"See," he said in excited tones; "a desolated village sends here to the country its official seal by its last inhabitant, and he too is at the point of death. . . . Of such villages there are already enough in Transylvania and in time there may be still more. Famine and war have laid waste the most beautiful portions of our country. . . . This seal, my lords, you must not forget to place among the symbols of your victories."

These last words Beldi uttered hardly above a whisper yet they were heard in every corner of the hall, so deep a silence reigned. A tremor passed over the faces of the men.

"Outside the door I hear some one weeping," Beldi went on with quivering lips. "It is my own daughter, the wife of Paul Wesselenyi, who has been driven from her country and who has thrown herself sobbing at my feet that I in revenge for her wrongs may allow retaliation to prevail. . . . And I say to you, let my child weep, let her perish, let me—and if necessary my entire family, be set apart for destruction, but let nobody in Transylvania suffer on account of my sorrow—even if every one of you has agreed to the war—I am against it—My lords—do not forget, I pray you, to lay among your trophies this seal, and soon the rest too."

When he had spoken, Beldi took his place again. Long after his words were ended the silence of the grave reigned throughout the hall. Teleki, ascribing this silence to disapproval rose, sure of his position, and made the states give their votes. But this one time he had not taken the public pulse correctly, for the majority of the states, affected by the previous scene voted for peace, so great was the influence of Beldi and Banfy still over the country.

Teleki looked in confusion toward his son-in-law. The latter muttered bitterly with clenched fists and tears in his eyes:

"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."

When the assembly had broken up Forval and Nicholas Bethlen met.

"So then there is no future hope of seeing Transylvania take up arms," said the Frenchman, somewhat dejectedly.

"On the contrary we just begin to hope with good reason," replied Bethlen, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Did you listen when the young man spoke?"

"He spoke beautifully."

"It is not a question of beautiful speaking. I think that is the man you are looking for."

"A King of Hungary?"

"Or a fugitive fleeing from country to country, just as the dice fall."

CHAPTER XVI
THE LEAGUE

Beware of those who remain sober when everybody gets drunk! Teleki went round among the lords who were drinking together on a wager and joking, and had for some time been moving stealthily about Banfy, when Banfy noticed him and turned toward him jestingly.

"How sad you are!" he said, with a pitying laugh; "just like a man who has lost a palatinate."

This remark came very aptly for Teleki. With a smile out of which gleamed a deadly dagger, he replied:

"No thanks to you! If Paul Beldi had not been present you would have been alone with your vote. But it has happened once more, in the presence of so influential a man as Paul Beldi we must all bow. His words are for all the country like the amen in the prayer."

Teleki bowed with a show of deep respect as he thrust this poisoned steel into the great lord's heart, for there was nothing could so touch him as to have somebody considered greater than himself, especially when it was a man who deserved it. Teleki now turned to Beldi, drew him into the recess of a window and gently demanded speech with him.

"I have always regarded you as a very noble-hearted man; to-day I learned, although to my own disadvantage, to recognize you as doubly so. The Diet knows only that you sacrificed your love for your daughter when you voted for peace. I know besides that you sacrificed at the same time your hatred for Banfy."

"I—I never hated Banfy!"

"I know why you have concealed this hatred. You think that your reasons for it are not known to anybody. Oh my friend, we who are men know well that one may pardon a dagger thrust but never a kiss!"

Beldi drew himself up and knew not how to answer this man who had thrust the most painful sting of jealousy into his heart, broken off the point and now left him with a smile.

At this moment Banfy came up behind him. In Banfy burned the desire to make Beldi feel his arrogance and he sought an opportunity of coming to blows with him. Beldi did not notice him at first and when the Prince, by chance, reached that part of the hall at that moment and with friendly words offered him the jewel-studded beaker in his hand, Beldi thought that the invitation was to him alone and never once suspecting that anybody else was reaching for the beaker, he took it from the hand of the Prince and drained it off to his health at the very moment that Banfy reached out his hand for it. Banfy grew purple with rage and turning haughtily to Beldi, he said in an insulting tone:

"Not so fast, Szekler, you might at least, since I am the general of the country, show me sufficient respect not to take the glass from my very lips. I would have you understand that if you continue in such insolence we may easily come to blows."

Had Beldi been in any other state of mind he would have excused himself for his mistake with his wonted moderation, but now the desire had been roused within him to measure his strength. He looked at Banfy calmly from head to foot and said with suppressed anger:

"I would have you understand, Dionysius, that I am a heavy Szekler. If by chance I should happen to fall on you I should crush you so that you would not again on this earth sound your horn."

"What foolishness is this?" said the Prince, coming between them. "I am surprised at my lords. Drink now! Inter pocula non sunt seria tractanda!"

And the Prince compelled the two great lords to approach each other and placed the hand of the one in that of the other. Then he let the matter rest and went on, thinking that it was only a quarrel over the cups.

But Teleki observed that after this scene both lords left the hall, and soon learned that they had gone away from Karlsburg suddenly, so giving free play to the further plans of the minister. Teleki and his faithful men remained alone with the intoxicated Prince.

"Drink, my lords, be merry!" said Apafi. "Let not a man of you leave me! Who has gone already?"

"Beldi!" shouted several.

"Very well, the poor fellow has not seen his wife for a long time; let him go to her. And who else?"

"Banfy!"

"Hm! He too! Why did he go?"

"He went home to reign," said Ladislaus Szekeli, scornfully; he was one of Teleki's creatures.

"He cannot stay in a place where he feels that any one is his superior," Nalaczy added.

"Just to please his Excellency I am sure I shall not lay down the Prince's crown."

"That he does not need at all," Teleki rejoined. "He knows how to rule in Transylvania without a crown. What he commands the country must comply with, and what the country commands he pushes aside with disdain."

"I should like to see him!" muttered Apafi, angrily.

"And yet 'tis so. We wish war, he does not, and we must yield. We wish peace and it occurs to him to carry on war at his own expense with our ally. The throne is ours, the country his."

"Do not say that, my lord Michael Teleki."

"Do you too speak for me, Nalaczy. What answer did he make in the affair of Zolyomi?"

