CHAPTER III.
MASTER STEPHEN'S PAGE.

He was not a person of much consequence, however, and both father and daughter quickly dismissed him from their thoughts.

And here, by way of explaining matters, we must mention that many years ago, when Dora was quite a tiny child, it had been settled between her father and Héderváry the Palatine, that she should marry the latter's son Paul. Héderváry was Master Peter's oldest and closest friend, one to whom he was much attached; and Dora, though no heiress, was a daughter of one of the proudest and noblest houses in Hungary. The match was considered perfectly suitable, therefore, and the Hédervárys were much attached to their "little daughter," as they constantly called her. Paul himself admired and liked the bride chosen for him quite as much as was necessary, and it is needless to say that Dora's father thought him extremely fortunate in having a girl so sweet, so clever, so well-educated, so good-looking, so altogether charming, for his wife.

Dora herself no one thought of consulting. As a good, dutiful daughter, she would, of course, accept without question the husband approved by her father; and there was no denying that Paul was calculated to win any girl's admiration, for he was an imposing, gallant-looking personage, and accomplished withal. They would certainly make a handsome, even a striking pair.

Every time Paul came to stay he found Dora more attractive; and though he had never in any way alluded to his hopes, of which she was quite ignorant, he could not help feeling that she was the very bride he would choose, or rather, would have chosen for himself, but for one unfortunate defect—her small dowry! It was a very serious defect in his eyes, though his parents thought little of it, for he was ambitious. His great desire was to make a fine figure in the eyes of the world, to be admired, courted, looked up to; and though the Hédervárys were wealthy, more wealth never comes amiss to those who wish to shine in society.

Was it any wonder therefore that Paul should presently begin to reflect that Dora's cousin Jolánta would suit him better than herself? Not that he liked her as well, for, though a pretty, gentle girl, she had not much character, and she was not nearly so clever and amusing; but she was an heiress, a considerable heiress, and Paul was convinced that he liked her quite well enough to make her his wife.

Dora was now nearly eighteen, and very soon he would be expected to ask her father's consent to their marriage. To Dora herself he would of course not say a word until he had her father's leave.

He was in a most difficult position, poor fellow! He was fond of Dora; and he was fond of his parents, who would be greatly vexed if he disappointed them in this matter. It was a serious thing to vex one's parents, especially when they had it in their power to disinherit one! His father was a generous, hot-tempered soldier; he would warmly resent any insult put upon his old friend's daughter; Master Peter might resent it too, though no word had yet passed between himself and his intended son-in-law. Truly a difficult position! But for all that, he meant to please himself, if he could safely do so.

Paul was turning these things over in his mind, and was pitying himself and racking his brains to discover some way by which his parents might be induced to take a reasonable view of things, when it occurred to him that two heads were better than one.

He was staying just now with the Szirmays at their castle, where he was always made much of, and Master Stephen was constantly arranging hunting parties and other country amusements in his honour.

Somehow, he never quite knew how it was, he found himself, during a moment of leisure, near the room occupied by one of the pages; and just for the sake of talking to somebody he went in, and was received with obsequious delight by Libor, who murmured his thanks for the great honour done him by the visit of so high and mighty a gentleman.

The little room was of the plainest description, and not too light, but the unglazed windows were at least filled in with bladder-skin, and the bare walls were painted white; the furniture consisted of a small open stove of earthenware, a roughly-made, unpainted bedstead, a primitive wooden table, and two or three stools. It was bare enough for a monk's cell, and it was unceiled, open to the roof, which appeared to consist of old boards and lattice-work of a rough description.

Libor was attired in a pair of red trousers, rather the worse for wear, and fastened round his waist by a leather strap, a waistcoat of the same colour, and a coarse shirt with wide, hanging sleeves. He was wearing neither coat nor jacket, and he had a slender reed pen stuck behind his ear. There were writing materials and a book or two on the table, and the page was busy with his pen, when, to his immense surprise, there entered the haughty young noble, a tall handsome personage clad in a "dolmány" of bright blue woollen stuff which reached down to his ankles, and was not unlike a close-fitting dressing-gown.

Libor started to his feet, and bowed almost to the ground as he expressed his sense of the great man's condescension, while he wondered in his own mind to what it was due, and what was wanted of him—something, he felt pretty confident, and he was quite ready to serve such an one as Paul, who would be sure to make it worth his while. But what could it be?

After a little beating about the bush, and a little judicious flattery, which drew forth many humble thanks for his good opinion from Libor, coupled with an expression of his hope that Mr. Héderváry would find that opinion justified if ever he should need his services, Paul at once proceeded to business.

Some men would have been disgusted to see a fellow-man, bowing, bending, and cringeing before them, as Libor was doing, but to Paul it was merely natural, and it pleased him, as showing that the clerk had a proper respect for his "betters."

"I am going to tell you something, clerk, which I have not told to another soul," began Paul, and Libor bowed again and felt as if he were on hot coals.

"You have guessed, I daresay, that I don't come here merely to pay an ordinary visit?"

Libor said nothing, judging it more prudent not to mention any surmises if he had them.

"Well, the fact is that I am here this time by desire of my parents to ask the hand of Master Peter's daughter."

Libor smiled.

"Yes, Libor, deák, but—well, I have the deepest respect for my parents, and I would not willingly cross their wishes, but for all that, I am of age, I am four-and-twenty, and such matters as this I should prefer to manage in my own way."

"Most natural, sir, I am sure," said Libor, with another deep bow; "marriage is an affair which—which——"

"Which needs careful deliberation, you mean; just so! And the more I consider and weigh matters, the more I feel that it is Master Stephen's daughter Jolánta who is the one for me."

"A most charming young lady! and I quite understand Mr. Héderváry's choice; and, if I might hazard the remark, I would suggest, with all possible deference, that the fair Mistress Dora is not nearly as well provided for as Mr. Stephen's daughter; though her father has a quantity of gold and silver plate, his property is not large, and he cannot give her much."

"Say 'nothing,' Libor, and you will be nearer the mark! I know it, and I am glad to see you don't try to hide anything from me. Well, of course, property never comes amiss even to the wealthiest, and 'if the master provides dinner, it is well for the mistress to provide supper,' as they say. But I had rather take Jolánta empty-handed than Dora with all the wealth of the world. I like property, I don't deny it, who does not? But I don't care a straw for Dora, and I do for Jolánta."

