"They must be turned out. They will find masters: we need not be troubled about them; and if they don't, they can roam where they will, and there will be grass under the snow, down in the valleys. Jakó might take Fecske (Swallow), if he thinks he could feed her; it would be a pity for her to fall into the hands of the Tartars."

"Fecske" was Dora's own favourite horse.

"You understand me, don't you, Mr. Moses?"

"Yes, young mistress; but—" he added uneasily, "what of the castle and everything?"

"Well, Mr. Moses, you were the first to call attention to the unsafe state of the castle, weren't you? So what more can we do? We can't defend it, we can't live in it, we can't carry it with us! Now you will start to-day, all of you, except Talabor, Gábor, and myself; and you must trust everything else to us!"

Moses would dearly have liked to raise a multitude of further objections, but he could not, perhaps did not dare. Just as he was about to leave the room, Dora stopped him, saying, "One thing more, Governor; when all is ready, let them all come to this room."

Mr. Moses departed, and turning to Talabor, Dora asked him what he thought of her arrangements. She spoke more brightly now, and Talabor answered calmly and respectfully, "I will obey you, mistress! But, I should like to make one little remark—it is not anything concerning myself——"

"No preamble, Talabor!" said Dora, who looked more cheerful every moment. "Make any remarks you wish, and I will hear you out, because I know you don't speak from fear."

"Well, lady, wouldn't it be better to keep Jakó with you, instead of Gábor? Gábor is a good, trusty fellow and active, but he is not equal to Jakó."

"I am not going to keep more than one with me, and that is yourself, Talabor! For safety's sake I must travel on foot, like a pilgrim, and with as few followers as possible. Why I am keeping Gábor is that I want to send him to seek my father by one route, while we take another. Jakó is the only one of the others who is capable of thinking and acting for them. If I take him they have no one. Don't you think, now, that I am right?"

Talabor assented, and no more was said, but when he realised that he was to be Dora's sole guardian and travelling companion, he felt as if he had the strength of a young lion.

That same evening, Moses the governor, and all the rest, with the above-mentioned exceptions, quitted the castle; and by dawn of the following day, Master Peter's ancient dwelling-house was like a silent sepulchre. All the doors and windows were open, but the drawbridge was up, and the moat full of water.

The most valuable articles of furniture of a size to be moved, Talabor had helped Gábor to carry down to a vault opening out of the cellar, in the course of the night, and together they had walled them up.

As to what had become of Dora and the two men, no one knew but Moses. Some thought that she was still there, and others that she had "left the country," as they said in those days, though how she could have crossed the moat, except by the drawbridge, and how, if she had done so, the drawbridge could have been pulled up again, was a mystery which none could fathom.

Not even Talabor had ever known of the subterranean passage, which Master Peter had shown to his daughter and to no one else; and even now Dora did not disclose its whereabouts. Blindfold, her companions were led through it, she herself guiding Talabor, and he Gábor; and when she allowed them to take the bandages off their eyes, they were out of sight of the castle, and could see not the slightest sign of any secret entrance. They were in a diminutive valley, with rocks and cliffs all about them; and here Dora gave Gábor, the horseman, a small purse, which, had she but known it, was likely to be of small assistance in a wilderness where no one had anything to sell, but where there were plenty of people ready to take any money they could get hold of.

Dora told the man to travel only by night, to avoid all the high roads, and to make for Dalmatia, where he had been once before in charge of a horse which Master Peter was sending to a friend. He remembered the way well enough, which was one reason why Dora had chosen him for this dangerous and almost impossible mission.

CHAPTER XVI.
THROUGH THE SNOW.

Among his prisoners he had many monks and priests whom he had spared, from a sort of superstitious awe, and these he now called together, and tried to tempt with brilliant promises, to devise some plan for luring the people back to the deserted farms and homesteads. Many and many a brave man rejected his offers at the risk, and with the loss, of his life; but there were some who were ready to do what the Khan wanted, if only they could hit upon any scheme. All their proclamations issued in the Khan's name failed to inspire confidence, however. The people did not return; those hitherto left in peace fled at the approach of the Mongols, the general need increased day by day, and the captives were put to death by hundreds to save food.

The massacres were looked upon as a pleasant diversion and entertainment in which the Mongol boys ought to have their share; to them, therefore, were handed over the Hungarian children; and those who showed most skill in shooting them down were praised and rewarded by their elders.

Yet how to feed half a million men in a country which had been thoroughly pillaged was still a problem.

And then, all over the country there appeared copies of a proclamation written in the King's name, and sealed with the King's seal.

There was no Mongol ring about this, as there had been about similar previous proclamations, and it was given in the King's name, it was signed with the King's own seal! Of that there could be no question.

The news spread rapidly, further flight was stopped, and in a few days the people dutifully began to venture forth from their hiding places, and that in such numbers that a great part of the country was re-populated. Moreover, the Mongols, though still in possession, actually welcomed them as friends, which showed that the King knew what he was about! They were allowed, moreover, to choose magistrates for themselves from among the Mongol chiefs, to the number of a hundred, who met once a week to administer strict and impartial justice.

Magyar, Kun, Mongol, Tartar, Russian, and the rest all lived as amicably together as if they were one family. Farming operations were resumed, markets were held, and peace of a sort seemed to have returned to the land.

At last harvest and vintage were over. Corn and fruit of all descriptions had been garnered, and there was wine in the cellars. And then? Why, then, late in the autumn, the too confiding people were massacred wholesale; and those of them who managed to escape fled back to their hiding-places.

Then followed winter, such a winter as had not often been matched in severity. The Danube, frozen hard, offered an easy passage; there was no European army to oppose them, for the heads of Christendom were fighting among themselves, and the Mongols crossed over to do on the right bank of the river what they had already done on the left.