"He sent word," Nalaczy made haste to take up the conversation,—"that if the country demanded back from him the Gyalu property for Zolyomi he would like in exchange the Szamosujvar estate."

"What!" cried the Prince. "The estate which the country set apart for my revenue? my own princely income?"

"So he said; and otherwise he will not consent even if Zolyomi should set the Turk against us this very day."

"I will soon settle that with him. Not another word, my lords."

"The affront to the Prince," Teleki joined in, "your Highness may overlook as long as it pleases you, but Banfy's conduct toward the people, toward the nobility,—that we cannot let pass in any such way. He has recently taken a violent course against the noble lady Szent-Pali;—the ancestral house of the poor widow offended the house of my great lord because it interfered with the view from his palace; at once he ordered the poor woman's house to be appraised and pulled down. The authorities gave her a letter of protection but my lord tore this in two and ordered the work of destruction to go on and the home of the poor widow's ancestors to be razed to the ground. The country might build it up again if it chose, he said. Such a deed in ordinary times my lord, costs the doer his head."

Apafi was silent. The flame of anger leaped into his eyes.

"But that was not all," continued Teleki; "the insult of the individual vanishes when the fate of the country is at stake. This great lord who knows so well how to talk about the blessings of peace—let us see how he exerts himself for its maintenance. He takes the sword out of our hand, closes our lips that we may not raise any protestations because Kecskemet has been burned to ashes and its inhabitants massacred; and then he himself assembles an army and incites the Turks to war against the country while we are unable to make such royal gifts as might have some effect against his schemes. Three letters have come to us, one from the Pasha of Nagy Varad, another from the General of the forces at Ofen and the third from the Sultan himself, in all of which satisfaction is demanded of us for the defeat which the Pasha of Nagy Varad suffered at the hands of Banfy, or else an indemnity of a hundred and fifty thousand piastres. Since it is useless to talk of satisfaction with Banfy will it please your Highness to consider where we can raise the money demanded?"

"Nowhere!" said Apafi, furiously, breaking his glass against the table. "I will show that I am in a position to gain satisfaction from any man even one so mighty as Banfy."

"Then I could wish that your Highness would acquaint us with the manner of this satisfaction, for we know that Banfy will not appear if summoned. If we should compel him by force he has shown that he alone is stronger than the whole country. He orders the countries to assemble, the frontier troops to march, and we might have the same experience that my lord Ladislaus Csaki had when Banfy seized the official sent for his arrest and held us up to ridicule."

"What would you counsel, since you know how to give counsel in such affairs?" Apafi asked, with annoyance.

"I know of only one remedy that will heal the evil thoroughly."

"Prescribe it. What are the means?"

"The jus ligatum."

In spite of his drunkenness Apafi shrank from this suggestion; he threw himself into an armchair and gazed fixedly at Teleki.

"Are you not ashamed?" he mumbled in the broken sentences of the drunken—"to propose a secret league against a free nobleman?—in violation of the fundamental law of our country to bind yourself in secret against him?"

"The shame does not fall on me," replied Teleki, quietly and steadily, "it rests rather in the fact that the country has not sufficient power to bring a rebel to justice; that in our fatherland there is a man who can openly defy the law and deride the decisions of the Prince. When in such a case there is no alternative except the jus ligatum, the shame for such a state of affairs does not fall upon me but on the Prince!"

Apafi sprang from his seat in anger and paced the room with long strides. The lords watched him in deep silence. At length he stopped beside Teleki and leaning on the back of his chair asked:

"How do you think the league can be brought about?" Nalaczy and Szekeli smiled at each other; evidently the idea had impressed the Prince. Teleki motioned to Szekeli to bring writing materials and a roll of parchment and arranging these before him replied:

"We will draw up at once the counts of the indictment that can be brought against Banfy; your Highness shall sign them and in secret we will win over the nobles of the country to agree to Banfy's arrest and to stand by the league before any legal steps are taken."

At this many of the lords present began to chew their beards thoughtfully. Teleki noticed the movement and said pertinently:

"As I observe that nobody here has the courage to give his signature first, I have a man all ready who alone is in a position so far as power is concerned to oppose Banfy and when once this man has signed all the rest will follow."

"Who is that?" asked Apafi.

"Paul Beldi," was the answer.

The Prince shook his head.

"He will not do it. He is far too honorable a man." These words spoken in the bravery of his intoxication threw Teleki completely out of his composure.

"Are we then planning a dishonorable action?" he demanded of the Prince, vehemently.

"What I meant to say was that he would not voluntarily begin action against anybody, for he is a peace-loving man."

"But I know his weak spot which you have only to touch with your little finger to rouse him to blows and make a lion out of a lamb. I will bring him to the point."

At this moment the door opened and to the astonishment of all the Princess entered. This time her appearance was no chance. It was easy to see by the excitement in her face that she knew well what had happened. The lords grew confused and Apafi himself was so dismayed, in spite of the irascibility incident to his drunkenness, that he whispered to Teleki,

"Put that paper aside."

Teleki alone remained composed and instead of putting it aside spread it out the more.

"What are my lords doing?" asked Madame Apafi; she was pale and her bosom heaved.

"We are taking counsel," answered Teleki, firmly.

"You are taking counsel?" asked Anna, approaching nearer to the table.

"At the same time we would put to your Grace the question, who gave you the right to disturb us when we are making decisions about the most important affairs of the country?" continued Teleki, in a hard tone of voice.

"You are making decisions about the most important affairs of the country," replied Madame Apafi, slowly repeating Teleki's words, while she looked at him sharply; then suddenly she broke out in a resonant voice,—"and that over your wine cups! You consult about the fate of the country while the man at its head is intoxicated, so that you may bring all to confusion."

Teleki sprang from his seat and turned to the Prince.

"May it please your Majesty to dismiss us? Evidently a domestic scene is in progress."

"Anna," cried Apafi, red with shame and the glow of the wine, "leave this hall this instant. It is our order and from this day on for a week do not appear again before our eyes."