"Ah, then of course that settles it! But suppose Master Peter should have suspected your intentions?"

"There is just the rub! He is an old friend of my father's, and I should be sorry to hurt him; but I have made up my mind to ask for Jolánta."

"H-m, h-m," murmured the page thoughtfully. "Rather an awkward state of things, sir."

"Of course it is! but look you here, Libor, if you can help me out of it, I will make it worth your while. I know how modest and unselfish you are, but I shall be able to find you something, something which will set you up for life."

Libor's eyes sparkled. This was even more than he had looked for.

But Paul was growing rather impatient; this long interview with a person so far beneath him was distasteful to him, and he cut short the page's servile protestations of devotion and gratitude. What was to be done? that was the question.

"First make sure of Mistress Jolánta herself, before anything was said to her father," suggested Libor, "and then finish his visit and take his leave without proposing for either. Visits were not always bound to end with a proposal, and Master Peter could not possibly be hurt therefore. As for Mr. Stephen, when the time should come to ask his consent, he would certainly not refuse such a son-in-law as the son of the Palatine. Mr. Héderváry's parents"—Libor hesitated a little—"they could not blame him if—suppose—disappointed they might be, but they could not blame him—if he were able to say that Dora had another suitor, and one whom she preferred to himself, though Master Peter was not aware of the fact."

"H-m!" said Paul, "that would settle it, of course; but—there is none."

"No, there is not," said the clerk thoughtfully, with one of his deferential laughs, "but—we might find or invent someone."

"Find someone! Who is there?"

"Well, let us see—if—if we can invent no one else, there is myself!"

"You!" cried Paul, with evident and intense disgust, "you! But how? in what way?" and he broke into a laugh.

"That is my affair, sir; and if you have confidence in me——"

"Hush! I hear footsteps. Not another word now, I will contrive to see you again privately before I go from here. Just one thing more. I wonder whether you would undertake to do me a small service without telling the Mr. Szirmays, and without leaving this house."

"What am I to understand, sir?" asked the page, with marked attention.

And Paul explained that if he succeeded in arranging matters with Mistress Jolánta, he should want someone on whom he could depend, to keep him informed of all that went on in the house, in case, for instance, Master Stephen should be thinking of another match for his daughter, and—in fact, there might be many things which he ought to know; and then if he came again himself during the winter, he should want someone to see that he had comfortable quarters prepared for him on the road, and so on.

Libor was only too delighted to serve such a magnificent gentleman, a gentleman who was so open-handed and so condescending moreover, and the bargain was struck. Paul handed the page a well filled purse, telling him to keep a fourth part of the contents for himself, and to use the remainder to cover any expenses to which he might be put in sending messengers, etc.

"And look you here, Libor, from to-day you are in my service, remember—one of my honourable pages; and if ever you should wish to try your fortune elsewhere, there will be a place ready for you in my establishment."

Libor bowed himself to the ground as he answered, "With heart and soul, sir."

Meantime the footsteps had drawn nearer, and a tap at the door put a stop to the conversation.

"The gentlemen are waiting, sir," said the governor, or seneschal, of the castle, a dignified-looking man clad in a black gown, and wearing at his girdle a huge bunch of keys; for the governor of such a castle as that of the Szirmays, was keeper, steward, seneschal, as well as captain of the men-at-arms.

"In a moment," replied Paul, and as soon as the old man's back was turned, he whispered hurriedly, "If anyone should happen to ask what I came to your room for, you can say that I wanted a letter written."

Paul stayed yet a few days longer, and was so well entertained with hunting, horse-races, foot-races, feats of arms, and banquets that he could hardly tear himself away from the cordial hospitality of his hosts. He and Libor met but once again in private; but when he was gone Libor held his head higher than he had ever done before. Up to this time he had been the least well off of the pages, and had been deferential to his companions, but now all this was changed. To the Szirmays, on the other hand, and especially to Master Peter, he was more deferential, more attentive, than ever before.

Weeks, months passed, and if Master Peter was somewhat surprised that his old friend's son had not yet declared himself, he was much too proud to show it. And he was far too proud also to show how much hurt he was when he presently learnt that Paul was a suitor for the hand of his niece, and had been accepted by her father and herself.

Master Peter was deeply hurt indeed, and he felt too that his brother had not behaved well to him, knowing, as he did, the arrangement between himself and his friend.

Stephen also felt guilty; and the end of it was, that, though the brothers were sincerely attached to one another, and though no word on the subject passed between them, both felt a sort of constraint. The old happy intercourse was impossible; and for this reason Master Peter came reluctantly to the conclusion that he should be wiser to set up a home of his own again, and leave his brother in possession of the family-dwelling.

Paul had had considerable trouble with his parents, however. They would not hear a word in depreciation of Dora, and at the first insinuation of anything to her actual discredit, Héderváry had flown into a rage, denounced it as idle, shameless gossip, and declared hotly that Paul ought to be ashamed of himself for giving a moment's heed to such lying rumours.

When Paul went a step further and obstinately asserted his belief that Dora was carrying on a secret flirtation with Libor the page, the old warrior's fury was great, and he vowed that he would ride off instantly and tell his friend everything.

Yet, after all, he did nothing of the sort! (Paul and Libor perhaps could have told why.) So far from taking any step of the kind, he held his peace altogether, and finally acquiesced in his son's choice. He gave his consent, very unwillingly, it is true, but he gave it!

Master Peter came to him on a visit not long after, and was so far from betraying any annoyance that he joked and congratulated his friend on having a rich daughter-in-law instead of a poor one, and was full of praise of Jolánta, whom he declared to be a dear girl whom no one could help loving. If Dora's father did not care, why should Paul's?

All difficulties in Paul's way seemed to have been removed; but it would be necessary, as he reminded Libor, to keep up the fiction of Dora's attachment for some little time to come, or he would be found out, and his father's anger in that case would be something not easily appeased. It hurt his pride to employ the clerk in such a matter, and to have it supposed that a girl who might have married his honourable self could possibly look with favour upon such a young man as Libor, but there seemed to be no help for it. He was already in Libor's power.

And Libor was more than willing to play the part assigned to him. He had as keen an eye to the main chance as Paul, and Paul had not only been liberal in money for the present, but had held out brilliant hopes for the future.