Always rather savage than courageous, the Mongols obliged their prisoners to storm the towns, looked on laughing as they fell; cut them down themselves from behind if they were not sufficiently energetic, and drove them forward with threats and blows. When the besieged were thoroughly exhausted, and the trenches filled with corpses, then, and not till then, the Mongols made the final assault, or enticed the inhabitants to surrender, and then, with utter disregard of the fair promises they had made, put them to death with inhuman tortures. The Mongols were exceeding "slim," as people have learnt to say in these days. One example of their savagery will suffice.

The most important place on the right side of the Danube was the cathedral city of Gran, which had been strongly fortified with trenches, walls, and wooden towers by its wealthy inhabitants, many of whom were foreigners, money changers, and merchants. As the city was thought to be impregnable, a large number of persons of all ranks had flocked into it.

Batu made his prisoners dig trenches all round, and behind these he set up thirty war-machines, which speedily battered down the fortifications. Next the town-trenches were filled up, while stones, spears, and arrows fell continuously upon the inhabitants, who, seeing it impossible to save the wooden suburbs, set fire to them, burnt their costly wares, buried their gold, silver, and precious stones, and withdrew into the inner town. Infuriated by the destruction of so much valuable property, the Mongols stormed the city and cruelly tortured to death those who did not fall in battle. Not above fifteen persons, it is said, escaped.

Three hundred noble ladies entreated in their anguish that they might be taken before Batu, for whose slaves they offered themselves, if he would spare their lives. They were merely stripped of the valuables they wore, and then all beheaded without mercy.

For weeks Dora and Talabor had journeyed on, avoiding all the main roads, travelling by the roughest, most secluded ways, and seldom falling in with any human beings, or even seeing a living creature save the wild animals, which had increased and become daring to an extraordinary degree.

Wolves scampered about in packs of a hundred or more, and over and over again Talabor had been obliged to light a fire to keep them off. He had done it with trembling, except when they were in the depths of the woods, lest what scared the wolves should attract the Mongols.

Bears, too, had come down from the mountains, and had taken up their quarters in the deserted castles and homesteads, and many a wanderer turning into them for a night's shelter found himself confronted by one of these shaggy monsters.

Traces of the Mongols were to be seen on all sides: dead bodies of human beings and animals, smouldering towns, villages, and forests; here and there, perched upon some rocky height, would be a defiant castle, whose garrison, if they had not deserted it, were dead or dying of hunger; in some parts, look which way they might, there was a dead body dangling from every tree; poisonous exhalations defiled the air; and over woods, meadows, fields, ruined villages, lay a heavy pall of smoke.

Such was the condition to which the Mongols had reduced the once smiling land. Truly it might be said, in the words of the prophet: "A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness."

But, though they saw their works plainly enough, the wanderers saw hardly anything of the Mongols themselves, which surprised them. Once or twice they had narrow escapes, and had to take sudden refuge from small parties, travelling two or three together; but they encountered nothing like a body of men, and those whom Talabor did chance to see appeared to be too intent on covering the ground to look much about them.

From one or two wanderers like themselves he presently learnt that the Mongols were everywhere on the move, and were all going in the same direction, southwards. But what it meant no one could guess. They were moving with their usual extraordinary rapidity, and but few stragglers on foot were believed to be left behind.

But it might be only some fresh treachery, some trap, and the people dared not leave the caves, caverns, thick woods, where they had hidden themselves, and lived, or existed, in a way hardly credible, on roots, herbs, grass, the bark of trees, some of them even eking out their scanty provisions by a diet of small pebbles!

Needless to say that many died of hunger, while the remainder were reduced to skeletons, shadows, ghosts of their former selves.

From some of these bands of refugees Talabor heard fragmentary accounts of the horrors that had been enacted, and the events that had followed after the battle of Mohi.

Dora had felt more and more confidence in her travelling companion as day had followed day during their terrible journey. He had spared no pains in his efforts to lighten the privations and difficulties of the way; he had thought for her, cared for her, in a hundred ways; and yet with it all, he was just as deferential as if they had been in the castle at home.

Miserable were the best resting places he could find for her for the night, either in the depths of the forest or in some cavern or deep cleft of the rocks. Sometimes he was able to make her a little hut of dry branches, roofed over with snow; and when he could do so without risk of discovery, he would light a fire and cook any game that he had been able to shoot in the course of the day.

But whatever the shelter he found or contrived for her, he himself always kept watch outside, and got what little sleep he could when the night was past.

They had almost lost count of time, and they hardly knew where they were, when, late one night, Dora came to a standstill.

The moon was shining, the cold intense, and the snow, which crackled beneath their feet, lay thick and glittering all around them. It was the sort of night that sends fear into the hearts of all who are compelled to be abroad, and yet are anxious to escape the notice of their fellow men, for it was as light almost as by day, and the travellers showed up like a couple of black spots against the white background.

Talabor, muffled in his cloak, was leading Dora by the hand; she had her large hood drawn over her head, and the two looked as very a pair of tramps as one could meet with anywhere.

The cold cut through them like a knife, though the night was still—too still, for there was not wind enough to cover up the track they had left behind them. It would be easy to trace them, for the snow was powdery, and in many places they had sunk in it up to their knees.

"I must stop, I am tired out! and I am so deadly sleepy," said Dora, in a broken voice, "I feel numb all over, as if I were paralysed."

She looked ghastly pale, worn, thin, a mere shadow of what she had been; and she had been travelling all day, dragging herself along with the greatest difficulty.

"Dear lady," said Talabor gently, supporting her trembling figure as well as he could, "do you see that dark patch under the trees yonder?"

"I can't see so far, Talabor," she stammered.

"I see it plainly," he went on, "and it is a building of some sort, a dwelling-house, I think. If you could just manage to get so far, we should be better sheltered than we are here."

"Let us try," said Dora, summoning all her remaining strength.

"Lean on me," Talabor urged in a tone of encouragement; "we shall be there in a quarter of an hour; but if you can't walk, you must let me carry you as I have done before, it is such a little way."

"You are very good, Talabor," said the girl gratefully, and off they set again.

The building which Talabor had noticed stood on rising ground, on one side of the valley, and, the snow not being quite so deep on the slope, they were able to get on a little faster. Neither spoke, for what was there to talk about? The cold was benumbing, and both were suffering.

Presently Dora felt her knees give way under her, and everything seemed to turn black before her eyes.

"Talabor!" she whispered, holding his arm with both hands, "I—I am dying—you go on yourself and leave me!"

"Leave you!" exclaimed Talabor; and before Dora could say another word, he had thrown back his cloak and picked her up in his arms. She was almost fainting, and overpowered by the deadly sleep induced by the cold.

Light as his burthen was, it was a struggle for Talabor to make his way through the snow, for he, too, had lost much of his accustomed strength during the past weeks of hardship and anxiety. Still, he managed to go straight on without stumbling or faltering. All about them, for some distance and in every direction, there were strange prints in the snow, and these he scanned carefully until he had quite assured himself that they were not made by human feet.

"No Tartars have been here lately, at all events!" he said, by way of cheering his companion, as they drew near the gloomy, deserted building, which was not a ruin, but one of the many dwellings plundered by the Mongols, and for some reason abandoned without being completely destroyed.

It was a small, dark place, and its only defences were its outer walls. There was no moat; and it had probably belonged to some noble family of little wealth or importance, who had either fled or been murdered. The gate was lying on the ground, and the snow in the courtyard was almost waist-deep. Talabor needed all his strength to wade through it and to carry Dora up the stone steps, which he could only guess at, and had to clear with his foot as he went on.

In the tolerably large room which he first entered all the furniture was half consumed by fire, and the door burnt off its hinges; the moonlight, which streamed through the open windows, showed bare, blackened walls, and a scene of general desolation.

Spreading his cloak on the bench, which owed its escape from destruction to the fact that it was covered with plaster, he laid Dora down upon it, gathered up some of the broken furniture already half reduced to charcoal, and soon had a small fire burning. The smoke from it filled the whole room, but still the warmth revived his companion, who had known what it was to spend even worse nights than this one promised to be; for, when Talabor presently took a piece of burning wood from the fire, that he might explore the building, he found an old sack full of straw. The room in which he discovered it opened out of the larger one, and was not quite so desolate looking, for the fire did not seem to have penetrated so far, and, moreover, it had a large fireplace still containing the remains of charcoal and bones.

Talabor lighted another fire here, drew the sack into one corner, and hurried back to Dora, who was now dozing a little, with the light from the crackling fire shining on her face. How deadly pale, how wasted it was!

Talabor stood looking at her for a moment, wondering whether after all he should be able to save a life which every day was making more precious to him.

He piled more wood on the fire, and tried to rub a little warmth into his own numb hands. It was the most bitter night of all their wanderings, and the cold pierced his very bones. Tired out as he was, heavy with drowsiness, he kept going from one fire to the other, as he wanted to take Dora into the smaller room when she awoke, for it was not only a degree warmer, but also free from smoke, and had a door which would shut.

She opened her eyes about midnight, and seemed to be all the better for her two hours' sleep. Talabor had kept her so carefully covered, and had replenished the fire so diligently that her healthy young blood had begun to flow again, and, not for the first time, he had saved her from the more serious consequences of her exposure and fatigue.

"Talabor!" she said, raising herself a little, "I have been asleep! thank you so much! Now you must rest; you must, indeed, for if your strength fails, it will be all over with us both."

"Oh, I am accustomed to sleeping with one eye open, as the Tartars do when they are on horseback. It does just as well for me; but you, dear lady, must rest for at least a few hours longer, and after that I will have a real sleep too."

"A few hours!"

"Yes, here in the next room, where I have found a royal bed of straw, and there is a good fire and no smoke."

By this time the smaller room really had some warmth in it, in spite of the empty window frames; and the sack of straw was a most luxurious couch in Dora's eyes.

"What a splendid bed, Talabor!" said she, gratefully; "but before I lie down, one question—it sounds a very earthly one, though you have been an angel to me but—have we anything to eat? I am shamefully hungry!"

"To be sure we have!" said Talabor, opening his knapsack, and producing a piece of venison baked on the bare coals. "All we want is salt and bread, and something to drink, but there is plenty of snow!"

"Let us be thankful for what God gives us! Our good home-made bread! what a long time it is since we tasted it!"

"We shall again in time!" said Talabor confidently, as he handed Dora the one knife and the cold meat.

"Talabor," said Dora presently, "I am afraid we have come far out of our way."

"I am afraid so too," he answered, "but I don't think we could help it. There has been little to guide us but burnt villages and ruined church-towers. And then, when we have come upon recent traces of the Tartars, we have had to take any way we could, and sometimes to turn back and hide in the forest for safety. How far south we have come I can hardly guess, but we are too much to the east, I fancy."

"You have saved me at all events, over and over again: from wild beasts by night, from horrible men by day, from fire, smoke, everything! I shall tell my father what a good, faithful Talabor you have been! And now I am really not very sleepy, and I should so like to see you rest—you know you are my only protector now in all the wide world, and you must take care of yourself for me!"

"You must have just a little more rest yourself first, dear mistress, and then I will have a sleep."

"You promise faithfully? Then shake hands upon it, for you have deceived me before now, you bad fellow!"

But when next Dora opened her eyes, the moon had set; it was quite dark; the fire had gone out, and the cold was more biting than ever.

"Talabor!" she cried, alarmed and bewildered, for she could not see a step before her.

"I'm here!" he exclaimed, starting up from the bare floor, on which he had been lying near the hearth, and rubbing his eyes as he did so.

"I have been asleep," he said, greatly displeased with himself. "I was overpowered somehow, and our fire is out! Never mind, we will soon have another!" and he set to work again with flint and steel. But when the fire was once more blazing, and both were a little thawed, Talabor would not hear of any more sleep.

"I have slept!" he said, still indignant with himself. "For the first time in my life I have slept at my post, slept on duty—I deserve the stocks!"

"And you are not sleepy still?"

"No!" and then he suddenly jumped up from the floor, on which he had but just thrown himself.

"What is it?" asked Dora nervously, and she, too, started up.

"Nothing! nothing—I think," he answered, taking up his bow and quiver as he spoke.

"I hear some noise, I'm sure I do," said Dora, listening intently. "What can it be? Quick! we must put out the fire!"

At that moment, just in front of the house, and, as it seemed to both, close by, there was a long-drawn howl.

"It's wolves, not Tartars," said Talabor, much relieved.

"Oh! then make haste and fasten the door!"

"They won't come in here," said Talabor, as he put the door to. It had been left uninjured by the fire, but its locks and bolts were all too rusty to be of the smallest use. There was a heavy little oak table which had survived the rest of the furniture, however, and this Talabor pushed up against it, saying, "The fire is our best protection against such visitors as these; but dawn is not far off now, and perhaps it would be better not to wait for it before we move on. I should not care to have them taking up their quarters in the yard."

"What are you going to do?" exclaimed Dora, in alarm, "surely you are not going to provoke them?"

"No! and if I should annoy one of them, he will not be able to do much harm after it!"

"I forbid you to do anything rash! You are not to risk your life, Talabor. You are to sit still here, if you don't want to make me angry."

Dora's vehemence was charming, but Talabor never did anything without reflection; and he was not going to have her life imperilled by any ill-timed submission on his own part.

"You may be quite easy," he said, "I am not going to stir from here, and they are not going to come in either!"

The wolves meantime had been drawing nearer and nearer, to judge by their howls. Perhaps they had scented the smoke, and expected to find the dead bodies of men or cattle, as they commonly did in every burning village in those days.

Talabor was standing at the window, bow in hand, when he presently drew back with a hasty movement.

"Quick!" he said in an undertone. "We must put out the fire!"

Dora rushed to it and began scattering and beating it out with a piece of wood.

"What is it?" she whispered; and Talabor whispered back, "I saw someone that I don't like the look of!" Then, holding up his forefinger, he added, "Perhaps there are only one or two; don't be afraid."

These few words, intended to be re-assuring, did not do much to allay Dora's fears, and she went up to Talabor, who was back at the window again, now that the fire was put out. Trembling, she stood beside him, while her cold hand fumbled in her pouch for the dagger which she carried with her.

It cannot be denied that at that moment, in spite of all her high spirit, Dora was terrified.

Thanks to the snow and the stars, Talabor could see clearly enough what was going on outside; and this is what he saw: two muffled figures hurrying towards the house, by the very same path which he himself had trodden only a short time before; tracking him by his deep footprints in all probability.

But a few moments after he had told Dora to put out the fire, one of the two figures, an unmistakable Tartar, was overtaken by the wolves, and there began one of those desperate conflicts between man and beast, which more often than not ended in the defeat of the former, firearms not being as yet in existence.

"Here! Help! Father!" shouted the one attacked. He had beaten down one wolf, with a sort of club, and was trying his utmost to defend himself against two others. At this appeal, made, by-the-bye, in the purest Magyar, the man in front hurried back to the help of his son.

"Surely he spoke Magyar!" whispered Dora.

"There are only two of them, at all events," was Talabor's answer, that fact being much the more reassuring of the two in his eyes, for he had heard, during their wanderings, that there were more "Tartar-Magyars" in the world than Libor the clerk.

He fitted an arrow to his bow, as he spoke, and added, in an undertone, "They are coming, and the wolves after them! but there are only two, nothing to be afraid of; trust me to manage them!"

In fact the two men were already floundering in the courtyard, and close at their heels rushed the whole pack, disappearing now and again in the deep snow, then lifting up their shaggy heads out of it, while they kept up an incessant chorus of howls.

Tartar-Magyars might be enemies, but wolves certainly were, thought Talabor, as he let fly his arrow and stretched the foremost wolf upon the ground, just as it was in the act of seizing one of the Tartars.

Apparently the fugitives had not heard the twang of the bow-string, for as soon as they caught sight of the open door, they hurried towards it with the one idea of escaping their pursuers, so it seemed.

But when Talabor again took aim, and a second wolf tumbled over, one of the men looked up, saw the arrow sticking in the wolf's back, and cried out, as if thunderstruck, "Tartars! per amorem Dei patris!" (Tartars! for the love of God!) And having so said, he stopped short, irresolute, as not knowing which of the two dangers threatening him it were better to grapple with.

Talabor heard the exclamation, and, whether or no he understood more than the first word, at least he knew that it was uttered in Latin. The fugitives must surely be ecclesiastics, who had adopted the Tartar dress merely for safety's sake.

"Hungari, non Tartari—We are Hungarians, not Tartars!" he replied in the same language, leaning from the window as he shouted the words. Whereupon that one of the "Tartars" who had spoken before called out again, as if in answer, "Amici! Friends," and turned upon the wolves, two of which had been so daring as to follow him and his companion even up the steps. The nearer of the two he attacked with his short club; but his comrade, who had been hurrying after him, slipped and fell down, and the other wolf at once rushed upon him and began tearing away at his cowl.

Talabor meanwhile, being completely reassured by the word "Amici," turned to Dora saying, "Glory to God, we are saved! They are good men, monks, as much wanderers as ourselves!"

He pulled the table away from the door, snatched a brand from the still smouldering fire, waved it to and fro till it burst into flame, and then rushed out with it through the hall into the entry, where the learnèd one of the two supposed Tartars was hammering away at the head of the huge wolf which had got hold of his friend, whose rough outer garment it was worrying in a most determined manner. The rest of the pack, about twenty, seemed not at all concerned at the loss of their four companions lying outstretched in the snow, for they were drawing nearer and nearer to the entry, and were lifting up their heads as if desirous of joining in the fray going on within, while they howled up and down the scale with all their might.

But the moment Talabor appeared with his flaming torch they were cowed, turned tail, and tumbled, rather than ran, down the steps in a panic. Head over heels they rushed towards the gate, some of the hindmost getting their tails singed as they fled.

Meantime the two strangers seeing the enemy thus put to flight, took courage, and thought apparently to complete the rout, for they rushed off after the retreating wolves and were for pursuing them even beyond the gate, when they were checked by a shout from Talabor, who called to them to stop.

They stood still, up to their waists in snow, and looked at him, wondering and half doubting who and what he might be.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Magyars! infelices captivi—Unfortunate captives," answered the learnèd one.

"We are Magyars!" said the other in Hungarian.

"If you are Magyars, follow me," said Talabor, and the strangers obeyed.

It was dark no longer, but still it was difficult to judge of the men by their looks, for they wore the rough Tartar hoods over their heads, and the one who had been mauled by the wolf had his hanging about his face in lappets and ribbons.

Talabor could see just so much as this, that neither was very young, that both were wasted to the last degree, and that they were as begrimed as if they had been hung up to dry in the smoke for some weeks.

"Come along, come along!" he said, for he was anxious to get back to Dora, and to make up the fire again. Should he take them into, the warmer inner room, or keep them in the other until he knew more about them? He was still undecided what to do when a sudden exclamation from one of the wanderers, followed by the fervent words, "Glory be to Jesus!" startled him.

More startled still was he to hear from Dora the response, "For ever and ever!" and to see her clinging to the begrimed "Tartar."

"Father Roger! Father Roger!" she exclaimed tremulously, and for the moment could say no more.

CHAPTER XVII.
A STAMPEDE.

"Dalmatia!" said the Canon, shaking his head, "Dalmatia! but we are in Transylvania! and who knows for certain where his Majesty may be? I have heard rumours, but that is all, and they are ancient by this time. It would be wiser to try and find some safe retreat here, where there are more hiding-places than in the great plains."

He spoke dreamily; but he had noticed Dora's hollow cheeks, and had marked how greatly she was altered from the bright, beautiful girl whom he had last seen less than a year ago. Her strength would never hold out for so long a journey, even if it were otherwise desirable, which he did not himself think it; for he was able to throw some light upon the mysterious movement among the Mongols, and told his hearers that Oktai the Great Khan had died suddenly in Asia; and that Batu Khan, the famous conqueror, was far too important a person in his own eyes to be ignored when it came to the choice of a successor. He must make his voice heard, his influence felt; and the tidings had no sooner reached him than he despatched orders to all his scattered forces, appointing a place of rendezvous, and bidding them rejoin him at once.

This done, off he hurried, in his usual headlong way; and, with his captives, his many waggons laden with booty, and his yellow hosts, he had rushed like a tornado through Transylvania into Moldavia, plundering, burning, ravaging, according to custom, as he went.

That was the last Father Roger knew of him; for, finding that the farther they went the worse became the treatment of the captives, until at last the only food thrown to them was offal and the bones the Mongols had done with, he had felt convinced that a massacre of the old and feeble was impending.

"Then the Tartar-Magyar is not gone with them to Asia, and he could not protect you any longer?" asked Dora.

"He could not protect us any longer," echoed Father Roger. "We, my faithful servant here and I, watched our opportunity and made our escape one night into the forest."

And here we may mention that they had fled none too soon, as the massacre of those not worth keeping as slaves actually took place, as Father Roger had foreseen, and that within a very short time after his flight.

The more Talabor thought of it, the more he felt that Father Roger was probably right as to Dalmatia, and Dora finally acquiesced in giving up her cherished plan. It was a comfort to be with Father Roger, broken down though he was; and for the rest, if she could not join her father, what did it matter where she went? She left it to him and Talabor to decide, without troubling her head as to their reasons, or even so much as asking what they had agreed; but the disappointment was grievous.

The little party therefore journeyed on together, slowly and painfully, often hungering, often nearly frozen, until at last they reached the town now known as Carlsburg. But here again they found only ruins and streets filled with dead bodies, and they toiled on again till they came to the smaller town of Frata, where there were actually a good number of people, recently emerged from their hiding-places, and all busily engaged in strengthening and fortifying the walls to the best of their power.

They had but little news to give, for all were in doubt and uncertainty both as to the King and the Mongols. The latter they did not in the least trust; and though Frata had hitherto escaped, no one felt any security that it might not be besieged any day, almost any hour.

"Better the caves and woods than that," said Father Roger with a shudder. But if there were no safety for them in Frata itself, Talabor heard there of what seemed at least a likely refuge for Dora, and that with a member of her own family, a certain Orsolya Szirmay, who was said to have taken refuge among the mountains, and to have many of the Transylvanian nobility with her, and would certainly receive them.

"Only a little further!" said Talabor, as he had said before; but this time it was "only a few miles," not a quarter of an hour's walk; and when one can walk but slowly, when one's strength is ebbing fast, and one's feet are swollen and painful from the many weary miles they have trodden, when one is chilled to the bone, weak from long want of proper food, and in constant terror of savage beasts and still more savage men, the prospect of more rough travelling, though only for "a few miles," is enough to make the bravest heart sink.

Before we see how it fared with the four travellers, we must glance at what had been taking place in Transylvania, whose warlike inhabitants had been far less apathetic and incredulous than those of Hungary, and at the first note of alarm had raised troops for the Palatine. Héderváry had been despatched, as already mentioned, to close all the passes on the east, and this done, and his presence being required elsewhere, he had departed, leaving merely a few squadrons behind as a guard. He and they both considered it impossible for the Mongols to force a passage on this side, so well had they blocked the roads.

Like most of the fighting men of those days, the Hungarian army received very little in the way of regular pay, and nothing in the way of rations. It lived upon what it could get! and what would have been theft and robbery at any other time, was considered quite lawful when the men were under arms.

The troops lived well at first. To annex a few sheep, calves, oxen, and to shoot deer, wild boar, or buffalo was part of the daily routine, for the forests abounded in game. They were at no loss for wine either, as some of the nobles supplied them from their cellars.

On the whole, therefore, the men were well entertained; and, little suspecting the serious campaign in store, looked forward to a brush with the Mongols as involving little more danger than their favourite hunting expeditions.

And then, one morning they noticed a peculiar sound in the distance. In one way it was familiar enough, for it reminded them of a hunt, but a hunt on such a scale as none of them had ever witnessed yet. For it was as if all the game in the dense, almost impassable forests on the frontier were being driven towards them by thousands of beaters, driven slowly and gradually, but always nearer and nearer.

They wondered among themselves who the huntsmen could be, and thought that the great lords had perhaps called out the peasantry by way of beguiling the time, and that, as the roads were closed against the Mongols, they were coming through the woods.

But there was no shouting, which was remarkable, and they could hear no human voices, nothing but the hollow sound as of repeated blows and banging, which came to them from time to time, when the wind was in a particular quarter, like the mutter of distant storms.

Two days later, this weird and ghastly noise could be heard till dark. No one could imagine what was going on.

But the detachments whose especial duty it was to watch the frontier appeared to be under a spell, for they passed their time in the usual light-hearted way, and went out shooting and hunting in large parties. They had never known the forest so full of game of all sorts before—wild buffalo, bears, wolves, deer, fawns—as it had been since "the woods had begun to talk," as they expressed it.

By the third day the distant sounds had altered their character, and were no longer like the ordinary noise made by sportsmen and their beaters, but more puzzling still.

Then came orders to the various detachments from the Palatine, that a few bodies of men were to be posted here and there, rather as spies than guards, while the rest hastened with all speed to join the main army in Hungary proper.

Héderváry did not so much as hint that the "Tartars were coming"; but he was well aware of the fact, for he had good spies, and that even among the Russians who had coalesced with the Mongols.

Early on the morning of their departure some of the men thought they saw scattered clouds of smoke rising over the forests to the east, but they were a "happy-go-lucky" set, as so many were in those days, and they troubled their heads very little as to what it might mean.

Someone suggested that, as the blacksmiths were all unusually hard at work on horseshoes, of which an enormous number were wanted, no doubt the charcoal burners were especially busy too; and there were many of them in the woods and forests; in all probability, the smoke proceeded from their fires. And with this supposed explanation all were content.

But suddenly, to the now accustomed sound of beating and knocking, which was still drawing nearer and nearer, there was added another of a different character.

Hitherto, the woods had "talked," and echo had answered them; now the forest "roared." The wind had been light at early morning; now it was piping and whistling, swaying the trees to and fro, making the tall stems tremble, and knock their long bare arms one against the other.

One of the Palatine's small detachments of about 150 men was stationed in the mountainous district of Marmaros, with a lofty and precipitous wall of rock bounding one side of the camp. The men were just preparing for a start, when a huge buffalo made its sudden appearance on the edge of the cliff far above their heads. It had come so far with a rush, but the sight of the great depth below had stopped it short, and it stood with its feet rooted to the ground for a moment—only for a moment, however. It raised its head, and seemed to sniff the air, and then, with one short, faltering bellow, it leapt and fell into their midst, upsetting one horse, and wounding a couple of men.

This was the first; but after the first came a second, after the second, a third!

Helter-skelter the troops retired from the dangerous spot, and from a safe distance they counted five buffalo, one after the other, which dashed to the edge of the cliff, as if in terror from their pursuers, and took the fatal leap. Only one was able to rise again, and that one just gave one look round, dug its forefeet into the ground, and then rushed on straight ahead as if there were a pack of hounds at its heels.

Shortly after, while the troops were riding down the narrow valley at the foot of the mountains, they could hear the howl of wolves coming nearer and nearer, and a pack so large that no one could even guess their number, was seen to be scampering down the dale; some were clattering down the cliffs, which were more sloping here, while the rest tore wildly forward, passing close beside, and even in among the horses, many of which were maddened with terror, and bolted with their riders.

An hour or so later, when the little troop had succeeded in quieting the horses, and had advanced some way on its journey amid many perils and dangers, the cause of all this excitement among the wild animals was suddenly revealed. The forest was on fire! It was crackling in the flames, burning like a furnace beneath a canopy of black smoke.

The Mongols had fired it on this side, while in another direction they had opened a way forty fathoms wide, through woods over hill and dale, through walls of rock, and across streams and ditches. They were making ready their way before them, and were advancing along it upon the unready country.

Wherever they were reached by the fire, the trees crashed down one upon another; ravens, crows, jackdaws, and all the winged creatures of the woods, were flying to and fro above the trees, in dense, dark clouds, and with loud cries and cawing; bears came along muttering, flying before the fire and smoke, climbing trees from which they did not dare descend again, and with which they perished together.

As already mentioned, Batu Khan's army was preceded by pioneers with axes and hatchets, who drove their road straight forward, through or over obstacles of all kinds. Nothing stopped them, and often their own dead bodies helped to fill up the ditches and trenches; for what was the value of their lives to the Mongols? Absolutely nothing! since they were taken for the most part from the people whom they had conquered.

As soon as the awful news of their advance spread through the country, the people fled without another thought of defending their homes or resisting the enemy, or of anything else but saving their lives and what little property they could carry with them in their wild stampede.

In a few days Transylvania was ablaze from end to end. Towns, villages, farms, castles, country seats, strongholds, even the ancient walls of Alba Julia, all were surrounded by the flames, and were crashing and cracking into ruins.

The invaders, stupid in their destructiveness, spared nothing whatever; and their leaders and commanders, themselves as stupid as the brute-like herd over whom they were placed, occasioned loss to the Khan which was past all reckoning, for his object was plunder, and they in their rage for ruin, destroyed what the Khan might even have called treasure, as well as what might have provided food for hundreds of thousands of the army. What did the Khan Oktai, or Batu, or his thousands of leaders care! The latter were Little Tartars, Russian Tartars, German Tartars, and what not, to whom the conqueror had given the rank and title of Knéz, whom he favoured, promoted, and enriched, until his humour changed, or he had no further use for them, and then—why then he squeezed them, made them disgorge their wealth, and strung them up to the nearest tree. They were but miserable foreigners after all!

Transylvania was in the clutches of the enemy, who had entered her in two large divisions, north and south. But, thanks to the nature of the country, and the many hiding-places it afforded, she did not suffer quite so severely as her neighbour.

Orsolya Szirmay, of whom the travellers had heard at Frata, had married one Bankó, a man of large property and influence, who owned vast estates both in Hungary and Transylvania; but Orsolya did not see much of her own relatives after her marriage, for her husband was a man of awkward temper, and they rarely paid her a visit; so that when, four or five years before the Mongol invasion, Bankó died, she went to live on the Transylvanian property, which was in a most neglected condition, and required her presence. Bankó had lived to be ninety-three, and his widow was now an old lady with snow-white hair, but with all her faculties and energies about her, and eyes as bright, hair as lustrous, as those of a young girl.

She had made her home in a gloomy castle among the mountains, but at the first rumour of the coming invasion, she left it for Frata, where she had an old house, or rather barn, which had been divided up into rooms, and was neither better nor worse than many another dwelling-house in those days.

During her short stay here, the old lady was constantly riding about the country accompanied by her elderly man-servant, and a young girl, who had but lately joined her, and was introduced as "a relation from Hungary."

One morning early all three disappeared without notice to anyone, and it was only later that it was rumoured that "Aunt Orsolya," as she was called throughout the country, had taken refuge in a large cavern among the mountains to the north of Frata.

It afforded plenty of space, it was difficult of approach, and it had but one, and that a very narrow entrance; the streams which now flow through it not having then forced a passage.

How Aunt Orsolya had contrived to stock it with food and other necessaries we are not told, but she had done it; neither did she lack society in this lonely abode after the first week or two, for she was joined in some mysterious way by between seventy and eighty persons belonging to the most distinguished families in the land.

She, of course, was the head, the queen of this strange establishment, for those who fled hither to save their lives, and, as far as they could, their most precious valuables, found the old lady already installed.

She received them, she was their hostess; and besides all this, she was a born ruler, one to whom others submitted, unconsciously as it were, and who compelled respect and deference.

Orsolya, then, had taken the part of house-mistress from the beginning, and no doubt enjoyed receiving more and more guests, and enjoyed also the consciousness that they all looked up to her, and were all ready to submit themselves to her wishes—we might say commands.

The old lady herself appointed to each one his place, in one or other of the many roomy caves which opened out of the great cavern, and she managed to find something for everyone to do.

In a short time the cavern was as clean as hands could make it. The driest parts were reserved for sleeping places; and one cave was set apart as a chapel, where service was regularly held by the clergy, of whom there were several among the refugees.

When the neighbourhood was quiet, the men went out hunting, and—stealing! Stealing! there is no polite word for it. They stole sheep, cattle, provisions anything they needed for housekeeping. Those who came in empty-handed Orsolya scolded in plain language; and the men who swept and cleaned at her bidding, and the women who boiled and baked, gradually became as much accustomed to the old lady's resolute way of keeping house and order as if they had served under her all their lives.

It was some time in March that Aunt Orsolya had retreated to the cavern, and there she and her companions had remained all through the spring, summer, and autumn, often alarmed, but never actually molested, hearing rumours in plenty, but knowing little beyond the fact that the whole country was in the hands of the Mongols, and that the King was a fugitive.

CHAPTER XVIII.
AUNT ORSOLYA'S CAVERN.

In her own quarters, in the centre of the cavern, close under the wall, Orsolya was seated in a chair of rough pine branches, beneath a canopy of mats, which protected her from the continual droppings of the rock.

Her face was covered with a perfect network of lines and wrinkles, but her dark eyes shone like live coals. Her beautiful silver hair was nearly hidden beneath a kerchief which had seen better days, and her dress, a plain, old-fashioned national costume, was neat and clean in spite of its age. She had a large spinning-wheel before her, and on a low stool by her side, sat a young girl, also employed with a spindle.

It was evident that this latter, a pale, slim creature with black eyes, was no Magyar. Her features were of a foreign cast, her hands were small and delicate, and the charm and grace of her every movement were suggestive rather of nature than of courts.

But the beautiful face looked troubled, as if its owner were haunted by the memory of some overwhelming calamity.

Evidently this young relation of hers was the light of the old lady's eyes, for her features lost their stern, rather masculine expression, and her whole face softened whenever she looked at her.

Some of the men interrupted their walk from time to time to loiter near the fires, or talk to the sportsmen as they came in, or drew near to Orsolya, as subjects approach a sovereign; and Orsolya talked composedly with each one, too well accustomed to deference and homage even to notice them.

"Dear child," said the old lady, as soon as they were left to themselves again, "how many spindles does this make? I'll tell you what, if you spin enough we will put the yarn on a loom and weave it into shirting."

The girl raised her beautiful eyes to the old lady's face, saying in good Magyar, though with a somewhat peculiar accent, "I think Mr. Bokor might set up the loom now, dear mother; I have such a number ready."

"I only hope we shall be able to make it do, my child," said Orsolya, leaning towards the girl, and stroking the raven hair which floated over her shoulders. "Good man!" she went on, smiling, "not but that he can be as obstinate as anyone now and then! and he has made the shuttle the size of a boat!"

The girl laughed a little as she answered, "We will help him, good mother," and she drew the old lady's hand to her lips, and kissed it as if she could not let it go.

"Yes," she went on slowly, "necessity is a great teacher; it teaches one all things, except how to forget!"

"Oh, my dear, and who would wish it to teach one that! There are some things which we cannot, and ought not to forget, and it is best so, yes, best, even when the past has been a sad one."

She stroked and caressed the girl in silence for a few moments, and then went on, "But you know, dear child, that life on this sad earth is not everything. God is good, oh, so good! Why did He create all that we see? Only because He is good. He, the Almighty, what need had He of any created thing? It is true that life brings us much pain and anguish at times, but then this is but the beginning of our real life. There is another, beyond the blue sky, beyond the stars, which you can no more realise now than a blind man can realise a view, or a deaf man beautiful music. We shall find there all that we have loved and lost here. God does not bring people together and make them love and care for one another only that death may separate them at last."

"No, don't forget anything, dearest child," Orsolya went on, with infinite love in her tone, as the girl laid her head in her old friend's lap. "Keep all whom you have loved, and honoured, and lost, warm in your heart."

"They are always there, dear mother, always before me! I see their dear, dear faces every moment!—oh! why must I outlive them?"

"That you may make others happy, dear child; perhaps, even that you may be a comfort and joy to me in my old age."

Mária threw her arms round the old lady and embraced her warmly.

"Dear, dear mother! how good you are to me! Don't think me ungrateful for what the good God has given me in place of those whom I have lost. Yes, I wish to live, and I will live, if God wills, to thank you for your love, and to love you for a long time. But if you see me sad sometimes, don't forget, good mother, how much I have lost! and—I am afraid, I am afraid! I have only one left to lose besides you, dear mother, and if—if—I don't know how I could go on living then——"

Just then two or three men appeared in the passage leading up from the mouth of the cave, and Mária went back to her stool.

Night had fallen, the men had been engaged in making all safe as usual by barricading the entrance with large pieces of rock, but they had suddenly left their work and were hurrying up to the cavern.

"Someone is coming, Mária! or—but no, we won't think any evil, God is here with us!"

"Mistress Aunt!" said the first of the men, bowing low, "we have brought you a visitor, a great man, Canon Roger, who has but lately escaped from the Mongols, and there are three others, strangers, with him. Leonard here found them all nearly exhausted and not knowing which way to turn."

"Well done, nephew! I'm glad you found them," said Orsolya, "theeing and thouing" him, as she did everyone belonging to her little community. "Roger—Roger," she went on, "I seem to remember the name—why, of course, Italian, isn't he? and lived with my nephew Stephen at one time?"

"Bring them in! bring them in!" she cried eagerly; and in a few moments Father Roger and his companions appeared before the "lady of the castle."

"Glory be to Jesus!" said, or rather stammered, the Canon; and "For ever and ever!" responded Orsolya, who had risen to receive him; and for a moment her voice failed her, so shocked was she at the change in the fine, vigorous-looking man whom she remembered.

Attenuated to the last degree, bent almost double, he looked as if he were in the last stage of exhaustion. His clothes were one mass of rags and tatters, which hung about him in ribbons; his face, sunken and the colour of parchment, had lost its expression of energy and manliness, and wore for the moment a look of bewilderment, which was almost vacancy. He was the wreck of what he had once been.

His servant, the one whom he mentions in his "Lamentable Song," Orsolya took to be quite an old man. Withered and worn like his master, he was, if possible, even more dilapidated, thanks to his encounter with the wolves.

"You have come a long way and suffered much, Father," said Orsolya gently, when she had welcomed Dora and Talabor, and regained her composure.

"Much lady, much—I—I——"

"Ah, well, never mind! so long as you are here at last, Father Roger, never mind! It is a long, long time since we met last! Do you remember? My husband was alive then, and we were staying in Pressburg with my nephew, Stephen Szirmay, and with the Hédervárys."

"I remember well, dear lady; ah! how little we any of us dreamt of the days that were coming!"

He spoke falteringly, in a faint voice; and as he sat bowed together on the low seat, Orsolya noticed that he trembled in every limb.

The rumour of his arrival had quickly spread, and the inhabitants of the cavern all came flocking round, eager to see and hear. In their bright-coloured, though more or less worn garments, with the fire-light playing upon them, and a whole troop of eager children among them, they were a most picturesque company. But Orsolya allowed no time for questions.

"Come," said she, rising from her chair, "that will do for the present! Father Roger is worn out! Will you ladies go and get St. Anna's house ready, and make up good beds; and you, kinsmen," she went on, turning to the men, "will you see about clothes and clean linen? I am afraid we have nothing but old rags, but at least they are not quite so worn as those our friends are wearing, and they are a trifle cleaner! I shall put the good Canon especially in your charge, Márton; you will look after him and see that he wants for nothing."

"Thank you, lady," stammered Roger, almost overwhelmed by the warmth of his reception. "Blessings be upon your honoured head, and upon all who dwell beneath this roof."

All present bowed their heads almost involuntarily, whereupon Roger summoned all his remaining strength, and reaching forth his withered hands, pronounced the benediction over them; after which the children made a rush forward to seize and kiss his hands.

"No, I won't hear anything now, Father Roger," said the old lady after a pause, for her new guests belonged to the family now, she considered, and were to be "thee'd and thou'd" and managed like the rest. "You must not say another word; you must eat and drink and get thoroughly rested, and then, to-morrow perhaps, or in a day or two, when you have said prayers in the chapel (we have one!) and the day's work is done, we will all sit round the fire, and you shall tell us all you know and all you have seen."

Aunt Orsolya's subjects were well drilled, and though they were burning with eagerness and anxiety, those who had begun to besiege the other wanderers with inquiries at once refrained.

Preceded by a couple of torch-bearers, Father Roger was led carefully away to one of the side caves, all of which had their names; Dora was taken in charge by some of the ladies; Talabor and the Canon's servant were equally well looked after, and that night they all once more ate the "home-made bread," which they had so long been without. That it was made with a considerable admixture of tree-bark mattered little, perhaps they hardly noticed the fact. It was simply delicious!

And the beds! As Dora sank down on hers, it seemed to her that she had never known real comfort before.

At last the excitement of the evening had subsided; the Queen's subjects had all reassembled about the fires, speculating much as to what the new-comers would have to tell them; and presently Aunt Orsolya began her nightly rounds, visiting all in turn, and stopping to have a little kindly chat with each group.