"Very well, Apafi. I have nothing more to say to you for you are not in your senses. But to you, my Lord High Counsellor, who are always sober, I have a word to say:—I raised you from the dust; I helped you to your present position; in gratitude for this you have forced yourself between my heart and the Prince's so that whenever I would approach my husband I find you in my path. You have taken the sceptre out of the Prince's hand and in its stead you have forced into his hand the headsman's sword, so that he begins to rule by that. Now let me tell you that if I am not allowed to get to the Prince's heart yet I will stand in the way of the headsman's sword. Whenever it is to fall I shall be found between the blow and the victim; and you two choice menials,—barons—you Szekeli and you Nalaczy who cannot yourselves tell now how you so suddenly became great lords, remember that the wheel goes down as often as up and that the judgment which to-day you pass against others by to-morrow may be carried out against yourselves. And the rest of you intriguing lords, who get courage for your timid hearts out of the wine cups, remember, and shudder at the thought, that in the bumpers in your hands not wine, but the blood of the innocent, foams. Shame on you all, that you give your Prince wine that you may demand of him blood! And now, your Highness, add two weeks more to my term of exile."

With these words the Princess quickly left the hall. The lords were silent and dared not look at each other. Teleki rose, closed the door, dipped his quill and said:

"Let us continue from where we left off."

CHAPTER XVII
DEATH FOR A KISS

Night interrupted his thoughts. The horses were tired out, Beldi had given them no rest, had had no fresh relays,—only on and on. He wished to get home as quickly as possible—to have under his eyes that wife who had cost him such disgrace—who knows how much!— But is it sufficient satisfaction to see a woman weep or die when a man still lives on whom he might take revenge?—a man too who had been his enemy from the time when they had both served as pages of Gabriel Bethlen and who now sought out the most sensitive spot in his heart to tear it with his ruthless hand.

"Turn about!" he shouted to the driver. "Take the road to Klausenburg."

The old servant shook his head, turned into a side road and soon lost the road so completely in this wandering by night that he was at last obliged to confess to his master that he did not know himself where they were. Beldi trembled with inward emotion. Looking about him he saw not far off a light, and quite out of temper he bade the coachman drive toward it. They drove into the courtyard of a lonely country house. The barking of the great house-dog brought out the master, in whom Beldi recognized old Adam Gyergyai one of his dearest friends who, as he recognized Beldi, hurried forward to embrace him, beside himself with joy.

"Good-evening, my dear friend," said the good old man, covering his guest with kisses:—"I do not ask what good fortune has brought you to me."

"To tell the truth, I have lost my way. I was on my way to Klausenburg. I shall go on this very night, and with your permission leave my horses here to rest."

"What have you to do there that is so pressing?"

"I must carry some news," said Beldi, evasively.

"If that is all, why need you hasten so? You can certainly trust it to a letter and one of my servants on horse shall carry it at once to the place while you stay here."

"You are right," said Beldi, after some consideration;—"it will be better for me to manage the matter by letter." So he asked for writing materials, sat down and wrote Banfy. Writing usually brings a certain soberness to one's thoughts, so this letter was in quite a moderate tone. He informed Banfy that he summoned him to Szamos-Ujvar to adjust an affair of honor. With that Beldi sealed the letter and intrusted it to Gyergyai with the request that he be so kind as to send it.

"So you are writing to Banfy, my good friend," said the old man, looking at the address of the letter. "You could have talked with him a little while ago. What have you two to arrange with each other that is so urgent?"

"You remember, my friend," replied Beldi, "that you saw me once in the lists with Banfy, at the time of the tournament when George Rakoczi was the master?"

"Oh yes, you had overcome all other contestants but could do nothing against each other."

"On that occasion you said that you would like to see which one of us would carry off the victory in a real engagement."

"Yes, I remember that too."

"Now you shall see."

Gyergyai looked Beldi in the eye.

"My friend, I do not know what this letter contains but from your expression I infer your thought. I have heard my father say that a man should not send off the same day a letter written under excitement, but should lay it under his pillow and sleep on it. The advice is not bad. Do not send your letter off before morning; in fact I will not send it to-night."

Beldi complied with the old man's advice. He put the letter under his pillow, lay down, fell asleep and dreamed. In his dream he was happy with his wife and children. The noise of a wagon passing by in the morning awakened him. The first thing that his hand touched was his letter to Banfy. He broke it open, read it through again, and—was very much ashamed that he had written anything of the kind.

"Where was your understanding, Beldi?" he asked himself with a smile, tore the letter in two and threw it into the fire. "How they would have laughed at you!" he thought. "They would have said you were an old fool to whom it had occurred late in life to be jealous of the mother of his children on account of a kiss given by a man in his cups and received against the lady's will." What a weapon he would have given Banfy if he had announced that he was not sure of his wife on Banfy's account. "We will go straight to Bodola," he said gently to his servant when he entered, and then he took leave of his host.

"And what about the letter you were going to send?" asked Gyergyai with concern.

"I have already conveyed it—to the flames!" replied Beldi, smiling, and went on his way with his feelings quite changed. As he approached Bodola he noticed from a distance the members of his family who had been watching for him from the castle balcony; as soon as they recognized his carriage they hurried down to meet him. When he reached the foot of the castle hill there they all were,—his wife and children; they threw themselves on his neck with cries of joy and he kissed each one several times over, but especially his dear devoted wife on whom he feasted his eyes. It seemed to him that her eyes were brighter, her face more charming, her lips sweeter than ever. "What fools men are!" thought Beldi. "When they do not see their wives they are ready to believe everything bad of them, and when they do see them they forget it all."

He was so abandoned to his joy that he did not observe that there was a stranger in the family circle, but the stranger made haste to attract his attention. He was Feriz Bey, a handsome, well-built young Turk, with frank, noble features resembling a Hungarian's.

"You do not notice me, or perhaps you do not remember me," said the youth, stepping up to Beldi.

Beldi glanced at him and thought he recognized him, but did not venture to call him by name until his younger daughter Aranka hanging on her father's arm said with a childlike laugh:

"Have you forgotten Feriz Bey? I knew him at once."

Beldi extended his hand to the youth with a cordial greeting.