If he stayed on with Master Stephen, argued Libor with himself, he would be called "clerk" all the days of his life, and end by marrying some little village girl. If, on the other hand, he obliged young Héderváry, made himself necessary to him, and, above all, entered into a partnership with him of such a nature as Héderváry would not on any account wish to have betrayed—why then he might kill two birds with one stone! He had already had a few acres of land promised him; if, in addition to this, he could obtain some gentlemanly situation such as that of keeper, or governor, or perhaps even marry a distant connection of the family, an active, sensible man such as himself might rise to almost anything! Young Héderváry might be to him a mine of wealth.

This settled the matter, and no sooner had Master Peter left his brother's house than Libor found reasons without end for going to see him. There were various articles to be sent after him in the first place; then there were settlements, arrangements to be made, letters or messages from Jolánta to be carried; and Libor was always ready and eager to be the messenger. The other pages had not a chance now, for he was always beforehand with them; so much so indeed that both they, the servants, and at last even Master Stephen, could not help noticing that, whereas formerly Libor had been a stay-at-home, now he seemed never to be so well pleased as when he was on the move.

Master Stephen wondered what he could want with his brother Peter, and the young pages, and sometimes the servants, joked him and tried to find out what made him so ready to undertake these more or less adventurous journeys. Libor said nothing, but looked volumes; and they noticed, too, that the old red trousers and waistcoat had quite disappeared, and that the page now thought much of his appearance and came out quite a dandy whenever he was going on his travels.

Master Stephen held it beneath his dignity to joke with his inferiors, but Jolánta had been more condescending to Libor of late than she had ever been before; and naturally so, as he was in Paul's confidence, and every now and then had news of him, or even a message from him to give her. It brought them nearer together, and, innocently enough, Jolánta once asked him merrily what it was that made him like to go on such long-expeditions, when it would have been just as easy to send someone else. Whereupon Libor assumed such an expression of shamefaced modesty that Jolánta, who had spoken in the merest jest, began to fancy that perhaps the page really had a reason, and might be courting one of Dora's maids. That it could possibly be Dora herself, never crossed her mind for a moment.

But others saw matters in a different light. The servants had their gossip and their suspicions; the young pages jested, and looked on Libor with eyes of envy; and Libor, though careful not to commit himself, managed somehow to encourage the idea that he and Dora were deeply attached to one another.

Of course, neither servants nor pages held their tongues, and soon people were whispering about Dora Szirmay in a way that would have horrified herself and all her family had they known it. But those chiefly concerned are the last to be reached by such rumours. Whether in any shape they had reached Paul's parents it is impossible to say; but, at all events, he had married Jolánta with their consent, and Libor had continued his visits to Master Peter whenever he could find or devise a pretext.

On the occasion of his present visit, when he had been the bearer of the summons to the Diet, "on his way to Pest," he availed himself of Master Peter's suggestion that he should take a look round the place, to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the ins and outs of the court-yard, stables, and other out-buildings; for, as he reflected, such knowledge never came amiss, and one could never tell when it might be useful. He even noticed absently that one part of the outer wall had not been repaired. More than this, while prowling about in the dusk, he had accidentally fallen in, not for the first time, with Dora's maid, Borka, whose favour he had won long ago by a few pretty speeches, not unaccompanied by some more solid token of his goodwill.

It was always well to have a friend at Court.

But just as he turned away from Borka, he came face to face with Talabor; and Talabor actually had the impudence to cross-question him as to what he was about. He was not to be shaken off, moreover, and at last, apparently making a virtue of necessity, Libor confessed that he had given the maid a note for Mistress Dora; but he begged and implored Talabor not to betray him, for it would be the utter ruin of him if he did.

Of course he knew that it was most presumptuous that a poor young man like himself could ever aspire to the hand of a daughter of the Szirmays; they both knew that their attachment was hopeless, but—well, they had spent several years under the same roof, and had had opportunities of meeting, and—could not Mr. Talabor understand?

Mr. Talabor understood perfectly, inasmuch as his own admiration of Miss Dora had been growing ever since the first day he saw her. He had worshipped her as something far above him, as all that was good, upright, and honourable, and it was a shock to have it even suggested that she could condescend to underhand dealings with anyone. It was odd, too, if she really cared for Libor, that she should have received and behaved to him as she had done, and though Libor might protest that Master Peter had always shown him marked favour, Talabor was of opinion that he shared his own dislike to the young man, and had shown it pretty plainly.

"Master Peter ought to know what is going on," he said sturdily; but Libor thereupon became frantic in his entreaties. He implored, he positively writhed in his anguish, not for himself, oh no! what did it matter about a poor, insignificant fellow like him? it might ruin all his prospects with the Hédervárys, probably would, and he should not even be able to return to Master Stephen; he should be a vagabond, and beggar—but that was no matter of course compared with Mistress Dora! She would be ruined in the eyes of the world if it came abroad that she had stooped to care for such as he, and it was certain to get about if Talabor betrayed them. Whereas now no one but themselves and Borka knew anything about it; and she was faithful, she would not open her lips, for he had made it worth her while to keep silence.

"An odd sort of fidelity," it seemed to Talabor; but he was not quite clear as to whether it were his business to interfere; and, if it were, to injure Mistress Dora——

Libor saw his advantage and pressed it. He reminded Talabor that Master Peter was hasty, and so incautious when his wrath was aroused that some one would be sure to hear of it; he would certainly tell his brother, Master Stephen would dismiss himself, and—well, the whole thing would come out. Dora would be scorned by the world, and—besides, this was probably his last visit; he was going to a distance, and what was more, they had both realised that their attachment must be given up—it was hopeless.

"If it can't be, it can't!" said Libor, with a deep-drawn sigh.

He threw himself upon Talabor's mercy, and Talabor promised.

"But remember," said he, "it is only because speaking might do more harm than good, as you are not coming again, but if ever you do, and I catch you tampering with Borka, I go straight to Master Peter."

"If I come, and if you catch me, so you may!" said Libor, with a sneer.

"I understand all about it," he added to himself, as he turned away with the announcement that he was going to see Moses deák, the governor. "I understand! You would give your eyes to be in my shoes, Mr. Talabor, or what you suppose to be mine! And why shouldn't they be? The ball has been set rolling, and the farther it rolls the bigger it will grow. Borka will do her part with the servants, and they won't keep their mouths shut! So! my scornful little beauty, you are not likely to get many suitors whom Master Peter will favour, and who knows? Next time we meet—next time we meet—we may both sing a different song."

CHAPTER IV.
MISTAKE THE FIRST.

"Well," said Master Peter, "I suppose one ought not to dislike a man without cause, and I have nothing positively against the jackanapes, but I don't trust him, for all his deferential ways, and I fancy that when once he "gets hold of the cucumber-tree" we shall see a change in him. Your uncle has been kind to him, but not because he liked him, I know! I'll tell you what it must be! he has been boasting, and exaggerating what we have done for him," Master Peter went on in his simplicity, "making himself out a favourite, and counting up the number of visits he has paid us here, until he has made people think we have adopted him, and they will be taking him for my son and heir next, faugh! Ha! ha! A pushing young man! I never could think why he wanted to be coming here, but no doubt it gave him importance, and very likely Paul thought we had special confidence in him, otherwise I don't see what made him give such an appointment to a youth of his age. That must be it!"

And yet, while he said the words, Peter had a vague feeling that there was something behind which he could neither define nor fathom.

Delighted as he was to welcome guests, he had not enjoyed their society of late so much as was usual with him. Sometimes he told himself that it was all fancy, and then at another he would be annoyed by a something not quite to his taste in their manner to Dora, while the frequent reference to Libor was so irritating that he had more than once almost lost his temper, and he had actually told some inquiries with haughty dignity that if they wanted to know what the young man was doing they had better ask the servants.

This had had the desired effect; so far, at least, that Master Peter was not troubled again; but people talked all the same, and even more than before, for his evident annoyance and the proud way in which he had repelled them made the busy-bodies put two and two together and conclude that he really had some secret trouble which he wanted to hide from the world. And so, by way of helping him, they naturally confided their suspicions one to the other, and to their friends.

Gossip about people of such importance as the Szirmays naturally had a peculiar zest, and the fact that Dora was first cousin to Jolánta, one of the Queen's favourite attendants and wife of Paul Héderváry, of course gave it additional flavour.

Maids who came with their mistresses questioned Borka, who answered them as she had been instructed to do, with earnest injunctions as to secrecy. Talabor, being sent out with a message to Master Stephen, heard similar gossip from the pages of his household, gossip which distressed him greatly, though he vowed that he did not believe a word of it.

He could not get it out of his head during his lonely ride home, but as he thought over all that he had heard, it suddenly struck him that, supposing it to be true, Borka was not as "faithful" as Libor fancied. The story must have come abroad through her, unless—an idea suddenly flashed across his mind—Libor might have trumped the whole thing up by way of increasing his own importance. But then he had actually caught him with Borka! Talabor resolved to have a word with Miss Borka at the first opportunity.

In due time Master Peter set out for Pest, and thither we must now follow him.

Oktai, the Great Khan, found himself on the death of Dschingis at the head of a million and a half of fighting men, and at once determined to carry out his father's plans of conquest by sending his nephew Batu westward to attack the peaceful Kunok, the "Black Kunok," as the chronicles call them, who dwelt between the Volga and Dnieper in Great or Black Cumania.

Twice the Mongols had been beaten back, but in the end numbers had prevailed, and to save what remained of this people, their King had led them into Moldavia, then occupied in part by the Little, or White Kunok.

Meanwhile, alarming rumours of what had occurred had reached Hungary, but were credited by few, and as to being themselves in any real, still less immediate danger, that the Hungarians would not bring themselves to believe. Their King, Béla (Albert) took a very different view of the situation. One of the most energetic kings Hungary had ever had, and brave in meeting every difficulty, though he did not fear danger, he did not despise it, and while the great nobles spent their time in amusing themselves, he was following with the most careful attention all that was going on among his neighbours. He was kept well informed, and nothing of that which Oktai was doing escaped him. He knew how Russia had been conquered, how the Kunok had been hunted, and how the countless Mongol hordes were gaining ground day by day.

He knew, but he could not make others see with his eyes. More than once he appealed to the great nobles, urging them to make ready, while he himself strove gradually to raise troops and take measures for the defence of the kingdom. But it was all in vain; they heard, but they heeded not. And then one day they were quite surprised, when, after many perils and dangers, Kuthen's messengers appeared in Buda, having come, as they said, from the forests of Moldavia.

They were no brilliant train, but men who had fought and suffered, and endured many hardships; and they had come, as Libor told Master Peter, to ask for an asylum. Hungary was but thinly populated at this time, and the King was always glad to welcome useful immigrants. Knowing which, they asked him confidently, in their own king's name, to say where they might settle, promising on his part that he and his people would be ever faithful subjects, and more than this, that they would all become Christians.

Béla felt that he must make up his mind at once. He could not send the messengers away without a decided answer; he thought the Kuns would be valuable, especially just now, as they were men who knew what war was, and could fight well.

But in bidding them welcome to Hungary without consulting the Diet, Béla made a mistake—a pardonable mistake, perhaps, for he knew as well as anybody that Diets were sometimes stormy affairs, and not without dangerous consequences; and he knew too that the majority of those who would assemble either did not know of the peril which was so close at hand, or were so obstinate in their apathy that they did not wish to know of it; nevertheless it was a mistake.

As for Kuthen, he had two alternatives before him. Either he might submit to Oktai and join him in his career of conquest; or, he might offer his services and faithful devotion to a king who was well known to be both wise, chivalrous, and honourable.

Kuthen made the better choice; but if his offer were refused, or if Béla did not make speed to help him, why, then, it was plain that the country would be inundated by 40,000 fighting men.

The King could not wait, and Kuthen's messengers were at once sent back to Moldavia, laden with presents, and bearing the welcome news that King Béla was willing to receive the Black Kunok on the terms offered. The White Kunok of Moldavia already acknowledged the Hungarian king as their sovereign.

Kuthen lost no time in setting out with his people, and Béla, in the warmth of his heart, determined to give him a magnificent reception. He would receive him as a king should be received, whose power and dominions had been till lately at least equal to his own; he would receive him as if he were one of his most powerful neighbours; he would receive him as a brother.

Béla cared little for pomp and show on his own account, and the splendour of his train on this occasion was all the more striking. Never had such a sight been seen in Hungary before as when, one morning in early summer, the King rode out to the wide plain where he was to receive his guests.

Before him went sixty men on horseback, clad in scarlet, all ablaze with gold and silver, wearing caps of bearskin or wolfskin, and producing wild and wonderful music from trumpets, pipes, and copper drums. After them came the King in a purple mantle over a long white "dolmány," which sparkled with precious stones and was covered in front by a silver breast-plate. Right and left of him rode a bishop in full canonicals and bearing each his crozier.

These were followed by some two hundred of the more prominent nobles, among whom were Paul Héderváry, Master Peter, and his brother Stephen, and the latter's son Akos, who, as already mentioned, was attached to the King's household. The rear was brought up by soldiers armed with bows, all mounted like the rest.

Truly it was an imposing spectacle, as Master Peter admitted when he afterwards described it to Dora; but it afforded him little satisfaction.

No sooner was the army of bowmen drawn up in order than the war-song of the advancing Kunok was to be heard.

On they came, Kuthen and all his family on horseback, his retinue, and his army which followed him at a respectful distance, part mounted, part on foot, and behind these again a long thick cloud of dust.

The pilgrims did not present a grand appearance. They looked as those look who have come through many toils and dangers; but the King was not without a certain pathetic dignity of his own, in spite of his somewhat Mongolian features, slanting eyes, low, retreating forehead, and long beard, already slightly touched with grey. He looked like a man who had suffered, was suffering rather, and who could not forget his old home, with its boundless plains, its vast flocks and herds, and its free open-air life; but he looked also like a man who knew what it was to be strong and powerful.

Kuthen's followers came to a halt, while he and his family rode forward, preceded by a horseman, not far short of a hundred years old, who carried a double cross in token of the submission of his people both to Christianity and to the sovereignty of the Hungarian king.

The King and Queen, their two sons, and two daughters, all wore loose garments of white woollen, fastened round the waist by unpolished belts of some sort of metal; and on their heads were pointed fur caps, such as are still worn by the Persians. The King and his sons had heavy swords of a peculiar shape, while the Queen and Princesses carried feather fans decorated with countless rows of red beads and bits of metal.

What trust Kuthen felt in King Béla was shown by the fact that his bodyguard numbered no more than two or three hundred men armed for the most part with spears.

Master Peter had much to tell when he returned home of the beautiful horses covered with the skins of wild beasts, on which Kuthen and his family were mounted, and which naturally excited the admiration of such horse-lovers as the Hungarians; also he told of the band of singers who preceded the chiefs, and marked the pauses between their songs by wild cries and the beating of long narrow drums; of the servants, women, and children, who journeyed in the rear of the army, those of the latter too small to walk being carried in fur skins slung on their mothers' backs; and of the immense flocks and herds reaching far away into the distance, whose herdmen, mounted on small, rough horses, drove their charges forward with long whips and the wildest of shouts.

He told her, too, how King Béla had galloped forward to welcome his guest with outstretched hand, and had made the most gracious and friendly of speeches.

"Much too gracious!" grunted Peter with a shrug of his shoulders. "All very fine, but the country will have to pay for it!"

"Oh, yes, and when all sorts of compliments had been exchanged (through the interpreters of course, for they can't speak decent Hungarian) then up came the baggage-horses, and the tents were pitched in a twinkling side by side. They sprang up like mushrooms, and before long there was a regular camp, such a camp as you never saw!"

Béla's tent was of bright colours without, and sparkled with silver and gold within; but Kuthen's, which was larger (for it accommodated his whole family), was meant not for show, but for use, and to be a defence against wind and rain, and was composed of wild-beast skins.

There was a banquet in the royal tent in the evening, and the haughty Hungarian nobles saw, to their astonishment and relief, that, though their dress was simple, not very different in fact from that in which they had travelled, the King and Queen and their family actually knew how to behave with the dignity befitting their exalted rank.

The Kunok performed one of their war dances in front of the tent while dinner was going on; and at the close of the entertainment, Béla presented Kuthen, his family, and the principal chiefs, with such gifts as betokened the generous hospitality of the Hungarian and the lavish munificence of the King.

But Master Peter, though at other times he could be as lavish and generous as anyone, was not over well pleased to see this "extravagance," as he considered it; and his feelings were shared not only by his brother and nephew, but by many another in the King's retinue.

"No good will come of it," muttered they to themselves.

And the Kun chiefs, "barbarians" though they were in the eyes of the Hungarian nobles, were, some of them at least, shrewd enough to notice their want of cordiality, and sensitive enough to be hurt by their proud bearing and the brilliant display they made.

The whole camp was early afoot, and the two bishops in their vestments, attended by many of the lower clergy in white robes, appeared before the royal tents, in one of which stood Béla and his courtiers all fully accoutred, with helmets on their heads and richly ornamented swords at their sides, while in the other were assembled Kuthen and his family, bare-headed and unarmed.

Béla's own body-guard, mounted and carrying their lances, battle-axes, clubs, and swords, were stationed on each side of the royal tents, while their officers rode up and down, or stopped now and again to exchange a few words with one another in a low tone. A number of Kunok, bare-headed and unarmed like their sovereign, stood round in a semicircle. Far away in the distance might be heard every now and then the deep-mouthed bay of the great sheep-dogs, and the shrill neigh of the horses, but otherwise there seemed to be a hush over all.

Presently, a camp-table was brought forward covered with a white cloth and having a silver crucifix in the midst, with golden vessels on each side, and then, all being ready, a solemn mass was said by one of the bishops, interspersed with singing and chanting, by the choir, all of which evidently impressed the Kunok, who had never seen the like, or anything at all resembling it, before. By the expression of their wild faces it was plain to see that while utterly surprised, and, in spite of themselves, awed and subdued, some were doubtful, some more or less rebellious, and many full of wonder as to what it all meant and whether it portended good or evil.

But there was yet more to follow. The service over, two of the younger white-robed clergy took up a large silver basin, another pair carried silver ewers, while the remainder, with lighted torches, formed up in two lines and all followed the bishops to Kuthen's tent, in front of which he, his family and retinue, were now standing with King Béla beside them.

If the Kunok had looked doubtful and uneasy before, they looked yet more disturbed now by the mysterious ceremony which followed. It was all utterly unintelligible to them; they heard words in a strange tongue uttered over their King and Queen, over the Princes and Princesses, and they saw water poured upon the faces of each in turn, and no doubt concluded that they were witnessing some magic rite, which might have the effect of bringing their sovereign completely under the influence of the Hungarians.

And not only the royal family, but their attendants, the chiefs, and last of all themselves had to submit to the same ceremony, without having the least conception of what the faith was into which they had been thus hastily baptized.

The main body of the Kunok arrived a few weeks later, and they, too, were baptized in batches, with an equal absence of all instruction and preparation, and in equal ignorance of what was being done for them.

That was the way in which the heathen were "converted" in too many instances in bygone times. Is it wonderful that they remained pagans at heart, or that traces of pagan superstition are to be found in Christian lands even to the present day?

Well, the Kunok were now "Christians," and within a few months settlements were allotted to them in those thinly populated districts which the King was desirous of seeing occupied by inhabitants of kin to his own people.

Meanwhile, Kuthen and his train had reached Pest, and he had made his entry with much pomp and state, Béla being determined that his guest should be received with all respect. The two Kings therefore rode side by side, wearing their crowns and long flowing mantles, and the narrow, crooked streets were thronged with people, all curious to see, if not animated by any very friendly feeling towards the new arrivals.

Some of the more prominent chiefs Béla determined to keep about himself that he might win their confidence and attachment by kindness.

But Kuthen and his family were conducted at once to Master Peter's old mansion near the Danube, Béla promising that he would have a proper residence built for them as soon as he could find a site.

Peter's house was of an original description, and consisted, in fact, of six moderate-sized houses, connected one with the other by doors and passages added by his father; but it had at least been made habitable and provided with present necessaries, and afforded better shelter, as well as more peace, than their tents, and the caves and woods of Moldavia, where they had dwelt in perpetual fear of their enemies.

All this Master Peter duly reported to Dora, with comments of his own, and many a shake of the head, and still her curiosity was not satisfied.

"What more did she want? He had emptied his wallet so far as he knew."

"You have hardly said a word about the Queen and the Princesses," returned Dora.

Whereupon Master Peter gave a short laugh.

"H-m! You had better ask your cousin Akos what he thinks of them the next time you see him," said he.

"Why, does he see much of them? I thought he was as much against their coming as you were."

"So he was! So he was! as strongly as any one! but—well, you know a page must go where he is sent, and his Majesty seems to want a good many messages taken. At all events, Akos is often with the Kun folk, and what is more, one never hears a word against them from him now! Bright eyes, Dora, bright eyes! and a deal of mischief they do."

"But can Akos understand them?"

"It seems so; he has picked the language up pretty quickly, hasn't he? It is all jargon to me, but then I have not had his practice! Father Roger says their tongue is something like our Magyar, a sort of uncouth relation, but I don't see the likeness myself."

"And the Princesses are really pretty?" Dora asked again.

"Prettier than their parents by a good deal! Yes, they are pretty girls enough, I suppose," said Peter grudgingly, "some people admire them much, particularly the younger one, Mária, as she is now. She used to be Marána, but that's the name they gave her at her baptism, and the other they called Erzsébet (Elizabeth). The King and Queen and their sons all have Magyar names now. But they will bring no good to the country," Master Peter added, after a pause, "no good, that I am sure of! Why, there have been quarrels already where they have settled them. Everybody hates the sight of them and their felt tents, and the King has had to divide them. What have they been doing? Why, plundering their neighbours to be sure, as anyone might have known they would. Mere barbarians, that's what they are, and we shall have a pretty piece of work with them before we have done."

"And Jolánta, you saw her?" Dora interposed, by way of diverting her father's attention from a topic which invariably excited him.

"Yes, I saw Jolánta," was the answer, given with such a grave shake of the head that Dora asked whether there were anything amiss with her.

"Amiss? h-m! Dora, my girl," said Master Peter, laying his hand affectionately on her shoulder, "I am glad that you did not marry him!"

"I?" laughed Dora, "why should I?"

"Ah, you have forgotten how they used to call you 'Paul's little wife,' when you were only a baby, and you did not know, of course, that your old father was fool enough to be disappointed when he chose your cousin instead."

"But isn't he kind to her? Isn't she happy?" inquired Dora.

"That is a question I did not ask, child, so I can't say. But she is just a shadow of what she was."

"Selfish scoundrel!" burst forth Master Peter the next moment, unable to keep down his indignation, which was not solely on Jolánta's account.

He had heard a good deal in Pest. Honest friends had not been wanting to tell him of the reports about his daughter, and his pride had been deeply wounded by the half pitying tone in which some of his acquaintances had inquired for her, as also by the fact that the Queen had not asked for her, though she was on quite intimate terms with Jolánta, and in the natural course of things would have wished to see Dora also at Court.

Peter had longed to "have it out" with somebody, and make all who had repeated gossip about his Dora eat their own words.

But for once he was prudent, and bethought himself in time that some matters are not bettered by being talked about. If he blurted out his wrath there would be those who would say that "there must be something in it, or he would not fly into such a rage," as he knew he should do, if once he let himself go. Besides, although he had convinced himself that Paul was at the bottom of all the gossip, and was burning to go and take him by the throat and make him own it on his knees, yet, after all, where was the use of making a charge which he could not actually prove?

Accordingly, Master Peter held his tongue, but he determined that nothing should induce him to take Dora to Pest while there was any risk of her being slighted and made uncomfortable. If he could have looked forward only a few months perhaps he would have recognised that slights were not the worst evils to be encountered in the world.

"Selfish scoundrel!" he repeated vehemently, "from what I hear, he has been driving the poor girl about from morning till night, and from night till morning! Paul Héderváry's wife must be seen everywhere, at all the Court functions, all the entertainments in Pest, and even in the country there is no rest for her, but she must be dragged to hunting parties, which you know she never cared for. She never had much spirit you know, poor Jolánta! and now she is like a shadow, all the flesh worn off her bones! Could you fancy Jolánta killing a bear?"

"A bear! why, she was terrified whenever there were bears about!"

"Ay, but of course Paul's wife must be something to be proud of, something unlike the rest of the world, an Amazon! Well, he made her go out bear-hunting, for I'll never believe she went of her own free will; she killed a bear, they say, with her own hand, looked on more likely, while he did it! But any way, there's the skin, and it's called 'Jolánta's bear,' and she had a swoon or a fit or something after, and has never been herself since, so I was told. She sent you a number of messages, poor girl, and wished you were coming back with me to Pest."

"Poor Jolánta," murmured Dora, "I should like to see her, but not in Pest."

"Ah! and you remember that young jackanapes, Libor?" said Master Peter.

"Paul Héderváry's governor? Oh, yes, isn't he gone to his castle yet?"

"Not he! He is 'climbing the cucumber-tree' as fast as he can! I can't think what made Paul take him up; can't do without him now it seems, looks to him for everything, and has him constantly at his elbow; and yet there is not a prouder man 'on the back of this earth' than Paul."

"But the Mongols, father?" asked Dora, who cared little for Paul and less for his governor, but who could not shake off the impression made upon her by Father Roger.

"My dear child, they have been coming for years! And if they come at last it will be thanks to the Kunok. But they will go back quicker than they came, you may be sure, so don't you trouble your little head about them!"

Master Peter spoke with the confidence he felt; and when he returned to Pest, where his presence was required by the King, he returned alone, a circumstance which set the gossips' tongues wagging anew, for surely he must have some strong reason for not bringing Dora with him. His stay was likely to be a long one this time, and he had never been away from her hitherto for more than a few days together.

CHAPTER V.
AS THE KING WILLS.

The King's own apartments, with their reed mats, coarse, gaudy carpets, bladder-skin windows, and rough furniture, were not altogether comfortless or tasteless, for King Béla had presented the royal family with sundry articles of a better description, and some of the bishops had followed his example.

As for the exterior of the house, Kuthen had introduced a few changes there also. Leaving a good space all round, he had had the whole block of buildings enclosed by strong, thick walls; and as he had employed a large number of workmen and paid well, the fortifications were ready in a few weeks. They were further strengthened by the digging of a broad moat, whose drawbridge led to the gateway which formed the sole entrance.

Kuthen had many visitors, among whom Akos Szirmay was certainly the most frequent; but King Béla also came from time to time, besides often inviting the whole family to the palace. Some of the nobles also came—because the King did.

Akos was a sympathetic listener, and Kuthen, who had taken a great liking to him, enjoyed telling him his adventures and experiences. But it was quite evident to all that Akos was drawn to the house by someone more attractive than Kuthen, and also that Marána, or, as she must now be called Mária, was well aware of the impression she had made, and was by no means displeased.

The whole family were out riding one day, a few months after their arrival. This was the recreation which they loved best, and Akos, as usual, was in attendance upon Mária. The two were somewhat in advance of the rest of the party, sufficiently so to be out of hearing, when Akos presently asked his companion whether she were beginning to be accustomed to her new home, and whether she thought she could ever learn to forget the steppes and magic woods of her native land.

"Could anyone in the world forget his own home, do you think?" she answered simply, and then added, "Oh, it is all so different! You live in stone houses, which you can't move about. One might almost as well be in prison. And the walls are so thick that one can't hear anything of what is going on outside, or even in the next room; but when we lived in our open tents, far away from here, I knew in a moment who was in trouble, and who was laughing for joy. And then our family is one; what pains one, grieves the rest, and all share one another's joys and sorrows, fears and wishes."

"And isn't it so here?" said Akos; "and if we have towns and castles, don't we live much in the open air too? Have we no family-life, and are we not all united in our love for our country?"

"I don't know; maybe it is so, but I am a stranger here, and one thing strikes me—there is no unity among you! Your proud, overbearing nobles despise the people, and the people look on them with fear and envy. You are of one race, one family—at least you Magyars are, and yet there are hardly any true friends among you, or any who are ready to make great sacrifices for their country."

"You don't know us," returned Akos quickly, though he knew how much truth there was in what the girl said. "You judge from what you see around you; here in the capital there is so much gaiety, and everyone wants to be first; but it is not so in our mountains and valleys, and on the great plains. There we know what it is to love and sympathise with one another, and to be of one mind; and we are not bad neighbours. There are several different races dwelling in our beautiful land, and they all live at peace one with the other."

"Well, I don't know, but—I am afraid! I don't understand books, but I do understand faces, and there is no need for people to open their lips—I might not understand them if they did—but they speak plainly enough to me without uttering a word. You don't love us! Oh! that we had stayed among the mountains, in the cool caves, or in our tents, not knowing what the morning might bring us, but with our own people all about us, ready at a word for anything! There was a sort of pleasure even in living in a state of fear, always on our guard, listening to the very rustling of the leaves. Ah! how can I make you understand?"

Mária's thoughts went back to the old times, and she saw herself once again living the old tent life in the forest shades. Perhaps her companion's thought for a moment followed hers, and he tried to picture himself as also living in those far-off regions, sharing a tent with the sweet-looking girl at his side.

Something he said to her in a low tone, to which she answered with a smile,

"Oh, you, Akos, that is different! If they were all like you, one might perhaps forget all but the things which are never to be forgotten, and the graves of our ancestors. But you, don't you know that it annoys your friends and relations to see you liking to spend so much time with us?"

"Why should my friends and relations mind? My rivals, perhaps yes!"

"There are no rivals!"

"None? not a single one?"

"Not one, Akos, for you are good; you honour my poor father in his misfortune, you honour my mother; and my brothers and Erzsébet are fond of you. How should you have any rival?"

"Marána!" said Akos gently; and when the girl turned to look at him, he saw that, though she was smiling, her eyes had filled with tears at the sound of her old name, coming from his lips.

It was an evening in autumn, and King Kuthen and all his family were gathered together in their largest apartment, where a fire was burning on the hearth, and the table was spread for their evening meal.

All looked grave; and indeed, since the time of his first arrival in Pest, in spite of all the festivities, and in spite of Béla's unfeigned kindness, Kuthen had always looked like a man who had something on his mind, something which oppressed him, and which refused to be shaken off.

As chief of an untamed, lawless people, far surpassing his followers in sense and understanding, he was the first to see that the polite attentions shown him by others than the King and his family, were all more or less forced. All was not gold that glittered, and his pride was wounded by the sort of condescension he met with from the Magyar nobles, when he remembered that not so long ago he had ruled a kingdom larger than the whole of Hungary.

Something, perhaps, was due to the change in his mode of life, something to the fact that he did not feel at ease when he took part in the court ceremonials and festivities, that he felt as if he were caged, and sighed for the freedom of the mountains and steppes. However it was, Kuthen had become quite grey during the comparatively short time he had spent in Hungary, and was already showing signs of age.

His family did not fully share his anxieties, for they were not as far-sighted as he; but the Queen and her sons and daughters were shrewd enough to see that their visitors were not all as sincere as they seemed, or wished to seem; though they ascribed this chiefly to the fact that they themselves were foreigners; and, as both sons and daughters were well-looking, and the latter something more, they had little reason to complain of any want of attention or courtesy.

Just now the King was seated at table, with the Queen and his daughters on his right hand, and his sons on his left. They were all at supper; but it was evident that Kuthen ate rather from habit than because he had any appetite.

As we have said, the dwelling was surrounded by a wide moat, and the only entrance was by the drawbridge. Whenever anyone wanted to come in, the Kunok sentinel posted at the bridge-head always blew a short blast on his horn, and this evening, just as supper was coming to an end, the horn was heard.

Whereupon the King made a sign to one of the many servants to go and see who was there, for he kept strict order in his household, and never allowed the drawbridge to be lowered, or anyone to be admitted without his permission.

On this occasion, however, it seemed that his permission was not waited for, as only a few moments passed before Akos Szirmay walked into the room, and was received with evident pleasure by the King and all his family.

It was clear enough that Marána's parents quite understood the state of affairs, and already looked on the young man as one of the family; for, with the exception of King Béla, he was the only person ever admitted without question, on his merely giving the password.

Akos came in hurriedly, his face flushed, and with something in his manner which showed plainly that he had not come on a mere ordinary visit.

Kuthen welcomed the young man with a smile, but quickly relapsed into gravity, and Akos himself, when he had taken the seat placed for him, next to Mária, glanced at the servants and held his peace.

"What is it, Akos?" Kuthen asked after a short pause, during which his visitor's manifest embarrassment had not escaped him.

"I would rather speak when there are fewer to hear me, your Highness," answered Akos.

All eyes were at once turned upon him, for the rising feeling against the Kunok was well known; and as the people of Pest had noticed, Kuthen had lately doubled the guards round his house. Whatever the news Akos had brought, they at once concluded that it must be something unpleasant.

"If there is any hurry," said Kuthen, who had regained his composure as soon as he scented danger, "let us go into the next room."

"No need for that, your Highness," returned Akos, also recovering himself. "In fact, if you will allow me, I will share your supper. There is no need for immediate action, but we must be prepared," he added in a low tone.

"Ah," sighed the Queen, "our soothsayers had good reason to warn us against coming here! We are in a state of constant unrest, and I am weary of it. For my part, I can't think why we did not leave this gilded prison long ago, and join our people in their new settlements, where we should at least be among those who love and honour us."

"You are right there, wife, and you all know it is what I have long wished," said Kuthen. "Where is the good of being called 'King,' when one has no kingdom? My people are being ruled by foreigners, and, though I sit at the King's Council, nothing that I say has any weight. No, what I want is to be the father of my large family again, as I used to be, until I go and join my ancestors. No, I will stay here no longer! The King has always been kind to us, and I will open his eyes to what is going on unknown to him."

But here a sign from Akos made the King hold his peace, and the subject was dropped for the present.

It was not Kuthen's way to betray anything like fear; and now when, to his imagination at least, the storm was already beginning to blow about his ears, he would not on any account that the servants should have so much as an inkling of that which filled his own mind.

He remained at table exactly as long as usual, and, when they all rose, he repeated as usual the Lord's Prayer, the only one he had learnt. He recited it in Latin, in an uncouth accent, and with sundry mistakes, but he said it calmly and collectedly as usual, and the rest followed his example.

Then, passing between a double row of servants, he led the way through an adjoining room to the spacious hall in which he and his family usually passed their evenings and received their guests.

The Queen and her daughters took up some sort of needle-work, and Kuthen signed to his sons to bring him one of the many dog-wood bows which hung on the wall. This he proceeded with their help to fit with a string stout enough to deserve the name of rope, for it was as big round as an ordinary finger.

The making of these unusually long and powerful bows, the chief weapon of the Kunok, and the sharpening and feathering of the arrows, was the King's favourite occupation, and one in which he displayed no little skill. The string also was of home manufacture, and, as the work went on, the young men moistened it from time to time with water.

Many a time Akos had joined them in their evening work, but to-night, as they sat round the blazing fire, his hands were idle.

"Akos, my son, we are alone now," began Kuthen composedly, "speak out, and keep back nothing. You need not be afraid, for this grey head of mine has weathered many a storm before now."

"Your Highness—father! if I may call you so"—said Akos, giving his hand to Mária, "there is a storm coming without doubt, for the wind is blowing from two quarters at once, and we are caught between the two."

"I don't understand," said Kuthen, twanging the bowstring, while one son took a second bow down from the wall, and the other got a fresh string ready.

"You will directly, sir; the Mongols are coming nearer and nearer, burning and destroying everything before them—that's the last news!"

"Haven't I told the King a hundred times how it would be?"

"You have, and he knows! But there are certain persons who seem to be expecting miracles; and meantime, to excuse themselves for sitting still, they have been whispering suspicions of other people. A few hours ago they went to the King and told him plainly what was in their minds."

"Suspicions! whom do they suspect?"

"You, your Highness! you and your people."

"Shame!" cried Kuthen, starting from his seat, and looking Akos straight in the face. At that moment Kuthen was every inch a king, and it was easy to understand how, though he had lost his kingdom, lost his crown, nevertheless his word had been enough to induce 40,000 families to follow him to a new home.

"And why do they suspect me?" he asked with angry resentment.

"Why?" repeated Akos, who had also risen to his feet, and now stood erect facing the King, "because there is not a creature in this world so strong as to be able to stand up against panic!"

"Is that the way you speak of your nation? and you a Magyar!" said Kuthen.

"My nation!" shouted Akos, all aflame in a moment. "I should like to hear anyone dare to speak ill of my nation! No! but father, you who own such vast flocks and herds, you know that in every fold there are sure to be a few sickly sheep; and if they are scared, no matter by what, and make a rush, you know what happens, the rest of the flock follow them; not that they are frightened themselves, but because they see the others running. A dog, or the crack of a whip is enough."

"And pray, what are these sick sheep bleating about to the King?"

"Well, to be plain, they say that the Kunok are nothing but Oktai's vanguard. That you have come in the guise of guests to spy out the land for those who sent you—for the Tartars!"