"But, uncle, what can you, who were never married, have to urge against matrimony?"

"Oh, I've nothing against your marrying. Leave that also to me. I have found you a house; now I'll find you a wife."

"It is very good of you, I'm sure."

"I'm not joking. I know of a right suitable maiden for you. You remember when you were still a lawyer's clerk, pretty little Mariska, the notary's daughter. Well, she has become a fine girl. Since her mother's death she manages the household entirely, and nowhere is there one so well ordered as Tárhalmy's. She spends no money beyond what she gives to the poor, and knows how to save as well. She's none of your frilled and furbelowed fine ladies, and does not frizz her hair in the latest fashion, but just dresses like a modest Magyar maid; and when you talk to her, you hardly know what colour her eyes are, so modestly are they cast down. Nor does she waste time in chatter, but gives you a plain answer to a plain question, with the prettiest blush imaginable. That's the wife for you, my boy, and a right comely one, I promise you."

"All right, uncle. When I've bought the house, and had time to look round a little, I'll go and see her."

And with that, Ráby took his leave.

CHAPTER IX.

Soon after this, Ráby made an excuse for going to Pesth so as to call on the Tárhalmys.

Tárhalmy was the county notary, and lived in the Assembly House assigned him. Ráby knew it well, for when he was a clerk, he used to go there every day. When he reached the door, the heyduke who stood sentry, barred his way, with his musket under his arm, one foot crossed over the other, and his shoulder against the door.

"Tell me, my friend," for thus did Ráby accost the old heyduke, "is the worshipful pronotary at home?"

The man answered, his worship had just gone out, but his lady-daughter was within, and would be delighted to see the honourable gentleman.

Ráby hastened up the familiar wooden stairs, that were so well worn down the middle.

Our hero needed no guide through these rooms. He knew all the nooks and corners of the house, and likewise the time at which callers might come—between the hours of three and four in the afternoon. First he betook himself to the ante-room, where he laid aside his sword and hat. But there was no lackey there to announce him, he had to knock therefore at the first door, to hear a "come in," before he ventured to enter without further preamble.

It was the familiar dining-room, where the women-folk were used to betake themselves to their spinning-wheels.

They sat there now, the Fräulein and the two maids. The spinning-wheel was to our grandmothers what the cycle is to the women of to-day; nay, it took also the place of the pianoforte itself.

Mariska had certainly grown very pretty since Ráby had last seen her, although, as Mr. Leányfalvy had remarked, she was quite simply dressed, and did not curl her hair. He was also quite right about her blushing when she was spoken to. In this instance, words indeed were not needed to bring the colour into her cheeks, she no sooner saw the visitor, than she crimsoned to the roots of her hair. The young girl rose respectfully from the spinning-wheel, glanced shyly at the intruder, and ere he could forbid it, had made him a childish curtsey and kissed his hand.

Ráby was very nearly being angry.

"But, Mariska, do you not recognise me?"

"How should I help recognising you, Matyi?"

"Why then do you kiss my hand?"

"Ah, you have become a great man since those days."

"Were I ever so great a man, I would not allow my hand to be kissed by a lady."

"But I am no lady, you see."

"Nor am I a great man. And now please give me your hands that I may kiss them."

But the girl put both hands behind her back.

"No, for then should I be a lady indeed. Please be seated."

She motioned Ráby to the leather-covered sofa, and sat down again by the spinning-wheel, as she deftly began afresh to twist the flax into fine silky threads, so that they could talk if they wanted to.

The two maid-servants did not leave the room, but just listened to all that their mistress and her visitor said; it was but proper, they thought.

Ráby was meanwhile thinking how to baffle the maids. To this end he asked in German what she was doing?

The young girl gazed at him with her great blue eyes full of sorrowful amazement. Fancy expecting that in the household of the pronotary of Pesth, that stronghold of Magyar freedom, that anyone, much more the daughter of the house, should speak German! She lowered her eyes, and whispered timidly, "I do not understand German."

"You do not understand German? Why, whatever would you do if you went to a ball here in Pesth, and could not speak to your partners?"

"I never go to any balls; I can't even dance," murmured the girl.

"You mean to say, you don't dance? Well then, however do you amuse yourself?"