"My father sends me to you with an urgent message and had you not come I should have ridden after you. When your family rejoicing is over call me, for my mission admits of no delay."

Beldi was surprised at the serious tone of the youth, and as soon as he reached the castle called him aside to a private room. Then the young Bey gave him a roll fastened with a yellow seal and tied with cords. Beldi broke it open and read as follows:

Beldi's face grew dark as he read these lines. So then it was in vain for him to put Banfy's name out of his mind; this letter called it up again and in an aspect still more hateful. He folded the letter, and in a few words gave the serious youth a reply for his father.

"Inform your father that our action shall anticipate the threatened evil. I send my thanks for the warning."

With this reply Feriz Bey left the castle. Beldi remained alone in his room; deep in thought he paced back and forth, and racked his brain to find out some way to meet the peril, but he saw none. It was not to be expected that a man of Banfy's pride would make any concessions to the Pasha, especially after his victory and in a just cause. And yet the justice of the cause must give way to the welfare of the country. Deep in these and similar thoughts he did not notice that some one was knocking at his door. When no answer was made to the thrice-repeated knock the door opened and Beldi, rousing himself from his meditation, saw Michael Teleki. Beldi was at first so bewildered that his speech forsook him. "You seem surprised at my coming," said Teleki, noticing Beldi's astonishment. "You are amazed that I should have followed you such a distance after an absence of barely twenty-four hours. Great changes have taken place. Transylvania is threatened by a peril which must be prevented at once."

"I know it," replied Beldi, and let Teleki read Kutschuk Pasha's letter with the exception of the signature.

"You know more than I," said the minister; "what I wished to say of this affair is a secret which not even walls may hear."

"I understand," said Beldi, and at once gave orders that no one should come into the entrance hall, stationed guards under the windows and had the curtains drawn. Only one way was left unguarded, and that was a door in the arras at the back of the room, which led by a narrow hallway to his wife's sleeping room, an arrangement often found in the houses of the Hungarian nobility. By way of precaution Beldi closed even that door.

"Do you feel safe enough?" he asked Teleki.

"One thing more. Give me your word of honor that in case the information communicated to you does not meet your approval you will at least guard it as a secret."

"I promise solemnly," replied Beldi, tense for the development. With that Teleki drew out a sheet of parchment folded several times, spread it out and held it under Beldi's eyes without letting it go out of his hands. It was the League formed against Banfy signed and sealed by the Prince. The farther Beldi read in the document the gloomier he grew. Finally he turned to Teleki and thrust the paper from him with loathing.

"My lord, that is a dirty piece of work!"

Teleki was prepared for such a reception and summoned his usual sophistry to his aid.

"Beldi," he said, "this is no time for strait-laced notions. It is the end and not the means in this case. This is the worst only because it is the last. It is the last because there is no other way left. If anybody in the country has attained to such despotism that the arm of the law is no longer strong enough to bring him into the courts, then he has only himself to thank if the state is compelled to conspire against him. The man who cannot be reached by the executioner's axe is struck by the dagger of the assassin. When Dionysius Banfy set at naught the commands of the Prince and began war on his own account he put himself outside the law. In such a case when the justice of the state has lost its authority it is natural to take refuge in secret justice. If anybody has wronged me and the law cannot procure me satisfaction I make use of my own weapons and shoot him down wherever I find him. If the country is wronged by anybody who escapes punishment, it must make use of the jus ligatum and have the man seized. The general welfare demands this and the general peril drives us to it."

"God's hand controls us," said Beldi. "If he will destroy our fatherland let us bow our heads and die with a quiet conscience—die in the defence of liberty; but let us never raise our arms to the destruction of our own hereditary justice. Rather let us endure the evils that have their origin in this freedom, than lay the axe to its very root. Let war and conflict over freedom enter our land rather than any conspiracy contrary to its laws. The one sheds the blood of the nation but the other kills her soul. I disapprove of this League and will fight against it."

At this Michael Teleki rose, fell on his knees before Beldi and said with his hands raised to heaven:

"I swear by the Almighty Living God: so may he grant me salvation, protect my life, prosper my wife, my children, as I am your true friend; and because I know that Banfy's every effort is directed to destroy you and your home therefore do I announce to you that if you love your life, that of your wife, your children, you must meet this impending danger by signing the League. Now I have said all that I could to save you and the fatherland and that too at my own peril. I wash my hands in innocence."

Beldi turned in calm dignity toward the Prince's minister and said in a tone of firm conviction:

"Fiat justitia, pereat mundus."

A few minutes after Teleki's arrival at Bodola a rider came bounding into the castle yard. It was Andrew the faithful old servant of Madame Apafi, who inquired for Madame Beldi, handed her a letter from the Princess and added that this was the more urgent as he had recognized Teleki's carriage in the courtyard, which he should have preceded.

Madame Beldi broke open the letter, and read:

Madame Beldi almost gave way when she read this letter. Teleki had been talking for half-an-hour with her husband and the servants had brought word that every one had been ordered away from the lords' vicinity, even from the entrance hall. The entire situation became clear to the lady's mind at once. She was terrified! perhaps it was already too late and she could not get to her husband. What should she do? Then she remembered the secret way from her room to her husband's and she hurried along, reached the arras door, stood there and listened. She heard only the voice of Teleki, who spoke with growing passion amounting to vehemence. She looked through the key hole and saw how Teleki knelt before her husband and with upraised hands and oaths sought to persuade him. At this sight Madame Beldi was terror-stricken. Why did the proud, powerful man kneel before Beldi? What was he swearing so passionately? Suddenly Banfy's name rang on her ear. Horror seized her, and at the moment when Beldi answered: "Let justice prevail though the world fall," she thought in her ignorance of Latin that her husband had consented, and in her despair she pressed the latch of the door. When this did not open she pulled at it with frenzied strength and shouted passionately; "My husband, my beloved master! Lord of my heart! Do not believe one word Teleki says, for he will ruin you!"

At this passionate outcry the man started up in affright and Beldi arose with annoyance, went to the door and said to his wife angrily: "Stay in your own province, my wife."

Madame Beldi lost her presence of mind entirely. The thought that her husband might assent to Teleki's plan made it impossible for her to comprehend the situation. She forgot that even the best man is ashamed to have it publicly known that he is under the control of his wife, and merely to prove the contrary would be inclined to be untrue to the very convictions he would have followed without compulsion. Consequently Madame Beldi rushed into the room, sank down at her husband's feet, clung to his knees and called out in an impassioned voice:

"Sweet lord of my heart! By the Almighty God, I implore you, do not believe this man. Do not be influenced by him to bring innocent blood on your head. You have always been just. You cannot turn hangman!"

"Wife, you are mad!"

"I know what I am saying. I saw him on his knees before you. He who believes in God does not kneel before any man. He means through you to ruin Dionysius Banfy. Woe to us if you do that, for if he is the first you will be the second."

When Teleki saw his secret disclosed in this way he was furious.

"If my wife did that to me," he said, violently, "I would tear her eyes out of her head. If anybody wished to help me for my own safety I should thank him for it rather than leave him to be met by my wife in an insulting way."

Beldi called out angrily to his wife to leave at once.

"I shall stay even if you kill me: for this is a case of life and death. Here the peace of your family is at stake and in that I have a right. I too may speak. I beg, I entreat you, undertake nothing against Banfy."

Beldi was ashamed of this attack upon his manly supremacy and could hardly control himself. When his wife mentioned Banfy he started as if a viper had stung him. The effect of this name did not escape Teleki and he said ironically and with meaning:

"It seems women pardon certain things more readily than their husbands." The sharp allusion went through Beldi's soul like lightning. The kiss came into his mind. The kiss! Pale and speechless he seized his wife by the arm and her sob only serving to fan his jealousy, he dragged her through the arras door and locked it behind her. There she lay sobbing violently, cursing the princely counsellor loudly and beating against the closed door with her hand. Beldi sat down white as death and with teeth set, called out to Teleki:

"Where is the document?"

Teleki spread it out before him on the table. Without a word Beldi took his pen and with steady hand wrote his name under that of Michael Apafi's. A smile of triumph played about Teleki's lips. When that had been accomplished there was once more a threatening, an accusing knock at Beldi's heart. He laid his hand on the paper and turned with serious glance toward Teleki.

"I make one condition," he said, hoarsely. "If Banfy does not oppose his arrest with weapons right and justice must be granted him according to legal forms."

"It shall be so—just so," replied the Prince's counsellor, and reached for the paper.

And still Beldi did not give it up. Still he did not let it go out of his hand.

"My lord," he said, "promise me also, that you will not put Banfy to death secretly, but when he is arrested you will bring suit against him according to the usual mode of procedure, in a regular court of justice. If you do not assure me of this, then I will tear this paper in two and throw it into the fire with the Prince's signature and mine."

"I assure you, on my word!" promised the Princely counsellor, at the same time inwardly smiling at the man who while he was still upright showed himself weak, and when he had already fallen strove to show himself firm.

With the League signed Teleki went the same day to Ladislaus Csaki, from him to Haller and then to Bethlen. As soon as they saw Beldi's name they signed, for all hated Banfy. In every house the husbands fell out with their wives. Nowhere did Teleki escape calumny. Nevertheless the League was established.

So Transylvania made her own grave.

CHAPTER XVIII
WIFE AND ODALISQUE

One day both husband and wife were invited to be god-parents at Roppand, in the house of Gabriel Vitez to whom a son had been born, and who knew nothing of the existing variance. It was impossible to refuse the invitation. On the appointed day Madame Banfy from Bonczida, and her husband from Somlyo, to their mutual surprise met at the house of rejoicing. At first they shrank from meeting each other; their inclination had long sought such a meeting but pride had restrained them. So they were both glad and indignant at this accident but could not express both feelings. In a circle of friends their conduct must be such that no one should know that this meeting was not of daily occurrence with them.

Toward the close of the festivity and banquet, which lasted until late at night, Vitez took care that all his guests should be lodged with due comfort. The wives were with their husbands, the young girls had an apartment to themselves and the young men the rooms assigned to the hunters.

For Banfy and his wife a pavilion in the garden had been fitted up, which promised to be the quietest spot as it was quite separated from the noisy court. As an especial mark of attention the master himself conducted them there. It had been some time since they had slept under the same roof but in the presence of so many acquaintances they could not show their feelings and were compelled to accept the provision made for them. It was not enough to accompany them there himself but the host indulged in many jests and finally left them alone after many times wishing them good-night.

The pavilion consisted of two adjoining rooms. They looked very pleasant; in one of them a merry fire blazed high in the chimney and the tall clock in the corner ticked familiarly. Behind the parted brocade curtains of the high bed were seen the snow-white feather-beds inviting to rest, and two small red-bordered pillows on them. In the other room partly lighted by the firelight was a sofa covered with a bear's skin and with one cushion of deerskin. Evidently it had not been expected that anybody would sleep here.

Banfy looked at his wife sadly. Now for the first time, since he could no longer come near her he saw what a treasure he had had in this beautiful and noble woman. Gentle, sorrowful, with eyes downcast, his wife stood before him. In her heart too many traitorous feelings were pleading for her husband. Pride and injured wifely dignity, that inflexible judge, began almost to waver. In a noble heart love does not give way to hatred but to pain.

Banfy stepped nearer to his wife, took her hand in his and pressed it. He felt the hand tremble, but there was no return of his pressure. He kissed her gently on the forehead, cheeks and lips: the lady permitted this but without return, and yet—had she looked up at her husband she would have seen in his eyes two tears of most sincere penitence. Banfy sat down speechless with a sigh, still holding Margaret's hand in his. It needed only a friendly word from his wife and he would have thrown himself at her feet and wept like a repentant child. Instead of that Madame Banfy with a self-denying affectation said:

"Do you wish to stay in this room and shall I go into the other?" Her frosty tone touched Banfy. He sighed deeply and his eyes looked sorrowfully at the Paradise closed against him by his wife's joyless countenance. Sadly he rose from the chair, drew his wife's hand to his lips, whispered a barely audible "Good-night" and with unsteady steps entered the next room and closed the door.

Madame Banfy made ready to undress, but sorrow filled her heart and she threw herself on the bed, buried her face in her hands and remained lost in grief.

Can there be a greater pain than when the heart struggles with its own feelings, than when a wife attains to the conviction that the ideal of her love whom she adored next to God, is only an ordinary man, and that the man whom she had loved so devotedly is deserving only of her contempt? yet she is not able to stop loving him. She feels that she must hate him and separate herself from him; she knows that she cannot live without him; she would gladly die for him and yet no opportunity for death offers. Only an unlocked door separated them,—they were only a few steps apart. How small the distance and yet how great!

She sank into a deep revery. The fire had entirely burned down and the room was growing darker and darker. Only the woman's figure with her head buried in her hands was still lighted by the glowing coals. Suddenly it seemed to her in the stillness of the night and of her thoughts, as if she heard whispers and stealthy steps at the door. Madame Banfy really did hear this but she was in that first sleep when we hear without noticing what we hear; when we know what passes without heed. There was a whispering outside the window too, and it seemed to her that she heard besides a slight noise of swords. Half asleep, half awake, she thought she had risen and bolted the door but this was only a dream; the door was not fastened. Then there was the noise of the latch—she dreamed that her husband came out to her and entreated her.

"Let us separate, Banfy," she tried to say, but the words died on her lips. The figure in the dream whispered to her, "I am not Banfy, but the headsman," and took her by the hand. At this cold touch Madame Banfy cried out in terror and awoke. Two men stood before her with daggers drawn. The lady looked at them with a shudder; both were well-known figures; one was Caspar Kornis, Captain at Maros, and the other was John Daczo, Captain at Csik, who stood there threatening her with the points of their bared daggers at her breast.

"No noise, my gracious lady!" said Daczo, sternly. "Where is Banfy?"

The lady, wakened from her first sleep, could scarcely distinguish the objects about her. Terror robbed her of speech. Suddenly she noticed through the door that the passage-way was filled with armed men and with that sight her presence of mind seemed to return at once. She took in the significance of the moment and when Daczo, gnashing his teeth once more asked where Banfy was she sprang up, ran to the door opening to her husband's room, turned the key quickly and shouted with all her might:

"Banfy, save yourself! They want your life!"

Daczo ran forward to stop the woman's mouth and wrest the key from her. With rare presence of mind Madame Banfy threw the key into the coals and cried:

"Flee, Banfy, your enemies are here!"

Daczo tried to get the key out of the coals and burned his hand badly; still more infuriated he rushed at the lady with his dagger unsheathed intending to thrust her through, but Kornis held him back.

"Stop, my lord, we have no orders to kill the lady nor would it be worthy of us. Let us rather break in the door as quickly as possible."

Both men pushed with their shoulders against the door, Daczo cursing by all the devils, while Madame Banfy on her knees prayed God her husband might escape.

Banfy had fallen asleep and he too had a distressing dream. He thought he was in prison, and when Margaret's cry rang out he sprang in terror from his couch, tore open the window of the pavilion without stopping to think and with one bound was in the garden. Here he looked round him quickly. The house was surrounded on all sides by armed Szeklers and the rear of the garden was bordered by a broad ditch filled with stagnant rain-water. Among the foot-soldiers was a group of four or five stable boys standing beside the horses from which the leaders had just dismounted. There was no time to plan. Under cover of the darkness Banfy hurried up to one of the servants, struck him a blow that made the blood flow from nose and mouth, sprang on the horse he was holding and struck the stirrup into its flank. At the outcry of the servant thrown down by the horse but still holding to the halter the Szeklers came running up with wild cries. It suddenly occurred to Banfy to put his hand in the saddlebags where there were always pistols, and seizing one he fired two shots into the crowd pressing about him. In the confusion that resulted he made his horse rear and fled through the garden. The stable boy still clung to the halter and was dragged along until his head struck against the trunk of a tree and he lay there senseless. Banfy galloped to the ditch and crossed it with a bold leap. His pursuers dared not follow him and had to go round by the gate, by which Banfy gained on them several hundred paces, gave rein to the beast, maddened by the noise of pursuit, and chased away over sticks and stones, hills and valleys, without aim or direction.

"A curse on the woman!" growled Daczo, when he learned that Banfy had succeeded in escaping, and he threatened the wife with clenched fist. "You are to blame that Banfy has escaped us!"

"Thanks to Thee, Almighty God!" said Margaret, with hands upraised to heaven.

The Szeklers, exasperated at the husband's escape, rushed at the wife with weapons aimed to kill her.

"Let her die!" "Death on her head!" they roared, with inhuman fury.

"Kill me. I shall be glad to die," said Margaret, kneeling before them. "I had only that one wish left, to be able to die for him. I am in God's hand."

"Get away from here!" cried out Kornis; struck down the Szeklers' weapons with his sword and covered the kneeling woman with his long cloak.

"Are you not ashamed of yourselves! Would you kill a woman, you mob more pagan than Tartar! Since you have let Banfy escape, go after him!"

"We will kill her!" "We will put an end to her!" roared the Szeklers, and tried to pull Kornis away.

"You cursed beasts! who is in command here? am I not your captain?"

"Not ours," replied a stiff-necked Szekler. "Our captain is Nicholas Bethlen and he is not here!"

"Go find him. But first one word; if a man stays in this room I'll crush him to pulp!"

This did not humble the Szeklers, however, until some one cried: "Let us go to Bonczida!" The others took up the cry "To Bonczida!" and went off with loud curses and in great disorder.

Caspar Kornis took Madame Banfy at once to a carriage and had her driven to Bethlen castle, which was at that time Beldi's property, hoping that if Banfy knew his wife were imprisoned he would be more manageable.

After Dionysius Banfy had freed himself from the snare set and the sound of the pursuit grew faint, he began to take his bearings in the starry night, and chose his way so successfully through forests and over stubble fields that by daybreak the towers of Klausenburg were in sight. Rage now took the place of fear. At first he thought that the night attack had been only an attempt of his personal enemies, planned without the knowledge of the Prince by those who knew well that it was easier to get approval for a deed done than for one to be done. But the attempt had not succeeded and the lion escaped from the toils of his foes had still strength enough and the will necessary to turn on his pursuers and impress them with respect for the law.

In the open field outside the town Banfy's troops were going through their manœuvres in the early morning, when their leader rode up to them with haggard face, head bare, without his caftan and without his weapons. His chief men hurried to him in terror and met him with a questioning look.

"I have just escaped from a murderous attack," said Banfy, with husky voice and breathing hard. "My enemies fell upon me; I have escaped but my wife is in their hands. By their voices I recognized Kornis and Daczo among my pursuers."

"In fact Daczo's name is worked on the trappings of this horse," said Michael Angyal, who came up just then.

Banfy's face was perturbed as if he could get no clear idea of either past or present.

"I cannot understand the whole affair. If the attack followed a command of the Prince then there must have been a suit, a summons or certainly a sentence. If it was only private revenge then my hand is more than a match for both these good Szeklers. In that case stay here outside the city ready for an attack, while I hurry back to my castle. In a few hours I shall know what course we must take."

Banfy rode into town accompanied by Michael Angyal. As he turned the corner of his palace he had to pass the place where Madame Szent-Pali's house had stood. Only a corner stone was left, and as Banfy chanced to look that way he saw sitting on this one stone the former mistress of the house, who was waiting there for the lord with her face lighted with fiendish joy, and as he turned his head aside greeted him mockingly.

"Good-morning, my gracious lord."

But Banfy galloped on defiantly. At the castle gate his steward from Bonczida was already waiting for him. After the Szeklers had forced their way into Bonczida he had escaped; but not willing to make a sensation with his Job's message had told nobody, and now only whispered briefly to his lord that everything in the castle from top to bottom was upturned and that the Szeklers had entertained themselves after their own heart. Banfy answered not a word. He called for his armor and his war-horse and made his preparations quietly.

"My gracious lord would perhaps do well to make haste," urged the steward. "The Szeklers are already in the house."

"It is well," answered Banfy, pacing up and down with folded arms.

"No, my gracious lord, it is not well. They have destroyed everything in the rooms, cut the carpets, divided up the valuables, let the wine in the cellar run out and finally stolen the horses."

"It is no matter," answered the magnate, gloomily. What did he care at that moment for all the valuables, wine or riding horses?

"They have done even more, my lord. They have forced their way into your wife's sleeping-room, used the portrait of the gracious lady as a target and disfigured it horribly."

"What! the portrait of my wife!" cried Banfy, laying his hand on his sword. "The portrait of my wife did you say?" he repeated, with flashing eyes. "Ah," he cried, tearing his sword from its sheath and turning his face upward with an expression never before seen on it. He was like an exasperated tiger in chains, with bloodshot eyes, thick swollen veins in his brow and bloodthirsty lips.

"May God have mercy on them!" he cried out in a fearful voice, and throwing himself on his horse rode out to his troops.

"My friends," he cried, before he reached the ranks, "a swarm of hornets has fallen on my castle and plundered it. They have destroyed everything in my rooms, cleared my stables, robbed my family treasures; but I care not for that, let them gorge their fill, let them have what they never knew before, let them steal me even, I should still be master and even after this robbery, with one hand could pay off all these beggarly Szekler princes. But they have abused the portrait of my wife—of my wife! And I will have my revenge for it—a frightful revenge! Follow me. The trees in the garden at Bonczida have not borne any fruit for some time now but they shall bear some."

The general battle-cry of the troops showed that the army was ready to follow Banfy. The leaders drew up their men in ranks and the trumpet had sounded the second time when a company of twelve horsemen came in sight of Banfy's army. In the central figure they recognized the herald of the Prince, a broad-shouldered man of giant size who rode up to Banfy and the officers around him, and said:

"Halt!"

"We are halting. If you have eyes you can see," said Michael Angyal.

"In the name of his Excellency the Prince I summon you, Dionysius Banfy, to appear in three days before the court in Karlsburg to defend yourself in legal form against the indictment found against you. Until that time your wife remains in custody, as hostage for your deeds."

"We will come," replied Michael Angyal. "You can see for yourself that we were on the point of starting out only we did not know until now which way to go."

"Still, my lord captain!" said Banfy. "One should not use mockery with a messenger from the Prince." The messenger turned then to the officers:

"This summons does not concern you. For you I have another message to give in the name of the Prince."

"You may keep it to yourself or I will say something to you that will make your ears tingle," sneered the captain, aiming his pistol at the herald.

"Down with your pistol!" Banfy called out to him. "Let him give the Prince's message. Give him opportunity to speak freely."

The herald straightened himself in his saddle and surveying the soldiers said in a loud voice:

"The Prince forbids you to give further obedience to Banfy; any man that takes up weapons for him is a traitor to his country."

"That's what you are yourself," growled Michael Angyal.

The next moment the disorganized troops had turned with rage and threats toward the herald: a hundred swords flashed at the same time above his head.

"Stop!" said Banfy, in a thundering voice and at the same time standing before the herald. "The life of this man is sacred and inviolable. Keep your places. Let no man put his hand to his sword. I order you—I, your leader."

"Three cheers!" shouted the brigades, and at the word of command formed in ranks and stood like a wall.

"You will not bear me ill-will," said Banfy to the herald who had turned pale, "that these men have this once more obeyed me. Go back to your Prince and tell him that I will appear before him within three days."

"We will be there too," shouted the captain. The herald and his retinue moved away. Banfy dropped his head in deep thought. The trumpet sounded, for the banners were unfurled, but Banfy still stared into space, speechless, heavy-hearted and gloomy.

"Draw your sword, my lord," Angyal said to him. "Put yourself at our head and let us start, first for Bonczida, and then for Karlsburg."

"What is that you say?" said Banfy. "What do you mean?"

"Why, that since the law has expressed itself by the sword, the sword shall be our defence."

"Such a case at law would be called civil war."

"We did not start it: neither shall we add fuel to the flame."

"It is no longer a war against my personal enemies but against the Prince, and he is the head of our country."

"And you are his right hand. If they are going to light the torch of war in the country it shall not be extinguished in your blood."

"And why should my blood flow for that? have I committed a capital crime? can anybody accuse me of such?"

"You are powerful and that is reason enough to kill you."

"It is all the same to me. I will go and what is more, alone. My wife is in their hands. They have it in their power to make me suffer their vengeance. If there were no other reason for my appearing, to set her free is my duty as a knight."

"With weapons you can set her free more easily, and also yourself."

"I have nothing to fear. I have never done anything for which I need blush in the sight of the law. Even if they should intrigue against me, still stay here, summon my troops at Somlyo and throw yourself into the breach there when injustice is practiced against me."

"Oh, my lord, the army is worth nothing when its leader has surrendered himself. To-day it would still go through fire for you and be ready to hail you as Prince; but to-morrow if it should learn that you had obeyed the summons it would disband and deny you."

"You must not tell any one of my intention. I will take a carriage at once and drive to Karlsburg; you tell the troops that I have gone to Somlyo to collect the rest of my army; keep them together under good discipline, till news of me comes."

With that Banfy rode off to Klausenburg, while Michael Angyal sullenly sheathed his sword and proclaimed to the troops that they might go to rest in case they were tired.

An hour later we see Banfy in a carriage drawn by five horses, rolling along the way to Torda. A servant on horse led by the bridle a saddle-horse. The farther Banfy separated himself from the seat of his power the greater his anxiety became; his soul was irresolute and he began to see spectres brought nearer by every step forward. Pride alone kept him from changing his purpose. Everything seemed to him different from what it had formerly been. He thought he read the feelings toward him of those whom he met, in their faces and forms of greeting; if anybody smiled he thought it was from pity, if the greeting was sullen he saw hatred. Now he stopped and questioned all those with whom he had even the slightest acquaintance; people whom he formerly deemed unworthy of a glance or else looked down upon. Misfortune recalls to the memory of men the faces of acquaintances, and a man who once would have even repelled the hand-shake of a friend now extends his hand to a foe while yet afar off.

Suddenly he saw that an open carriage was coming toward him from Torda, and that the one seat was occupied by a man wrapped in a grey duster, in whom Banfy as he rode past recognized Martin Koncz, the Bishop of the Unitarians. He called to him to stop a moment. The Bishop on account of the noise of the wheels did not hear him, took off his hat and drove on. Banfy considered this an intentional avoidance and looked upon it as a bad omen. The man who once had borne all perils so lightly now shrank back before every fancy of his brain. He ordered his carriage to stop, mounted his horse and told his coachman to drive on to Torda and wait for him there. Then he galloped after the Bishop's carriage. When the Bishop saw him riding up he had his carriage stopped, while Banfy breathlessly shouted from a distance:

"So then you will not enter into conversation with me?"

"At your good pleasure, my lord; I did not know that you wished to speak with me."

"You know already what has happened to me, I suppose. What do you say to it? what ought I to do?"

"In such a case my lord, it is as difficult to give advice as it is to receive it."

"I have determined to obey the summons."

"As you say, my lord."

"I certainly have nothing to fear. I feel the justice of my cause."

"It is possible that you are in the right my lord, but you will hardly receive justice for that reason. In the world of to-day everything is possible."

Banfy caught the allusion. He had once used the same words to the bishop and now he had not sufficient strength of soul to withdraw proudly, but allowed himself to continue the discussion.

"It is true the Prince is my enemy, but the Princess has always defended me and I can put confidence in her character."

"The relations between the Prince and his wife are at present strained. It is said that he has even forbidden her to enter his apartment."

This news seemed to stun Banfy, but one consoling thought was left to him.

"I do not suppose they will venture to do me an injustice for they know that I have troops in Somlyo and Klausenburg ready for action, who may call them to account."

"My lord, it is difficult to lead an army when one is in prison; and remember that a live dog is a more powerful beast than a dead lion."

These words caused a change in Banfy's decision. For some time he rode along beside Koncz's carriage, still considering; after a long time he replied gloomily:—"You are right," gave spurs to his horse and rode back to Klausenburg, resolved not to be enticed away from the centre of his troops.

When he reached the spot where barely six hours before the troops had shouted their huzzas in his honor, to his great astonishment he came upon a group of gypsies who seemed to be hunting for something on the ground.

"What are you doing here?" he said, when he was in their midst. At this question their chief came forward and recognizing Banfy, took off his cap humbly.

"My gracious lord, the gypsies have come out to gather up the cartridges which my lords the nobles had scattered here."

"Where are the noble lords now?"

"Oh, my gracious lord, some have gone in one way and some in another."

"What do you mean? Where have they gone?"

"When they found that your Grace had left Klausenburg, they scattered to the four winds."

Banfy turned pale.

"And Michael Angyal?"

"He was the first to hurry away."

Banfy felt a dizziness seize him; tears stood in his eyes. Thus to be deserted by all, by man, by fate and even by his own consciousness! What was left to him of all his power! whither should he turn? what should he plan? every way was closed to him. He could neither use the sword nor fight with the arm of the law, nor flee. Mechanically he allowed his horse to carry him on. With gloomy face he sat in his saddle, staring vacantly at the ground and at the clouds. In heaven, on earth even as in his own heart, all was desolate. Nowhere did he find a place of refuge. The one passion of his soul, which had entirely filled it, was pride. Now that this was gone the world was empty. He rode on and on wherever his horse took him. Before him stretched out great forests. He thought: "What lies beyond these forests? high mountains; and what beyond those? still higher peaks; and what further? summits of snow—and not a house to offer me refuge." So at the first stroke did everybody turn from him? was the man who the day before had ruled half Transylvania and had castles at his disposal not to find a hut to shelter him that night? was he to be an object of ridicule to his foes and not have the satisfaction of being able to laugh in the hour of death? was he to die ingloriously like a hunted beast? He considered how he could arrange it so that since he must die at least he should not be derided after death.

Gradually an idea began to develop in his mind. With this thought the color came back to his cheeks, and as if strengthening him to a decision he heard an inner voice saying: