replied Kemény, who looked down with contempt upon the whole business. "Sit down and drink. Let them come nearer, why should we take the trouble to go to them? we can certainly take them, bag and baggage.—I am sorry, Dionysius Banfy, that this man is a connection of yours, but out of consideration for you I will see to it that he is not broken on the wheel; I'll have him—stuffed."
This hit of Kemény's was received with roars of laughter.
"Bring a glass for Gabriel Haller, we will go on with our wager. Play the rest of that interrupted music."
Again the music rang out. The gypsy band played a Czardas. The men clinked their glasses and sang to the music. The servants outside joined in. The emptied glasses flew against the wall; there was not one among them who could not have dashed his glass in a thousand pieces except Gabriel Haller, who had come last and was still sober, ashamed to smash the costly Venetian glass.
"Break it against the table so the pieces will fly," thundered the Prince at him, and Haller, in obedience to his Prince, struck the glass lightly against the table and snapped the stem, and then bowed with respectful humility before his master.
Madame Banfy sighed as she thought of her kinsfolk. Her husband, to prevent any one's thinking that he was in the least concerned in the affair, jumped from his seat and amid the sounds of the Czardas invited the beautiful Madame Beldi to dance. The little lady was ready. Banfy grasped the beauty about her waist, held her firmly and whirled her around. The excited woman flew with the lightness of a fairy on the arm of her partner. With that, the rest of the men jumped from their places, seized other women for a dance, and soon the entire company was swept away in fantastic revelry, every one clapping, dancing and shouting. Banfy was hot-blooded and light-headed; he loved beautiful women, and now in addition there was the glow of the wine. When his beautiful partner once more hung on his arm, her glowing cheeks came so near him that he suddenly so far forgot himself as to press the bewitching woman passionately to his heart and imprint a hot kiss on her cheek. Madame Beldi cried out and pushed the bold man from her. Banfy, also startled at what he had done, cast a glance about him but everybody was so taken up with his own pleasure that, to all appearances, neither kiss nor cry had been noticed. However, Madame Beldi angrily left her partner, and when Banfy stammered out an apology, indicated to him that he should stay at a distance.
This kiss was to cost Banfy dear one of these days. Nobody had noticed it except the man whom it most concerned,—the husband. Beldi's eye had seen it. Let not anybody think that a husband who loves is not jealous. Even if he acts as if he had not seen, had not heard, he sees and hears and notices everything. He had indeed seen Banfy kiss his wife, although he acted as if he did not notice the confusion of his wife who, all excited, sought her husband. He took her hand and led her from the hall. Once outside he bade her make ready for a journey. "Where are we going?" asked his wife, quivering with excitement.
"Home to Bodola."
Of all the guests Dionysius Banfy alone noticed that two had vanished from the hall.
In a part of the country of upper Weissenburg, as soon as you have left the Pass of Boza or made a détour of the ravine in the footpath around the mountain heights, you catch sight of the valley of the Tatrang. On all sides are low mountains covered with light fog, and in the background the sky-piercing heights of the foothills of Capri, bright in the early autumnal snow. In the fog-wrapped valley are four or five hamlets with whitewashed houses, from which the smoke arises amid the green fruit trees. The little stream of Tatrang winds clear as crystal between the quiet villages, forming here and there waterfalls with snowy mist. The clouds hang so low over the valley as to shut out with their golden veil first one object and then another from the observer on the mountain-height. There is Hosszufalu with its long street; and the church of Trajzonfalu reflects the sunbeams from its painted metal roof. Tatrang is right on the bank of the stream, at this point crossed by a long wooden bridge; far in the distance appear dark and misty the walls of Kronstadt and the outline of the citadel, at that time still unharmed. Farther down in the valley are the scattered dwellings of the little village of Bodola, its church high on a hill; opposite the village stands a small castle with broad towers and black bastions with battlements; the western bastion is built on a steep rock. But it is only from afar that the castle looks gloomy; as you draw nearer you see that what appeared a dark green growth on the bastion is a garden of flowers. The great Gothic windows are decorated with sculpture and painted glass. Up the steep cliff is a well-kept, winding path, with mossy stone benches at every turn; at its summit is a parapet and the pointed turrets of the castle are painted red and topped with fantastic weather-vanes.
The road to Kronstadt through the Boza Pass leads to this little castle in a few hours, and at the very time when John Kemény had abandoned himself utterly to pleasure in Hermanstadt, a long line of horsemen was moving out of the castle; there might have been two thousand Turkish riders, recognizable from afar by their red turbans and their snow-white caftans; with them were a few hundred Wallachian howitzers in charge of men in brown woolen cloaks and black turbans. The way was so narrow here that the horsemen could ride only two by two, and those in the rear had hardly emerged from the mountain pass when the first riders were already in Tatrang. Their leader was a medium sized, sunburned man, with eyes like an eagle's; there was a long scar across his forehead; the sharp upward turn of his moustache indicated an unusually hot temper, an impression confirmed by the short, crisp speech, the proud turn of the head, and the abrupt movements. Beyond the village he called a halt to await the rear; at the very end rumbled two baggage-wagons and a melon-shaped calêche, the entire baggage of the Turk. A child followed, whose serious expression and gleaming short sword seemed hardly appropriate to the full round face; he might have been twelve years old. Within the carriage, the curtains of which had been thrown wide open to give free play to the evening breeze, sat a young woman of possibly two and thirty, whose dress was partly Turkish, partly Christian; for she wore the loose silk trousers and short blue caftan of Turkish women, but had taken off her turban. Her face, contrary to Turkish custom, was unveiled, and she looked calmly out of the window at the country and the passing peasants.
Beyond the village the Turkish leader marshaled his troops, evidently accustomed to some discipline. At the head of the left wing was the young boy; the right was led by a strong man.
"My brave men," said the Pasha to his troops, "you will encamp here. Let every man keep his place beside his horse and not lay down his arms. Ferhad Aga with twelve men will go to the village and say to the justiciary most respectfully that he is to send four hundred-weight of bread, as much meat, and twice as much hay and oats, for which he will receive four asper the pound,—no more and no less."
The Pasha then turned to the Wallachians. "You dogs, do not think that we have come here to plunder. Do not stir from your places. If I find that a single goose has been stolen from the village, I will have your captains hung and you decimated."
Then he chose four horsemen from the company. "You will follow me. The others are to rest. We will continue our march to-night. In my absence, Feriz Bey is in command."
The small boy saluted. "As soon as Feriz Bey receives word from me to leave you, you will be in command of Ferhad Aga until my return."
With that the Pasha struck spurs to his horse and galloped off to Bodola with his escort of four men. Then the boy called Feriz Bey by the Pasha, rode forward with soldierly bearing and in the clearest, firmest tones gave order to dismount. His Arab steed, with foaming bit reared and plunged, but the little commandant went on with his orders as if he did not notice the mad leaps of his horse. Meantime, the Pasha continued his ride toward the castle of Bodola. The lord of the castle, Paul Beldi, had just returned the day before with his wife from the court of Kemény, which he had left without parting words, and was standing before the dwelling when the Turkish riders came into the courtyard. In those days the relations of Transylvania and Turkey were such that a visit of this kind might take place without previous announcement. As soon as the Pasha caught sight of Beldi he jumped from his horse, hurried up the steps to him and presented himself briefly.
"I am Kutschuk Pasha. Since my road lay through this country I have come to speak with you, if you have time."
"Your servant," replied Beldi, giving his guest precedence as he showed him to the castle salon. It was a square room, with the walls painted in Oriental landscapes; in the spaces between the windows were great mirrors in metal frames; the marble floor was covered over with large, bright rugs; on the walls above the windows were portraits and trophies of old weapons of strange shapes and settings; in the centre of the room was a large table of green marble, with claw feet, and here and there easy chairs upholstered in leather, with heavy carvings. Opposite the entrance a door led to the terrace from which was a wide view of the snow-covered mountains. The evening light streaming through the painted glass cast a bright reflection over the faces of the men as they entered.
"In what way can I serve you?" asked Beldi.
"You are well aware," replied Kutschuk, "that at present there is a great division in the country over the princely succession in Transylvania."
"That does not concern me and I do not intend to take sides with either party," answered Beldi, guardedly.
"I did not come here to ask you for help or advice in this affair. The question is to be settled by the sword. What has brought me to you is purely a family affair and concerns me and me only."
Beldi, in amazement, bade his guest be seated and said to him, "Speak."
"You may have heard that there was once here in Transylvania a Mademoiselle Kallay, who fell in love with a young Turk and became his wife; naturally, without the knowledge or consent of her parents."
"I do know about it. They used to say that the young Turk knew as well how to conquer a woman's heart as a foe on the battlefield."
"Perhaps so. Conquests in war have meantime effaced the traces of love from his cheeks. As you see, my face is crossed this way and that with scars. For the man who married that woman stands before you."
Beldi looked at the Pasha with astonishment.
"I have loved this woman without ceasing and with adoration," continued the Pasha; "this may sound strange to you, coming from the lips of a Turk, but it is true. I have no other wife. She has borne me a son of whom I am proud. Now my affairs are in so critical a condition that I must either work wonders with the help of God, or fall in battle. You know that the religion of Mohammed sets a high value on death in battle, so that this causes me little anxiety; but I am thinking of my wife, who if she should lose me and my son would be placed in a most doubtful position. In Turkey, she would be exposed to persecution because she had remained a Christian; in Transylvania, because she had married a Mohammedan; there through my relatives and here through her own. For that reason I turn to you with a request. I have heard you spoken of as a man of honor and of your wife as a worthy woman. Receive my wife into your family. I have sufficient property for her so that she will be no burden to you in that respect; she needs only your protection. If you promise to grant me this request you can count on my friendship and gratitude forever, the command of my sword and my property and, in case I survive, of my life."
Beldi grasped the Pasha by the hand. "Bring your wife," he said, in cordial tones, "my wife and I will receive her as a sister."
"Not as a sister, I beg of you," said Kutschuk, laughingly, "with us that is equivalent to enmity. So then, I may bring her?"
"We shall be happy to have her with us," replied Beldi, and gave order to his servants to return to Tatrang with the Pasha's followers and bring his carriage from there by torch light. Kutschuk sent word that Feriz Bey was to come too. Meantime, Beldi presented Kutschuk Pasha to his wife, and it gave him no little pleasure to find that she remembered the Pasha's wife as a friend in her youth, whom she would meet again with natural interest and joy.
In the course of a few hours the carriage arrived and rolled heavily over the stone-paved courtyard. Madame Beldi hurried down the steps to meet the Pasha's wife, and as the latter stepped from the carriage received her with a cry of joy. "Katharine, do you know me still?" She too recognized her playmate of old and the two friends rushed into each other's arms, kissed each other and said sweetly, "How handsome you have grown!" "What a stately woman you have become!"
"See, this is my son," said Katharine, pointing to Feriz Bey who, dismounted from his horse, was now hurrying forward to help his mother from the carriage.
"What a fine boy!" exclaimed Madame Beldi, charmed; she threw her arms around the handsome, rosy-cheeked child and kissed him again and again;—if she had only known that this child was no longer a child, but a general!
"I too have children," said Madame Beldi, with the sweet rivalry of maternal feeling. "You shall see them. Does your son speak Hungarian?"
"Hungarian!" asked Katharine, almost hurt. "Does the child of a Hungarian mother speak Hungarian! How can you ask such a question?"
"So much the better," said Madame Beldi, "the children will become acquainted the more easily and they will belong to one family henceforth. Our husbands have arranged that with each other and it certainly will please us."
The affectionate mother threw her arms around her friend again, took Feriz Bey by the hand, and brought them both into the midst of the family circle, where they chatted uninterruptedly and asked and answered thousands of questions.
In the little boudoir was a cheerful open fire; large, beflowered silk curtains shaded the windows; on an ivory table ticked a handsome clock set with jewels. In the back part of the room an easy sofa covered with cornflower blue velvet invited one to rest. On a centre-table covered with a handsome Persian rug was a massive silver candelabrum in the form of a siren who held up a wax candle in each hand. In front of the fireplace stood Madame Beldi's children; the older, Sophie, a maiden of thirteen years, tall, delicately built, with shy glance, appeared to be arranging the fire. She still wore her hair in childish fashion in two long, heavy braids reaching almost to her heels. This girl afterward became the wife of Paul Wesselenyi.
The second child, a little girl of four, knelt before her older sister and scattered light sticks on the fire. Her name was Aranka, the Hungarian for gold-child; her hair was in golden curls falling over her little shoulders; her features were animated and her eyes as well as her hands in constant motion, interfering with her sister in one way or another; she laughed innocently when the older girl at last became angry.
The two children rose when they heard steps and voices at the door. As soon as the older girl caught sight of the strangers she tried to smooth out her dress, while Aranka rushed noisily to her mother, and catching her by the dress looked up at her with a smile on her little round face. Katharine embraced the older girl who timidly offered her forehead to be kissed.
"And your cousin, little Feriz, you must kiss him, too," said Madame Beldi, and brought the two reluctant children together, who hardly dared touch each other's lips. Sophie turned red to her very ears, ran out of the room and could not be persuaded to come back that evening.
"Oh, you bashful Mimosa," said Madame Beldi, with a laugh. "Aranka is braver than you are, I am sure. You are not afraid to kiss Cousin Feriz, are you, darling?"
The child looked up at Feriz and drew back, clinging to her mother's gown, with her large, dark blue eyes fixed on Feriz. Feriz Bey on his side knelt down, embraced the child and imprinted a hearty kiss on her round, red cheeks. Now that this first step had been taken the acquaintance was made for Aranka. She bade her Turkish cousin sit down beside the fireplace, and leaning against him she began to question him about everything she saw on him, from the sword hilt to the feathers on his turban; nothing escaped her.
"Let us leave the children to play," said Madame Beldi, and led her friend out on the balcony from which was a view of the valley of Tatrang flooded with moonlight. While the men talked seriously and the children gave themselves up to play, the two ladies began one of those confidential conversations so dear to young women, especially when they have so much to tell each other, to ask and to inquire, as these two had. Madame Beldi sat down beside Katharine, took her affectionately by the hand and asked half in jest;—"So your husband has no other wife?"
Katharine laughed, but there was a little vexation with it, as she said;—"I suppose you think a Hungarian marries a Turk only to be his slave. My husband loves me dearly."
"I don't doubt it, Katharine, but that certainly is the custom with you."
"With us! I am no Turk."
"What then?"
"A Protestant like yourself. It was a Protestant who married me—the Reverend Martin Biro, who lives in Constantinople in banishment, and to whom my husband in his gratitude gave a house where the Transylvanians and Hungarians living in Constantinople can meet for worship."
"What, does not your husband persecute the Christians?"
"No, indeed. The Turks believe that every religion is good and leads to heaven, only they think their own religion is the best; for in their opinion theirs leads the way to the heaven of heavens. Besides, my husband has a kind heart and is much more enlightened than most Turks."
"Then why couldn't you bring him over to the Christian faith?"
"Why not? perhaps because whenever the story-tellers relate the romance of a Turk who fell in love with a Christian girl, they end the tale with her bringing him to baptism and exchanging the caftan for a coat. In this case they have a romance in which the wife follows her husband and sacrifices everything for him."
"You are quite right, Katharine, but you see it takes me some little time to become accustomed to the thought that a Christian, a Hungarian woman, can have a Turk for a husband."
"But consider, my good friend, God might not have counted it such a good service on my part if I had brought my husband over to our religion, as he does that I left him in the religion in which he was born. A Christian renegade, the most that he could have done would have been to take his place in the Church. But now, as one of the most influential Pashas, he can transform the fate of any Christian in Turkey to one so favorable that the Christian subjects of other lands crowd thither as to the Holy Land. How often, when he has received his portion of the war-plunder, has he handed me a long list on which were marked the names of my imprisoned countrymen whom he had set free for a large sum. He has expended immense treasure for this purpose, and, my darling, the reading of such a list gives me more pleasure than would the most beautiful Eastern pearls he could have bought for the same treasure; and such a deed raises him higher in my eyes than if he could say all the psalms by heart. Beside, he is not at all the man whom you would expect to change his opinions in the least for God or man; then, too, if he were ready to give up his religion I could no longer trust his love, for he would cease to be the same man I knew and loved—a man who, when he had once said a thing, stood firmly by it and never yielded to any fear or persuasion."
Madame Beldi embraced her friend and kissed her glowing cheeks. "You are right, my good Katharine. Our prejudices prevent us from entertaining more than the general opinion. It is true, love too has its religion. But what of your country? Have you never thought of your country?"
"Know my love for my country from the fact that I am now sacrificing to that the life of my husband and of my child, whom I see now probably for the last time."
The expression of Madame Beldi's face showed that she did not fully comprehend the meaning of her friend's words and Katharine had begun to explain this to her when the servant announced that the gentlemen had already been for some time in the dining-hall and were waiting only for the ladies. Madame Beldi led the way. The children were so far on in their friendship that Aranka let herself be carried into the dinning-room by Feriz Bey, while she played with his jeweled feathers.
When Katharine saw a large decanter of wine before her husband she seized it quickly and changed it for a glass carafe of pure spring-water. Madame Beldi noticed it and glanced inquiringly at her embarrassed friend.
"He never drinks wine," said Katharine, by way of excuse. "It hurts him for he is somewhat passionate by nature." Kutschuk raised Katharine's hand to his lips with a smile. "Why do you spare the truth,—that I never drink wine because the Koran forbids it,—because I am a Turk."
Beldi shook his head at his wife and to give the conversation another turn pointed to the children sitting side by side.
"Your son, Kutschuk Pasha, seems to feel quite at home already. You will see what a Hungarian we shall make of him before your return."
At that Kutschuk looked up quickly and proudly at Feriz and both looked at Beldi. In an instant the child's countenance changed completely, and he was wonderfully like his father; the same firm glance, the same proud toss of the head, the same haughty brow.
"Your speech leads me to infer, Beldi," said Kutschuk, "that you think I have brought my son only to leave him here with you."
"You surely will not take such a child into battle!"
"Such a child! He commands four hundred spahi horse, has already taken part in three engagements, had two horses shot down under him, and in the coming war is to lead the left wing of my corps."
The Beldis now looked in astonishment at the child who, conscious that all eyes were directed toward him, strove to assume a proud look.
"But you will at least stand beside your son in the contest?" said Madame Beldi, anxiously.
"By no means. I shall lead the centre and he will look after his division. At his age I was already wearing the Order of Nischan and I hope he will not return without having won it, too."
"But suppose he should come to a hand-to-hand fight and be in danger?" asked Madame Beldi, with growing anxiety.
"Then he will be fighting as befits him," replied Kutschuk, stroking his moustache, that seemed to rise of its own accord.
"But he is far too young to enter a contest with men," said Madame Beldi, with an expression of pity.
"Feriz," Kutschuk called to his son, "take a sword from the wall there and show our friends that you know how to swing it like a man."
The boy sprang up and chose from the weapons hanging on the wall, not a sword but a heavy club, seized it at the very end of the handle and swung it with outstretched arm so easily in every direction that it would have been a credit to any man. His proof of strength was rewarded by a general cry of astonishment.
"Kutschuk, give me the boy!" said Beldi.
"With all my heart. Will you give me your daughter?"
"Which one? You may have your choice."
"The one next him. When she is grown up she will be just a match for him and we shall both have a son and a daughter."
Beldi laughed good-naturedly, the two women smiled at each other and Kutschuk Pasha looked with satisfaction at his son, while the latter drew the heron's feather out of his turban, tore off the jeweled clasp which had been most pleasing to the little Aranka, and gave it to the child with generous gallantry. The little maid reached for the costly present timidly, without the slightest suspicion of either its material or moral worth; but when once the trinket was in her hand she would not have let it go for anything in the world. The parents suddenly became silent. True, their expression was a smiling one, but their eyes were serious.
Meanwhile Michael Apafi assured by Ali Pasha that help would come to him in a short time, advanced on Schassburg and there awaited the change of fortune. John Kemény came against him with a great army of German and Hungarian troops in imposing numbers, and he himself was a bold general in time of action. Michael Apafi could make but slight opposition. He had a few hundred stiff-necked Szeklers incapable of discipline, together with the blue janissaries who had stayed behind as bodyguard for him; in all not the tenth of Kemény's force in point of strength. By the advice of Stephen Apafi the Prince determined to stay in Schassburg on the defensive until he could be joined by the auxiliaries from his Turkish patron. This decision was pleasing to the Saxon burghers, for behind the walls of their own town they knew how to defend themselves, but in open field they were never quite comfortable. With the Szeklers it was just the opposite. It was Nalaczy's mission to keep them in a warlike frame of mind. One evening he brought them to such a state of excitement at the inn that with the dawn they went noisily to the windows of the Prince and swore roundly that the gate must be opened to them for they were determined to attack Kemény and fight it out to the death. The Prince and his advisers came down in terror and strove in every way to make them understand that Kemény's troops were more numerous than they; that the half of his army was made up of musketeers while on their side none but the Saxons knew how to use firearms; that if they should make a sally by one gate the enemy would rush in by the other and all would be confusion. But the man who thinks he can clear a Szekler's mind of an idea once gained is much mistaken.
"We are either going to be led against the enemy or we are going home," they shouted. "We positively will not consent to stay here ten years like the Trojans, for we are needed at home. Portion out to every man the number of the enemy that falls to his share, these he shall strike down and then take his discharge. We do not wish to stay here and be besieged and starved out, and then thrown to the dogs and rats."
"If you do not wish to stay, my friends, you may go," was the final decision of Apafi, "but it would be madness for me to be drawn into an engagement."
The Szeklers said never a word but took up their knapsacks, shouldered their spears and moved out of Schassburg as if they never had been there. From this time on the Szeklers were Apafi's enemies and remained so until his death.
The next day Kemény's forces were beneath the city walls, where Apafi had barely armed men enough to guard the gates. Wenzinger was the man who best understood the art of war. This general, true to the principles of the military art in which he had been trained, first inspected the ground, then carefully occupied any point which could be of any importance, taking care to cover the besieging forces in every direction; in short, in accordance with a systematic method he prolonged his preparations so that when at last he was ready to begin, at that very moment came the news that the Turkish auxiliaries were approaching on the double-quick. Thereupon, still in accordance with his system, he assembled the scattered troops and made ready to meet the approaching Turks. But John Kemény was in the way. He feared that if the Turkish force proved large his forces would have to take flight, and in that case with Schassburg in the rear they would come between two fires. He preferred to wait the attack of his enemy and withdrew from the town altogether, taking up his position in Nagy-Szöllös in a spot that will for some time still to come be known as an important battlefield; from that point he watched calmly the advance of Kutschuk Pasha's horsemen into Schassburg.
Apafi, in his anxiety over a state of affairs into which he had fallen through no fault of his own, had not eaten anything for three days, when word was brought him that the auxiliaries had come. It was already late in the evening when Kutschuk Pasha, after a forced march over rough mountain paths, entered the city. Apafi rode forward to greet the Turk, whom he looked upon as his guardian angel. Great was his astonishment when, after carefully surveying the line, he learned that they were barely equal to the fifth part of the opposing force.
"What does your Grace intend with this small force?" he asked the Pasha.
"God knows, who from above orders the fates of men," answered the Turk with characteristic fatalism; and did not take the Prince into his plans any further.
That night the Turks encamped in the public square in front of the Prince's dwelling. At last Apafi could sleep again after so many restless nights. It was such a satisfaction to him to hear the snorting of the horses under his window and the clanking of the sentinels' swords, that he fell asleep with a light heart amid these quieting sounds; then too there was the thought that with these troops he could hold out for some time, when—something might happen. Long before dawn he was wakened by the rattling on a board which called the Turkish horsemen to breakfast.
"They breakfast early," thought the Prince, turned over and fell asleep again. As he dozed it seemed to him that he heard dervishes singing; their song is of a kind to make a man sleep even if he felt wide awake; but soon his Excellency was roused again by the sound of trumpets. "What are they doing in the middle of the night?" he cried out with annoyance; he got up, looked from the window, and saw that the Turkish riders had already mounted, though it was still dark; and with another sound of the trumpet the entire company rode out. The noise of the hoofs on the pavement and the words of command sounded out in the night.
"What a restless fellow this Pasha is!" thought Apafi, "he does not give his army any rest even at night, and that too after so many hardships," and with these thoughts he went to bed again, fell into still sweeter sleep, and woke late in the morning. The sun was high in the heavens when Apafi rang for John Cserei, at that time his factotum. His first question was,
"What is the Pasha doing?"
"He withdrew from the town during the night and sent back a messenger who has been waiting since dawn."
"Let him enter," said Apafi, and began to dress in haste.
With Kutschuk's messenger entered Stephen Apafi, Nalaczy and Daczo. They too had been waiting two hours for the Prince to awaken, and besides this they were eager for the Pasha's message.
"What news? Speak quickly," called Apafi to the messenger.
The latter stood with arms crossed, bowed to the ground, and began,
"Excellent Prince, my lord, Kutschuk Pasha, sends you the following message through me, 'Stay quietly in Schassburg and keep good hope; with the troops under your command guard the walls and gates.' Meantime my lord Kutschuk Pasha will advance against John Kemény and enter into an engagement with him wherever he finds him. It will be a struggle unto death, even if he should perish with his entire host."
This announcement so confounded the Prince that he could find no word of reply. Kutschuk Pasha in point of numbers was equal to the fifth of Kemény's force; besides, his troops were worn out with forced marches. The man who could hope for victory at such a time must believe in miracles.
"Let us prepare for the worst," said Stephen Apafi, "and put our trust in God."
That was the most sensible speech to be made under the circumstances. Michael Apafi let affairs take their course, any man who chose might guard the walls. The guards left their soldiers to look out for themselves and the soldiers did not trouble themselves much about the walls. The fate of the land lay in God's hand, literally speaking, for the hand of man was withdrawn. The Prince did no more than to order old Cserei to keep watch in the church tower and let them know when he saw the troops moving.
Meanwhile John Kemény had halted in Nagy-Szöllös, which was a few hours distant from Schassburg. He made his headquarters in the little parsonage, and the little room is still shown where he rested for the last time, and the round hill in the garden on which stood a summerhouse where the Prince had begun his last meal but had not finished it.
The Hungarian forces consulted for a long time with Wenzinger and the Prince about the course of action. Some advised taking the town by storm and others maintained that they should besiege it and starve the people to submission. Wenzinger shook his head.
"Permit me, my lord," said the experienced German, "to express my opinion. I am an old soldier, have been through all kinds of campaigns, know the value of superior forces in war and also of good positions, and know how to balance the two. I have learned by experience that often a hundred men under favorable circumstances are more difficult to displace than a thousand. I also know what a difference the spirit of an army makes. I know too the importance of taking into account the different kinds of weapons, and the importance of nationality. We have ten thousand men and there are barely three thousand drawn up against us. But we must take into consideration that the greater part of our Hungarian force consists of horsemen, and that it is impossible to storm a city with horsemen—still less possible to compel a Hungarian on a horse to dismount and fight on foot; furthermore I would remark that the Hungarian is a brave fighter when drawn up against foreigners, but whenever I have seen him against his own people,—and I have frequently had the opportunity, he has been so lazy and indifferent that it seemed as if he could hardly wait to turn his back on the battlefield. We have a force of men that are very good on the defensive, and if we had them behind the walls of that town we could hold out against a force of ten times that number; but except behind fortifications they are of no use. They are strong enough to defend a bastion but too weak to storm one. Then we have no cannon for storming so we must send to Temesvar for cannon, and before they can arrive over those roads—and it is a great question too whether the commander will send us any—Ali Pasha may return with fresh forces, while we shall have spent the time here to no purpose. So I maintain that we had better wait here no longer. We are in no condition to take the enemy within the walls by force or siege. We cannot suppose him so mad as to be drawn into an open engagement. The wisest thing for us under these circumstances is to go without delay to Hungary, there get troops and cannon, and then make it our object to force the enemy into a field engagement."
Kemény, who was not accustomed to listen for any length of time to words of reason, could hardly wait for Wenzinger to come to a pause; as if the plan of action was of the most trifling importance to him, he interrupted with frivolous impatience,
"Let's put it off until afternoon. General, after dinner everything looks different."
"No, indeed, not after dinner," said the German; "there is no time to be lost. We are in the midst of war where every hour is precious and not in the Diet where an affair can be dragged out for years."
At this hit the Hungarians laughed loudly, seized Wenzinger by the arm, and dragged him with jests to the table, saying,
"You know we have plenty of time after dinner."
"Many such soldiers whom no one can command would quite meet my views," said Wenzinger, half in jest and half in vexation, and then he spoke no more during the meal, but drank the harder.
During the dinner John Uzdi, captain of the scouts, entered the extemporized banquet-hall with terror in his face. In his extreme haste speech almost failed him.
"Majesty—I saw great clouds of dust in the direction of Schassburg, and coming this way."
The Prince turned his head with humorous nonchalance toward the messenger; "If it is any pleasure to you to inspect those clouds of dust, why keep on looking at them."
Wenzinger sprang up from his place.
"I too must see them," he said, and ordered his horse brought forward at once. "Evidently the enemy has come out to draw us nearer."
The rest did not allow themselves to be disturbed but went on with their pleasures. After a few minutes Wenzinger came hurrying back; on his features could be read that secret joy which a soldier always feels when his plan nears success.
"Victory," he cried, as he entered, "the enemy is moving off, bag and baggage; provided only he is not doing it for appearances, and is not avoiding a battle, all's won."
At this news some of the men rose and began to buckle on their swords, but the Prince did not leave his place.
"Are they still far away?" he asked the general, calmly.
"Half an hour distant," answered the other with glowing countenance.
"Then let them come nearer, and meantime sit down beside me."
"The Devil I will!" said the general, angrily, "I have hardly time to assign the army their positions."
"What is the use of assigning them positions? Let them march in a solid column so that the enemy will be frightened to death at the mere sight of them."
"Quite right. However, I do not wish to frighten them away but to surround them. One half of the army I will draw up against them, and the other I will arrange as follows: one division shall steal through the grain fields and cut off the enemy's retreat in the direction of this city; another shall fall on his flank just above the millstream; and the third shall be stationed as rear guard. Your Majesty with his court shall join the rear guard."
"What," said Kemény, roused at last, "I in the rear guard! Hungarian Princes are in the habit of going first in battle."
"That was well enough in former times, but in a combined assault, so precious a life that must always be looked out for is only in the general's way, and has a disturbing effect on the movements of the troops. But if it is your Majesty's express wish, then I give over the command to you and take my place in the rank and file. Let your Majesty take the command. Here only one can be general."
"Stay at your post and arrange matters as you will, only let me choose my position as I wish, and it shall not interfere with yours."
And Kemény staid at table with a few of the men. Wenzinger had hardly time to make the necessary arrangements when word was brought the Prince that the army was in line of battle. Kemény rose calmly from his place, girded on his sword, but forbade them to put on his coat of mail.
"What for," he cried, "is the heart beneath any bolder?"
Then he had his finest horse led forward, which tossed his head so fiercely that two men could hardly hold his bridle. The spirited black beast reared and plunged; his nostrils steamed, the white foam flecked his breast and his long waving tail reached almost to the ground. Kemény swung himself into his saddle, drew his sword and galloped to the head of the army. Everybody was astonished at the fine rider. He adapted his movements to the horse as if they were one creature. When the high-spirited horse reached the front he began to slacken his pace, struck his hoofs on the ground and seemed to salute the army with his head.
The men broke out into a loud huzza. At this moment the Prince's horse stumbled and fell forward, breaking the silver bit in his mouth; only the greatest skill and presence of mind saved the Prince from plunging over his horse's head. His attendants crowded about him.
"That's a bad sign, your Majesty," stammered Alexis Bethlen. "Let your Majesty mount another horse."
"No, it is not a bad sign," replied Kemény, "for I staid in my saddle."
"However it would be well if your Majesty would not ride this horse. He will keep stumbling now that he has been frightened."
"I intend to stay on this horse just to show that I do not give in to omens and am not afraid of them," replied Kemény, defiantly, and ordered the bridle with broken bit to be taken away and another brought. Just then Kutschuk's trumpeter sounded for the attack.
The Turkish horsemen were drawn up in the form of a crescent with the ends turned backward, and in the centre rode Kutschuk Pasha. The Turkish general on this occasion wore a costume of unusual splendor. His caftan was of heavy silk embroidered in flowers of gold; under this a dolman woven in threads of gold, and around his waist a costly Oriental shawl; his sword was studded with precious stones; in his turban was the entire wing of a gerfalcon, with a diamond clasp. He rode a fiery Arab steed with slender neck, long braided mane and flowing black tail. The proud creature tossed his head and shook the fringed housings; there was a kind of gold net over his body with leather knots at the ends from which hung large golden crescents hitting against each other. As soon as Kutschuk Pasha came in sight of the princely troops of Kemény, he prostrated himself on the ground and kissed the earth three times, raised himself as many times to his knees, lifted his hands and devout face to heaven and cried "Allah, Allah!" Then he mounted his horse again, ordered his son called to him, tore a falcon feather from his turban, and said as he stuck it in the boy's cap, "Now go to the left wing of the enemy and try to fight bravely, for it is better that you should fall by the enemy's hand and I should see you dead than that you should flee and be obliged to fall a sacrifice to my sword."
With these words he put his hand on the weapon at his side. Feriz Bey bowed with an expression of the deepest homage, kissed his father's robe and galloped proudly to his appointed post. He seemed to know that all eyes were now directed to those falcon feathers that his father had placed in his turban. The Pasha then rode along the front of his host and spoke to his men:
"Brave comrades, now you see the enemy with your own eyes. I will not say whether their numbers are great or small, for you can see for yourselves. They are many more than we, but trust in Allah and fight bravely; it is more honorable to fall here sword in hand, than to disgrace numbers by flight. We are in the middle of Transylvania; whoever runs away will be hunted down by pursuers before he can get to the borders, but even if any one should escape the Sultan will have him killed. We have no choice but victory or death."
Then he turned to the Wallachians and addressed them in hard, angry tones:
"Well do I know, you dogs, that you are ready to ride off at the first shot, but I have given orders to the troops stationed on the outside to shoot down any one of you who so much as looks backward."
Then the Pasha took his place at the head of the host and with unsheathed sword gave the sign to the trumpeter. As he once more surveyed the troops he noticed that the Moors in their metal caps stationed behind him had reached for their guns and made ready to aim.
"What do you mean!" growled the Pasha. "Down with your muskets! The enemy has more of them. Nothing but swords now! Let every man ride boldly against the enemy and when I give the sign, bend low on his horse and gallop forward without trembling."
The army obeyed the command. The Moors slung their weapons on their shoulders, drew their broad swords and marched forward following the Pasha. Kemény's troops stood before them like a wall of steel. In the first line the musketeers and behind them the infantry. In the centre was Wenzinger and on the right wing John Kemény. The troops on the flanks marched stealthily behind the mill and the grain fields to attack the rear. When the Turks were almost within shot of Kemény's army Kutschuk Pasha turned round and cast commanding glances at his soldiers right and left, at which they instantly dropped their heads on their horses' necks, swung their swords forward, struck spurs into their horses' flanks and rode madly into the lines of the enemy.
"Allah! Allah! Allah!" rang out three times from the lips of the assailing Turks. At the third shout there came a tremendous report. Kemény's musketeers had at that moment fired in line at the assailing horsemen and their ranks were for the instant enveloped in smoke. Generally speaking such firing does little harm in war, causing more noise than destruction. In this case only two Turks fell with their horses, the rest galloped forward under the hot firing. Wenzinger saw that his artillery had no time to load again and gave command for the infantry to advance. If these troops could have stood their ground against the attack of the horsemen until the artillery could load again, or until the flank troops could have fallen on the Turks in the rear, Kemény would have won the battle, but the ranks of the infantry were broken through at the first onset, and after a desperate engagement largely mown down. Thereupon the defenseless musketeers fled in great numbers and by their cries threw the rest of the army into the utmost confusion. Wenzinger tried to restore order at once by giving command for a retreat along the whole line, and had this been carried out the engagement might have taken another turn. But the horseguards who were under the command of the Prince, by Kemény's orders stood where they were; the rest of the troops changed their position and continued to fight with those opposite them. The Pasha suddenly turned from the pursuit of the musketeers in their mad flight and fell upon Kemény with his entire force. The latter, attacked in front and on the side at the same time, lost his wits, and as there was neither time nor space for an orderly retreat, plunged frantically along the first way that opened. Naturally he did not notice in such a flight that he was riding down his own infantry, then in retreat, since the horseguards who had charged in disorderly assault at the rank still in line, and trampled down their own troops, had prevented the use of the reserves; so the whole army was brought into confusion and disorder.
The infantry threw down their weapons and fled, pursued by the horsemen of both armies; any still remaining in line were trampled to death by the horsemen. Neither the genius of the leader nor the self-sacrifice of a few brave men availed to restore order. The wild flight in one part threw the rest into confusion. The battle was completely lost. In the general panic that reigned the Prince too fled. As he had been in the front ranks of the battle he was now at the rear, and could with difficulty escape his pursuers in such a tumult. The Turks pursued closely and knocked down all within reach. Close on the track of the Prince followed a young Turk, and as his horse carried a much lighter weight he soon overtook the Prince. By the falcon's feather waving in his turban could be recognized Feriz Bey, son of Kutschuk Pasha. His features were ablaze with a youthful glow, those of the Prince were dark with rage and shame. During the flight he often looked back and gnashed his teeth. "To flee from a child is a disgrace," he cried out in his anger. Several times he tried to stop but his maddened horse swept him along. Meantime the youth had come so near that he began to show his sword. At first the Prince did not consider the strokes of the boy worthy his attention, but as the latter coming nearer grew bolder and bolder, the Prince drew his sword and returned the blows.
"Don't come any nearer, you bastard," shouted Kemény, furiously, "or I'll deal you a blow that will knock your very breath out."
By this time Feriz with a bound of his horse reached the side of the Prince and aimed a Damascus blade at his neck, while Kemény leaning back, drew his sword for a fearful blow. The two swords were whizzing through the air, when Kemény's horse stumbled again and fell with a broken leg. This gave his blow another direction, and instead of hitting Feriz as he had intended, he struck the head of his own horse and cleft it in twain just as the young Turk's sword gleamed against Kemény's forehead. The Prince, falling from his horse looked darkly at his foe: the blood was streaming from his forehead. Once more he struck his spurs into his horse and the poor creature struggled to his hind feet, only to fall backward with his rider still clinging to him, and rider and horse were trampled under the feet of the pursuing enemy. During the wild conflict nobody paid any attention to the spot where the Prince had fallen.
Several days later in the Schassburg market-place his torn coat and broken weapon, found and offered for sale by some Turkish freebooters, were bought by Michael Apafi and laid away for safe-keeping in the treasury at Fogaras. Apafi ordered a careful search for the body of the fallen Prince, that he might bury it with due honors, but nobody could distinguish the Prince's corpse among the stripped and mutilated.
When the battle was won Kutschuk Pasha ordered the trumpet sounded to call back his men from the pursuit of the conquered foe. At the sound of the retreat the Turkish horsemen came bounding back man for man, in marked contrast to the usual custom of Turkish armies, who are as disorderly after victory as their vanquished foes. Kutschuk had accustomed them to stern discipline. The men returned blackened with smoke and covered with blood, but none more so than Feriz Bey; in his coat were the holes made by many balls and he rode his third horse since the beginning of the conflict; two had been shot under him. Kutschuk embraced his son without a word, kissed his brow, fastened his own Order of Nischan on his breast and exchanged swords with him, a mark of the highest honor among the Turks of those times.
Ferhad Aga, the leader of the right wing, was brought in dead. He had received all kinds of wounds and was completely covered with shots, spear-thrusts, and sabre-cuts. Kutschuk sprang from his horse, fell weeping upon the corpse, covered it with kisses and swore by Allah that he would not have given this man's life for all Transylvania. He did not go into town until Ferhad had been buried. The dervishes surrounded the body at once, washed it, wrapped it in fragrant linen, and the Pasha himself selected a sunny spot under the trees. There the dead man was laid with his face toward the East, a spear with waving pennant was planted above the grave, and a guard of men set for three days to keep off the witchlike Djinns from the body of the fallen one.