"When I have time for it, I read."

"And what in the world do you read, if you only know Hungarian?" asked Ráby.

"Father has a fine library, and so he chooses books for me."

"And how do you spend the whole day?"

"Oh! I have a small garden in the courtyard; I love flowers!"

Tho two were silent, and Ráby looked around him.

The whole room was eloquent to him of the past. There, by the work-table, was still the little box containing thread, scissors, and thimble, which he himself had made when he was a clerk. There over the couch, hung a withered wreath of dried flowers which he recognised. Nothing was lost; all had been carefully preserved, even the pen which he had used for the last time in the office, rested still behind the mirror with his name inscribed upon the holder.

And yet they had not expected him; all these souvenirs had not been spread out at the news of his coming. They were, everyone, abiding witnesses to the way in which his memory was cherished in a guileless maiden's heart which loves, while it yet hardly knows what love is.

Mathias Ráby was surely strangely ungrateful to the fate which had preserved such a treasure for him. But it is the way of youth, so unregardful is it of the treasures true love spreads for its unheeding eyes, to be its own for the asking.

But his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Miska, the heyduke, who came to announce that his worship, the notary, was ready to see Mr. Ráby if he would wait upon him in the bureau.

Ráby rose from his seat, and took leave of his hostess, who accompanied him to the door.

There they exchanged the usual farewell greetings, and she laid her little hand in his shyly, as if fearing the ceremonial kiss. As Ráby took the small soft fingers in his, a magnetic shock, as it were, thrilled his being, so that he would fain have asked the question which was on his lips, the question the girl would have seen in his eyes, had she but raised her own.

And Mariska, too, yearned to ask him, "How long do you stay?" How gladly would she have heard the answer that it was for some time, how naturally would the invitation have risen to her lips to Ráby to come again often and see them.

But instead of all this, they did but hold each other's hands a moment half-fearfully, as if each were afraid of the other's kiss.

This once, at any rate, did Ráby have the chance of grasping that invisible golden thread which runs once through the life of every mortal. Well for him who seizes it, for it will lead him safely through all perils, but woe to him who lets it go! He cannot pick it up again.

Ráby did not seize the thread.

"Good-bye!" they murmured. And a right good word it is this "God be with you!" Yet what if man refuses the blessing the good God proffers him?

CHAPTER X.

Ráby was rather doubtful as to what sort of greeting he should venture on. The French style exacted a solemn posturing with sundry bows and curtseys; the German fashion demanded you should shake your neighbour's hand as lustily as possible, but old-fashioned Hungarian etiquette prescribed that the younger should kiss the hand of the elder. Ráby bethought him of the kiss he had received in coming thither, and that decided him. He would pay it back now to the father. The face of the old gentleman brightened at this greeting.

"Look you, my friend," he exclaimed in a clear deep voice, "in former times, I would have patted you on the head, but I cannot do that now for fear of dishevelling the coiffure your friseur has arranged. Don't you regret, by the way, wasting so much flour?"

His guest was glad to catch the old man in such a good temper, and determined to profit by it, so he kept up the jest.

"Yet it is far better surely, that I should tumble into flour than bran?"

"I think not, my boy, besides you are not so far from tumbling into bran as you seem to think."

Ráby looked at him with astonishment.

Tárhalmy's face became suddenly grave.

"I know well enough why you are here!"

(How could he know why he had come? wondered his guest.)

"Not at my house, but why you are in this country. And if you will permit me, I will tell you what I think about your mission."

"Oh pray do!" exclaimed Ráby.

"Well, my young friend, you know I have always loved you as my own son. I recognised all your capabilities, and always said 'that boy will some day do great things!' A better brought-up, better disposed youth than you were, with a higher sense of honour, could not be found. I would not hesitate to entrust you with untold millions—or an innocent maiden. But I warn you, if you persist in the way you have marked out for yourself, you will soon be rotting in one of our prisons; and I shall hear your chains clanking, without being able to stir a finger to set you free."

"And all that because I am a friend of the people?"

"Rather an enemy of the nation, say!"

"Are not the people and the nation one and the same?"

"No, not at all: the nation is the state. You idealists cannot see the wood for the trees; you cannot see the nation for the people. Only make the people believe that they fare better under a despotism than under a constitution, and you are the right side of the hedge."

"So you think it's a choice of being ruled by one tyrant or five hundred thousand."

"Wait, young man, the five hundred thousand are the defenders of the country on the field of battle, judges, commanders, pastors of souls and teachers."

"Yes, it was like that formerly. But time does not stand still, even if conditions remain the same. The new age demands a better system of defence, a more enlightened code of justice and government, as well as better methods of instruction."

"But you can't get all that in Hungary by just speaking the word! Nor anywhere else, for that matter. We defend our much abused Asiatic traditions, only through passive resistance."

"Yet the question which once was asked of old from the oracle of Dodona, is still the pressing problem for us: which is the most desirable, a flourishing Hungarian nation according to the ancient idea of it, or popular freedom?"

At these words, the pronotary shook the young man cordially by the hand.

"That was a pertinent question. I honour you for your candour. So many proselytes of the Emperor that I have come across so far, will insist on it that between these two antagonistic ideals a compromise is possible: that, after the abolition of the privileges of the nobles, with an equalisation of taxes, and a mutual obligation to bear the common burden, the country can remain the same as it was. But you openly admit there are only two alternatives, in the face of which we must needs choose. You have chosen your part, I too have made up my mind. I believe that in our part of the world it is more necessary for the constitutional, patriotic Hungarian nation to endure, than for the peasants to have one day a week more for idling; that it is better for the aristocracy to give orders to the mob, than that the mob should give orders to the aristocracy."

The young man laughed aloud.

"No, no, my honoured friend, I do not come here with the intention of touching our hereditary constitution with my little finger. In this does my whole mission consist—in rectifying abuses which cry aloud to Heaven for redress in the Court of the County Assembly."

"And pray who entrusts you with it?"

"Firstly the Emperor, and then the oppressed people themselves."

"That's just where the fault lies: neither the Emperor nor the people have the right to lay such a duty on you. That right belongs alone to the Pesth Assembly."

"But the Crown has the right to demand that such a right be exercised."

"Very likely. The Assembly will do whatever it be called upon to do."

"And if the Assembly acquit itself badly? For its own officials are guilty of the misery of the people."

"Oh, that is no secret. Our officials are in a body quite ready to fleece the folk in the very way that has aroused your indignation. But up till now, we have elected these officials ourselves, and we would rather have them over us, even if they were stained with the seven capital sins, than have the Emperor's nominees, were they angels from heaven. This is no legal quibble, but a question of actual conditions. Whatever the people suffer, they will recover sooner or later; if a man dies, another is born in his place; but the constitution can neither suffer nor die. You stand for the Emperor, I stand for the voice of the nation. Both are mortal. We shall see which of the two survives. But I warn you to reckon on no one's support in the work you have undertaken, for everyone will regard you as an enemy."

"Thank you," said Ráby. "Also, there is a satisfaction in remembering that there is at least one man I can reckon on who won't desert me."

"And who is that, pray?" asked Tárhalmy smiling rather grimly, for he thought it was the Emperor he meant.

"Why myself."

The pronotary embraced him, exclaiming tenderly as he did so: "Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Then he said gently: "Farewell, in case I never see you again!"

And Mathias Ráby went away without mentioning even a word of Mariska. What a horrible thing these politics are, to be sure!

CHAPTER XI.

"Yes, indeed, and see you have his favourite dishes for him. Have you plenty of stores, or must any be procured?"

"No, indeed, I have everything I want in the house."

And therewith, Mariska kissed her father's hand, nay both of them, and danced back into the next room as light-hearted as a bird.

And the two maids at the spinning-wheel must be up and doing; one to pound almonds in the mortar; the other to sift fine flour for fritters. The Fräulein herself set about peeling lemons, seeing she was going to make some of Matyi's favourite cakes, such as no Vienna pastry-cook could turn out. And through the whole household there was the sound of singing, for Mariska too could sing on occasion—and this was one.

But the pronotary himself sent his heyduke to go and find Mr. Mathias Ráby, and tell him, with his compliments, that he would expect him to dinner the next day.

Ráby was meantime interviewing some of the high officials of Pesth.

The first one he visited was the lord-lieutenant of the city.

For this visit he had to put on court dress, as that official was a direct representative of the Emperor.

His Excellency was an unpopular person, disliked by everyone. He was a hard man whom nothing softened. He sympathized with no one, and he was in nobody's good graces. Yet he was a personality everyone had to reckon with.

His very appearance bespoke the man. The copper-coloured complexion and ill-shaven face, with its deep frowning eyebrows, heightened the natural defect of his neck, which was twisted towards the right shoulder. His hair was lank and reddish; his dress a cross between the Hungarian and Austrian mode, slovenly and dirty, and stained with snuff, while the order of St. Stephen, which he wore round his neck, was defaced and half torn away. His voice had a repellent snarl about it. He spoke German with everybody, but it was a vile patois.

When Ráby was ushered into his presence, his Excellency was drinking his coffee, and his visitor had to stand till he had finished.

When he had set his cup down, he got up, and turning abruptly to Ráby, asked him if he were a count?

His visitor could not imagine what prompted this question, but he answered that he was only an untitled gentleman of good family.

Thereupon his Excellency pointed to Ráby's silk vest, and snapped:

"Well, then, what do you mean by this? According to the prescription of the 'dress regulations,' no one under the rank of a count may wear embroidery."

And in fact there was at this time a "dress regulation" in force to this effect. Kaiser Joseph carried his paternal interest in his subjects so far as to lay down rules as to how they should dress. Fashions and ornaments which were permitted to the count, were not allowed the baron. In this way, you could specify at first sight what rank a man held, for even his hat revealed it. Only for princes and princesses was it permitted to wear both black and white feathers; counts wore white alone, barons black, and so forth down the scale. These sumptuary laws even affected walking-sticks which had their mountings differentiated according to the rank of the possessor.

That was why Ráby had offended the lord-lieutenant. As a simple gentleman, he had no right to either gold or silver embroidery.

"This is the dress usually worn by the secretary of the imperial cabinet," was the only explanation Ráby offered.

"Ah, that is another thing. But I don't approve of these concessions being allowed to those who are not men of rank."

He scanned his caller mistrustfully from head to foot, and then went on stiffly. "But I already have your credentials. Discharge your duty, but take care what you are about, for you will find no one here to help you out of a difficulty. So I have the honour to be your very humble servant."

But Ráby did not mean to let himself be dismissed in this fashion.

"I too, am your Excellency's very humble servant," he answered. "But I have a special mission to your Excellency which concerns both of us: my duty is to speak, as it is likewise to present you with the imperial warrant."

The determined tone of the speaker levelled at once all distinctions of age and rank. His Excellency vainly took refuge in walking up and down the room, for Ráby kept pace with him, and he poured forth his whole story into his ear, for he was determined that in such a high quarter, the right side should be known.

When he had finished his explanations, he raised his cocked hat with an elaborate bow, bent his knee ceremoniously to the proper degree, and withdrew, with the three paces prescribed by correct etiquette, to the door.

Mathias Ráby now hastened to the dwelling of the district commissioner, who lived alone in an old house at Buda. Before it stood a sentry, and at the entrance was also a porter who rang the bell if a visitor came in a sedan-chair—the favourite means of locomotion. You could, if you wished, have a carriage, but it was not so comfortable. Nor was it advisable to go on foot, for in the covered ways which led round the water-city, it was dark enough to cause ordinary pedestrians to dread being robbed—as indeed they easily could have been.

Ráby hastened up the steps of the district commissioner's house with renewed confidence, for the commissioner had been one of his Vienna acquaintances, and so when the lackey announced the visitor, ordered Ráby to be admitted at once, though he had not finished his toilet.

At that epoch, dress was no light matter even for a man. The friseur was occupied in shaving his client; then from one box he took out some white cosmetic, from another some red colouring, to apply them to the proper place on the cheeks, for, at that era, not only women, but also men of fashion painted their faces. Then the eyebrows were darkened, and blue streaks were faintly outlined on the temples with a paint-brush dipped in ultramarine; finally, a patch was applied with artful dexterity on the right spot above the reddened lips. Only when all this was done, could the final operation be carried out—that of powdering the curled and twisted hair, the patient holding meanwhile a kind of paper bag before his face, whilst the barber powdered the coiffure with a large brush.

"How are you, my friend?" was his host's greeting, as Ráby entered. "I'll be done in a few minutes; meanwhile, sit down and read."

On the writing-table, to which he motioned Ráby, lay some of the latest pamphlets and pasquinades of the moment, mostly directed against the Emperor.

Ráby turned them over. "I've seen these before," he remarked.

"And is not his Majesty very angry at them?" asked the commissioner.

"Not a bit of it; he sends for the pamphlets, and not only does he make me read them to him, but he is heartily amused."

"Otherwise the author might find himself fastened to the wheel, eh!"

"Joseph has thought of a more sensible punishment. A writer sold his pasquinades at thirty kreutzers apiece, and built a house with his profits. But recently the Kaiser, as soon as one of these productions appeared, had it reprinted and sold for eight kreutzers. The result was that the writer had the whole edition left on his hands, while everyone bought that issued by the Kaiser. The proceeds were given to charity."

"Not a very seemly trade for an Emperor, eh? It were far more becoming to a prince to have the fellow's head off."

"Yes, the Kaiser has distinctly plebeian ideas, it must be owned."

"What too did he mean by putting in the pillory an officer of the Guard? Only think of it, just for misappropriating from the treasury sixty-six thousand gulden. And it was only to build an alchymist's laboratory. Could he help it because it turned out a failure?"

"Ah, well, now the ice is broken."

Meantime the friseur had finished his work and gone, so it was easy for Ráby to broach his errand, with such an opening:

"The Emperor visits with extreme severity the embezzlement of public funds; it is for this very purpose that he has sent me to bring to light certain abuses connected with the Szent-Endre municipality."

"I know, I know," said his Excellency, as he poured some eau de Cologne over his hands, "it has come to my ears. But you will be a long time finding your way out of that tangle, once you get into it; let me warn you. By the way, is there a new opera company at the Vienna theatre?"

"Ah, my good friend, I've no time to run after plays and players. I've dramas of my own to look after, and they deal with the picking of other people's pockets."

"The deuce take your dramas! Does one still see pretty women at Vienna? Where do you have your evening gatherings during the winter?"

"We go to 'The Good Woman.' The sign-board is a woman without a head."

"What does the hostess say to that, pray?"

"I shall have no chance of asking her, seeing that I shall spend the winter here, and pass my time in verifying accounts."

"Stuff and nonsense! Cut it short, sir, and get back to Vienna as soon as you can. Say you have found nothing. By the way, have you been in Pozsony? They say they pay their theatrical companies far better than we do; isn't it a shame?"

"May I venture to ask if his Excellency will deign to listen to my representations about the Szent-Endre affair?"

"My dear fellow, just tell me everything. I am wholly at your service. And don't mind my interruptions. I shall hear all. Have the officials really so oppressed the poor? It's unheard-of! And the Rascian 'pope' might well speak out. He's a good sort! Just such another as some of our priests in Vienna. Did you ever hear how—oh, yes, I'm listening right enough. I see quite well that you've discovered some sort of roguery. The story of the hidden coffer sounds just like a play, doesn't it? 'The Hidden Treasure,' or 'The Forty Thieves.' Go on! I declare that notary ought to be placed in Dante's Inferno. What was that celebrated forgery case, by the way, when some count or other, of high family, was put in prison surely? You can't be too severe with that kind of thing. Yes, the small fry, like your notary, don't get out of the net, but the man with a handle to his name, gets clean off! We ought to make some examples in high places."

Ráby longed to express to his Excellency his conviction that the Szent-Endre culprits would also elude justice; but it seemed wiser to be silent till his loquacious friend had had his say.

And now indeed the district commissioner, who was really a good sort of fellow, showed that he had quite understood the whole business.

"You leave it to me, my friend; I'll follow it up. You may reckon on my help. If the councillors show themselves recalcitrant, we will know how to make them dance! But now it's time for the theatre, my friend. What do you say to coming with me? I have a box. You will be able to see all the pretty girls of Pesth and Buda together."

"Much beholden to you, but I regret I can't take advantage of your offer," answered Ráby; "I must hasten homewards to send in my report to the Emperor."

"Oh, what's the good of drawing up reports? Take my advice and don't send him any. And if you won't come to the theatre with me, then come and dine to-morrow and we can talk things over."

But Ráby went home to draw up his report.

Meantime, the lord-lieutenant was demanding of his secretary:

"Which is the Statute that treats of nobilis cum rusticis tumultuans?"

The secretary was a walking legal code. He not only knew that the law in question was article thirty-three, of the year 1514, but could quote the passage word for word: "Noblemen who take part in any risings of the peasantry shall be banished, and shall forfeit the whole of their estates."

His Excellency uttered a growl of discontent; evidently the citation was not an apt one.

"What about that other statute of Nota Conjurationis?"

"Article forty of 1536 pronounces sedition to be high-treason. See Nota Infidelitatis."

His Excellency shook his head.

"And that of Calumniator Consiliariorum?"

"Article of the year 1588 runs as follows:—Whosoever shall calumniate and unjustly attaint any of the Empire's councillors, shall be condemned to lose his head and forfeit all his goods."

"That is better. You can go."

The speaker was obviously contented this time.

But immediately afterwards he recalled the secretary.

"Which article is it that treats of the Portatores Causarum?"

"Article sixty-three, of the year 1498. Whosoever shall bring his cause before a tribunal other than that of his own country, shall be arrested and imprisoned in the Dark Tower."

"Now you can retire."

His worship, the district commissioner, who during Ráby's relation had appeared to pay not the slightest attention to the Szent-Endre story, had no sooner got to his box at the theatre, than he sent immediately for pen, ink, and paper, and, quite oblivious of the play, hurriedly drew up a missive to the prefect, wherein he set forth Mathias Ráby's mission, and how he had been directly authorised by the Emperor to revise the finances, pointing out that he was well informed as to everything, even to the contents of the strong box. He would further suggest that it would be wise for the prefect to go and look into things for himself, otherwise disagreeable consequences might ensue.

This note he sent by a special messenger to ensure its speedy delivery.

Tárhalmy's heyduke came back late in the evening with Ráby's refusal. He could not come, because he was already pledged to dine with the district commissioner.

"You need not trouble about the almond-cakes, Mariska," said the pronotary to his daughter, "Cousin Matyi will not be with us to-morrow, he is flying higher game."

And all at once the sound of singing ceased in the house.

CHAPTER XII.

On the day of his return, two well-known citizens appeared at his door with a smart coach and four beautiful horses. One of them was Mr. Peter Paprika; in former times he had himself fulfilled a term of office as magistrate six years, so he understood the situation. The two had come to wish Mr. Ráby good day, Peter Paprika adding that, as his worship must have so many journeys to make in so many different directions, he was sure he could not exist without a carriage and horses. For Ráby, moreover, the price of the whole equipage, including horses, would only be forty gulden! Nor need he be surprised at this abnormally cheap price, for they were not stolen. The four horses were from the stud of the State, the carriage was the best the local builder could turn out.

Mathias Ráby thanked them for the offer, but refused to buy the equipage, even at this price.

However, they still pressed their bid, adding that fodder for the horses would be provided gratis, whereupon Ráby told them point blank that their bribes would not in the least avail to turn him from his purpose.

Mr. Paprika returned dejectedly to the town council where his colleagues waited to learn the result of his mission.

"I'm afraid," he announced to his fellow-councillors, "it won't avail us to dip in the little chest for this. We have a difficult customer to deal with. We must dive into the big one."

They talked the matter over, and determined that if necessary, they would sacrifice half the common wealth, and for this, bleed the treasure itself, to such an end. And Peter Paprika was entrusted to find out a new opportunity for proffering the bribe.

So the next day they sought out Ráby, and put the whole thing before him. They hinted broadly enough that you did not muzzle the ox that trod out the corn, and that he who cut up a goose was justified in keeping the best bit for himself, and other like arguments, and finally laid on his table the sum of three thousand ducats.

Even to-day three thousand ducats are not a sum to be despised: in those days, indeed, they represented a respectable fortune. But Ráby nearly drubbed the envoy who brought them out of the room. He was righteously indignant, and angrily showed the messenger the door.

"I never saw a man so angry," growled Peter Paprika, "I've heard men often enough refuse money in so many words, but they contrived to pocket the ducats discreetly, directly they have the chance." So they thought it might happen this time. A week elapsed, and people already began to smile knowingly at Ráby when they met him in the street, saying to themselves, "He only wants a little bigger net, but he'll be caught in the end."

How greatly was popular opinion disconcerted, when in all the churches the following Sunday, a "command" from the Emperor was read to the effect "that the three thousand ducats which the worshipful town council had given to Mr. Mathias Ráby for benevolent purposes, were to be divided among the inhabitants whose homes the preceding year had been destroyed by fire, and that each one would receive seventy-five gulden apiece."

What a procession it was that took its way to Ráby's house. The unfortunate victims of the conflagration came with their children and chattels to thank their benefactor and to kiss his hand. The homes of many of them had still to be made good, and the help could not have come at a more seasonable time. But it set the officials against Ráby. They could not tell the recipients of this bounty what had really happened. But the latter guessed immediately that the town council had given Mr. Ráby three thousand ducats, not for any charitable ends, but in order to bribe him, and that he was making over to them these ill-gotten gains. Well might the poor regard him as their deliverer!

Nevertheless, the councillors began to shake in their shoes. Judge, notary, and old Paprika hastened to the prefect, and announced with anxiety and horror that a dragon had been set on to them, who would not be pacified with the treasure itself.

"Well, we'll just fetch out a bigger one still to satisfy him."

What that greater treasure was, we shall in the course of events now learn.

CHAPTER XIII.

As it was so great an official gathering, he put on his Viennese dress, and arrived at the prefecture by twelve o'clock, the hour appointed.

He was received by a lordly looking lackey, who discreetly gave him to understand that he was somewhat early, that the gentry were still in council, but that till dinner-time, he might, if he would, go into the garden where he would find Mademoiselle, the prefect's niece.

Ráby instantly conceived a high opinion of the lady of the house, who, thus immediately preceding a great banquet, could find leisure to walk in the garden. She could not be wholly wrapped up in her housewifery.

But how find a garden he had never seen and seek out a lady who was a complete stranger to him? However, help was nigh. Just as if it had scented him, a black poodle came running down the corridor wagging his tail, as welcoming the guest, and finally took the end of Ráby's cane between his teeth and drew him to the door that led into the garden. Ráby, seeing the dog wanted to play with the cane, let him have it, whereupon the cunning little beast seized it in the middle and preceded Ráby down the garden path where Fräulein Fruzsinka was to be found. The garden was laid out in the prevalent mode, in a maze composed of trees, among which one had vainly sought for an outlet. There, indeed, Ráby had never found the lady on his own account, for she had ensconced herself in the innermost recess and was reading, seated on the mossy bank.

She was no longer the Hungarian amazon who had worn the riding gear we met her in, earlier in this story. She was now the Viennese "élégante," whose toilette proclaimed her the lady of fashion, with her walking-stick, her elaborate coiffure, and lace ruffles, all irreproachably correct. Nor were cosmetics and patches wanting that the mode demanded, and she answered Ráby's greeting with the prescribed German formula: "Your servant, sir."

The poodle broke the ice, by running up with his cane and laying it at his mistress' feet.

But Fräulein Fruzsinka picked it up gently and gave it back to Ráby. She held a richly bound book, Wieland's "Oberon," which she showed to her guest.

Now with ladies who read Wieland you can talk of something else besides ordinary themes. And in the first quarter of an hour of his conversation with her, Mathias Ráby discovered that his hostess was a highly cultivated woman who could discuss the French philosophers as an ordinary provincial belle might the latest fashion in head dresses, and speak German fluently.

And her eyes, how marvellous they were!

They came out of the maze pursuing the talk on literature, and bent their steps towards the flower garden. Passing the flower-beds, Fräulein Fruzsinka betrayed also her knowledge of that "language of flowers" which just then was the rage in Vienna. The young lady broke off a twig of evergreen, and gave it to Ráby, who well recollected the couplet which set forth its symbolism: