When King Matthias read this letter, he laughed aloud, well pleased.

"See," said he, showing the letter to those who were standing near him. "This was a ragged beggar lad—perhaps by this time I should have had to have him hanged. As it is, I have gained a man in him.—Zokoly," said he to the young knight who was just then with him, "fetch the boy here; and if he is up to the mark, put him into a coat of mail and then bring him to me. But I will answer his letter first, for he might abuse my father and mother for my bad manners if I were to leave it unnoticed."

The king wrote as follows:—

No first fiddle, no Palatine even, in all this wide world could think himself a greater man than Michael did when the king's letter, written with his own hand, was given to him.

He threw himself into the governor's arms in a transport of joy, and then, when he had made himself clean and tidy and put on his best clothes—well, then, there was no keeping him. He would neither eat nor drink, and in a little while he was off, riding one of the horses and leading the other; and as he went he said, "God keep King Matthias!" repeating the words over and over again. "Let him only get into some great trouble one day, just to let me show that there is a grateful heart under this smart dolmány."

When Zokoly presented the lad to the king clad in the stern, manly garb of the Black Legion—wearing, that is to say, a network coat of black mail, with a heavy sword by his side, and a round helmet on his head—Matthias was quite surprised.

The king, as has been said, possessed the rare gift of being able to read men, and seldom made a mistake in his choice of those whom he took into his service. And now as he cast a searching glance at the boy's noble countenance, and noticed the open, honourable expression of his piercing eyes, and above all the broad forehead which was so full of promise, the great king—for great he was, though not yet at the pinnacle of his greatness—the great king felt almost ashamed to see the lad standing before him in the garb of a common soldier, as if he were merely one of the ordinary rank and file. The jest with which he had been about to receive him died away unuttered on his lips. But he welcomed his man good-naturedly, and said,—

"Michael Tornay, from this day forth you are ennobled. I will give you the parchment to-morrow, and I will make a landed proprietor of you."

The lad believed in King Matthias as if he had been some altogether superior being; he was ardently, passionately attached to him, but he said nothing.

To tell the truth, he felt more confused than grateful; for the new-made noble, the private of the Black Legion, had just so much delicacy of feeling that he was much more flattered by the king's treating him seriously than he would have been by jests and teasing.

For the moment he could not get out a word. There was a mist before his eyes; and after a long pause—for the king himself was touched by the effect of his words—the young man came to himself, and dropping upon one knee said, "Your Highness has made a man of me, and I trust in God that you will never, never repent it!" Few and simple words, but the king was so well pleased with them, and so confirmed in his previous opinion, that at that moment he would have dared to trust the boy with the command of the castle of Visegrád.

A week later, after a battle in which Michael had taken part, Matthias made the boy an officer in the famous Black or Death Legion—so called from the colour of its armour and the skull-like shape of its helmets—which was under the command of the king himself.

CHAPTER VII.
SENT TO PRISON.

Michael had distinguished himself more than once for his courage, and for a daring which amounted at times to actual foolhardiness, and now he had outdone his previous exploits by the gallant rescue from extreme peril of General Rozgonyi.

The general was cut off from his men, and absolutely alone in the midst of a band of Turks, when Michael made a bold dash into their midst, scattering them right and left, and succeeded in extricating himself and Rozgonyi from their clutches.

It was a bold exploit and a rash one—madly rash, indeed—but it was successful; and as Michael rode back to his men, wounded, but not seriously so, he was received with loud applause; and perhaps, if the truth must be told, he felt himself something of a hero.

But the king, who had watched him with much anxiety, was considerably provoked; and when the battle was over, he summoned him to his tent, where Michael found him sitting alone and looking very much more grave than was his wont.

He raised his eyes when Michael entered, but his voice sounded stern, and instead of saying "thou" to him as he usually did, he addressed him quite formally.

"Mr. Tornay," said he, "you have been behaving like a madman, like a common soldier whose horse has such a hard mouth that he can't control it; or—you must have been pouring more wine down your throat than you ought to have done."

King Matthias had a great horror of drunkards, and did his best to stop all excessive drinking in the army and elsewhere.

But Michael was utterly taken aback. He had been a good deal flattered and complimented, and had quite expected that the king was going to thank him for saving the general's life, or at least would show that he was well pleased with him, and give him a few of those words of approval which he valued above everything. To be received in this way was rather crushing.

"Sir—Your Highness," he stammered, in great surprise, "I was only doing my duty."

"That is precisely the very thing you were not doing," said the king with some warmth, his large dark eyes flashing as he spoke. "You are a general; you were in command, and you left your troops in the lurch, as St. Paul left the Wallachians.[10] You rushed among the Turkish spahis entirely alone, and to what, as far as you could tell, was certain death, like a man who was weary of his life, his king, and his duty. You ought to be ashamed of yourself; and understand that what may be meritorious in a private is worse than cowardice in the officers."

Tornay was so thunderstruck that he could not find words to defend himself.

"Speak!" said Matthias, in a tone of displeasure. "We wish to hear what you have to say in your defence; it is not our custom to punish any one without hearing him."

"Sir—Your Highness," said Tornay, with gentle deference, but with the manner of one who has an easy conscience, "I did not think I was guilty of cowardice in going to the rescue of one of your best generals!"

"God be thanked that you were successful!" said the king, "but it is more than you had any right to expect. The fact is that it was vanity which led you to risk your head in an experiment which was not merely hazardous, but so desperate that there was hardly the remotest reasonable hope of success; and vanity under such circumstances is cowardice. I honour courage; as for insane foolhardiness, it belongs not to the knight but to the highwayman."

Tornay listened abashed, and though much hurt he felt that Matthias was right.

"I should have a great mind to punish you," the king went on, "but that one of my best generals owes his life to your folly, so for his sake I pardon you."

"What can I do?" said the young man in a low voice—"what can I do to regain Your Highness's favour? I can't live if I know that Your Highness is angry with me—me who owe everything, all that I am, to you."

"Always be on your guard, my little brother," said the king; and now, seeing how distressed he was, and wishing to comfort him, he spoke in the kind, pleasant voice which won all hearts. "Do only what you can give a right and satisfactory reason for, and then you will never miss the mark."

So Michael went back to his quarters comforted, and promising himself to lay the king's simple advice well to heart.

There was a grand banquet at the court that night, and many of the great nobles were present; but Miska did not venture to show himself, though when once the king had given a reprimand and made the delinquent understand what he thought of his conduct, his anger was over and done with, and he spoke in his usual kindly way again. Miska thought, however, that by thus punishing himself he should soften him.

After all, as he reflected, the king was right: it was the thought of making a soldier's name for himself which had led him to run into such obvious danger. And yet he had a reason to give for what he had done—a good reason too, he had thought; for he had considered that his life belonged to the king, who had given him his career and all that made his life of any importance. And so he had resolved with himself never to trouble his head about risk and danger, when he had an opportunity of proving his fidelity to the king.

But now, as he turned over in his mind the advice which the king had given him, he began to see things a little differently.

"My life belongs to the king, it is true," thought he, "and I must be ready to sacrifice it whenever there is any reason to do so; but just because my life is the king's, I have no right to throw it away."

From that time Tornay tried to make himself more and more useful to the king, by learning all that he could of his profession.

The courage of a private was not enough—it was not what was wanted of him, now that he was an officer in command; and he felt that the courage which made a man strive to acquire the knowledge necessary to those in his own position—generals and commanders, that is to say—was courage of a higher, nobler sort than that which led to deeds of mere daring. Of course the courage of the private was also needful—quite indispensable, indeed, in every soldier, officer or not, who must always be ready to sacrifice his life if need be; but he strove to acquire besides the cool courage which does not let itself be carried away by excitement, which can listen to the sound of the trumpets and the din of battle without being intoxicated, which remains calm and collected, retains its presence of mind, and is capable of seeing and hearing, and, above all, of thinking for others, even when the issue looks most doubtful.

For a general has to remember that he is not merely an individual; he is that, of course, but he is a great deal more—he is the head of a body which depends upon him for guidance. He must not play only his own game, or be thinking only or chiefly of the bold, brave deeds he can do on his own account; he must practise the most stern self-restraint. And he must not think of gratifying his own vanity or desire of distinguishing himself; he must think of those under his command—he must be unselfish.

Hitherto, Michael's one thought when he went into battle had been the enemy, and how much damage he could do him. He had eyes for nothing else, and he was eager to give proof of his own personal valour; but now he began to accustom himself to resist this consuming thirst for action, and to restrain his longing to rush madly into the fight, for he was learning that he must not think only of himself.

When the army was drawn up in battle array, fronting the enemy and all ready for action, the young soldier would begin to ask himself what he should do if the king were presently to give orders, as he might some day, that he, Michael, was to take the chief command and lead the army to battle.

And then his blood would boil, his eyes would flash, and he felt an almost irresistible longing to dash forward and do some valiant deed. But now he controlled and recovered himself, and repeating to himself the king's words, would say, "Now, Mihály, how could you do such a thing? what reason could you give for it?"

He began to scrutinize the ranks of the enemy in a much more scientific way, reminding himself that he was not now a private, or even a subaltern officer, in the Black Legion, but a general, whose duty it was to think, not of bold ventures, but of sober plans. This gave quite another turn to his mind, and he felt how much higher and fairer a thing it was to think of others and direct others, and to keep one's presence of mind intact and one's blood cool, when youthful zeal made others lose their heads.

So thinking to himself one day, as he and the men under his command stood facing the enemy, waiting for the signal to advance, he was keeping his eyes upon the opposite ranks, when all at once he observed something that till now had escaped his notice.

"The enemy is remarkably weak in the left wing yonder," he reflected, "and there is a long marsh just in front; I don't think I should be afraid of being attacked from that quarter. If I were in command," he went on, "I would order one division to advance in that direction and outflank the enemy. This would throw him into confusion. Then I would send part of the cavalry forward, and while the enemy's attention was engaged by the sudden attack on his wing, I would fall upon his centre with my whole force."

"Really," the young officer said to himself, "I should like to tell His Highness what I think."

Michael scribbled something in pencil upon a scrap of paper, and sent one of the Black Knights off with it to the king, who was inspecting the ranks, and was now riding down the left wing of the army, surrounded by a brilliant staff, himself more simply attired than any of those about him.

The king read over the crooked lines with not a little astonishment, and for a moment his face flamed.

Then he cried out in lively tones, "Upon my word, advice is becoming from a twenty-years-old general! This man will be somebody one of these days."

Then on the margin of the paper he wrote just these two words—"Do it!"

The battle was over and won, and a fortnight later Tornay Mihály was one of the king's lieutenant-generals.

Matthias had by this time grown extremely fond of the young man. Michael was always so vigilantly on the alert, so blindly devoted to him, and so quick in his ways, that the king had no misgivings about any commission which he entrusted to him. It was certain to be done, and done well. But this was not all. He was pleased, too, with the young man's evident gratitude and nobility of character—though not as much surprised as some others, who fancied that such things were not to be looked for in a beggar lad; for the king could read faces, and he had long since made up his mind about Michael.

In those days there were two bastions on the walls of the castle of Buda, towards Zugliget. They were used as magazines, but in case of a siege—which at that time Buda had little cause to dread—they would be garrisoned with soldiers, and were therefore already provided with guns.

These two bastions, one of which remains, though in an altered form, to the present day, were about a couple of fathoms apart; and now the king gave orders that both were to be set in order and made fit for dwelling-houses.

There was no opening on three of the sides, with the exception of some small windows high up, which let in the light, but would give the intended inmates no outlook; but on the fourth side, where the bastions faced each other, there were four long, narrow windows in each, guarded by strong iron bars.

The king was just now staying in Buda, and had given Michael command of part of the castle garrison; and he was so well satisfied with the way in which he discharged his duties, that hardly a week passed without his giving him some fresh mark of his favour.

As for Michael's passionate attachment to the king, it increased daily; every hint from him was a command, and he was always on the watch to try to interpret his wishes before they were put into words.

One morning he was summoned to the king's presence.

"Michael," said the king, in a good-humoured tone, "I am angry with you, and I am going to punish you."

"How have I been so unfortunate as to deserve the anger of the best of kings and masters?" asked the young man.

"Well, what do you think?" Matthias went on, laughing. "Am I very angry, and am I going to pass a severe sentence?"

"Mr. King," answered Tornay, who saw at once that Matthias was in high good-humour, "I think Your Highness has got hold of your anger by the small end this time, and perhaps you won't go quite so far as to have my head cut off."

"Your head may possibly be allowed to remain in its accustomed place," said the king jestingly. "However, it is not necessary that you should know which part of your person I have sentenced to punishment; it is enough, gossip, that you are to expiate your offence, and that to begin with I am going to send you to prison."

"Perhaps Your Highness is going to entrust me with the command of some abandoned wooden castle?"[11] said Michael.

"No," said the king; "you have not found it out this time. I have got other quarters for you."

"Very well, as Your Highness wills; but you won't get much good out of me if I am in prison."

"Listen. You can see the two bastions yonder on the Mount St. Gellert side of the castle. I have had them put in order, and you are to live in one of them."

Tornay listened, but he could not make it out at all. He saw the two bastions sure enough, and as they did not now look at all gloomy or prison-like, he was not alarmed at the idea of living in one of them; but he could not by any means conceive what the king's object could be.

"You are surprised," said the king, "aren't you? But the prison is tolerable enough. You will have four small rooms; and as for the look-out, well, I think you will be content with it; and then you will be your own jailer, so you need have no fear as to the strictness of the discipline. In a word, you are to move into your new quarters this very day."

Tornay retired; but on his way he racked his brains to discover why the king could want him to move into the bastion. What reason could he have? If he was his own jailer, and could go in and out as he pleased, it was not a prison, simply different quarters, and better, at all events, than those he had had before; for he had been living in a very poor apartment of the castle, looking into a by-street.

"Well," thought he, "what do I know as to the king's motives? Who can ever tell what he has in his head? He wishes me to live there—good! then that's enough, and there I will live."

So Tornay took possession of one of the bastions facing Pesth, and was very well satisfied indeed with his new quarters, which the king had had plainly but comfortably enough furnished. Perhaps the king had placed him there only as an excuse for making him more presents.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BEGGAR BOY'S SONG.

Being in Buda, with a little time on his hands, gave him a capital opportunity of improving himself; for he had become acquainted with the king's great friend the librarian Galeotti, and through him he now made acquaintance with the famous library which Matthias was then forming under the direction of Galeotti and his fellow-worker Ugoletti.

The library was in the castle, and consisted of two great halls, in which, by the end of his life, the king had collected above fifty thousand volumes. He was constantly buying up valuable manuscripts in Italy, Constantinople, and Asia; and he kept a number of men constantly employed in copying—four in Florence and thirty in Buda.

The manuscripts were many of them beautifully illuminated and adorned with tasteful initials and pictures, and frequently with likenesses of the king and his wife, so that they were valuable as works of art.

The art of printing, too, had been lately introduced, and the printing-press was kept constantly at work adding to the contents of the polished cedar-wood book-shelves, which were protected by silken, gold-embroidered curtains: for Matthias treated his books royally and as if he loved them.

Besides books, the two halls contained three hundred statues, some ancient and some modern; and in the vestibule were astronomical and mathematical instruments, with a large celestial globe in the centre supported by two genii.

Michael had abundant opportunities of study, and knew that he could not please the king better than by availing himself of them. The Italian which he had learned from the grooms at Visegrád he now found most useful, as it enabled him to talk to the various artists, sculptors, musicians, and other distinguished men from Italy, whom the king loved to have about him.

The two librarians of course he knew well; then there was the great painter Filippo Lippi, and the Florentine architect Averulino, by whom the royal palaces both in Buda and Visegrád were beautified and enlarged. Carbo of Ferrara was writing a dialogue, in which he sang the praises of King Matthias; Galeotti was busy with a book of entertaining stories, full of anecdotes and sayings of the king, to which Michael certainly might have contributed much that was interesting; Bonfinius of Ascoli, reader to the queen, was engaged upon his History of Hungary; and various Hungarian authors were composing their chronicles and writing legends and poetry in Latin—that being still the language of the learned throughout Europe.

From the windows of his "prison" Michael had no view, as has been said, except of the other bastion, which was not particularly interesting, as it was uninhabited, so that he was not tempted to waste any time in looking out of the window. But he had only to go into the palace gardens when he wanted to get away from his books and rest his eyes and brain; and these covered a great deal of ground, extending indeed as far as to the neighbouring hills, then still covered with forests, where the king, who was an ardent sportsman, often went hunting.

Michael was sitting in the window one morning to eat his breakfast, when he chanced to look across to the opposite window, and saw, to his great surprise, that there was some one there, or at least he fancied that he saw some one, but the glimpse was so momentary that he could not be sure.

When one has nothing at all to look at, very small trifles become quite important; and the idea that he might have, or be going to have, neighbours was quite exciting. Certainly the king had said something about it, but hitherto he had seen no one.

In a fit of curiosity, Michael opened the window and looked out from time to time while he went on with his meal. Once he thought he saw some one flit past it again; but he had to hurry off to his military duties before he could make out whether the rooms were really occupied or not.

When he came back, the very first thing he did was to go up to the window again; and at last his curiosity was gratified, at least to some extent, for two persons were there—two women, one seated at a little embroidery-frame, and the other standing over her, looking at her work. Their faces were hidden from him at first, but from their dress and figures he could see that one was elderly and the other quite young. Presently the younger one raised her head from her work and looked up, and from the momentary glance which he had of her features, Michael fancied that he had seen her before somewhere or other. He could not for the moment think where it could have been, for it was the merest glimpse he had of her face before she looked down again.

He must not be so rude as to watch; but he could not resist an occasional glance as long as they were there. In another quarter of an hour, however, both figures had disappeared, and Michael saw no more of them. But the discovery that he had neighbours was quite exciting, and he was so much interested that he shook his head with some impatience when he found the window deserted in the afternoon. Till this event occurred, Michael had been in the habit of spending as short a time as possible within doors, and was most eager to mount his horse as soon as ever he had finished the work which he had set himself for the day. But now he was so consumed with curiosity that he actually kept his steed waiting a whole quarter of an hour later than usual, while he watched for the reappearance of the ladies.

But it was all to no purpose. For a moment he caught sight of a white hand raised, either to fasten the window or to point to something, but the next instant this too had disappeared. He was on the watch again when he returned home, taking care, however, to stand or sit where he could not be seen; and the next day and the next it was the same. He spent so much time in watching, indeed, that he got quite angry with himself at last; and then he would go out riding, and come back quite vexed and out of sorts.

"Bother it all!" he thought to himself; "of course I shall see her again sooner or later if she is there."

He was standing in his usual place again one evening, when he saw two shadows move away from the opposite window in the most tantalizing manner, and he felt so hopeful that he sat down to watch at his ease. If tobacco had been known in those days, no doubt he would have lighted his pipe or a cigar; but as it was not, he had nothing to console himself with, and could only sit and "look for King David and his harp" in the moon, as the saying is.

All at once he fancied that he really did hear him playing his harp in his silver palace. There were sounds of some sort—soft, sweet sounds, which came floating towards him on the air; and he thought to himself that he had surely heard the plaintive melody with its vibrating chords somewhere before.

"To be sure! I have got it!" he said to himself. "I know now where! But, of course, others might know the air.—Eh! what's that, though?" he exclaimed, as a sweet, young, bell-like voice now began to accompany the instrument, and he heard one of the very songs which he had himself composed in the days which now seemed so long ago.

That Miska the beggar boy should be a popular poet will astonish no one who knows how many of the popular songs of Hungary have had their origin in the humble cottages of the peasantry, in the course of past centuries. Every village has its poet, who is also frequently a musical composer as well. He sings his songs at the village merry-makings to airs of his own invention, and the gipsies, who are always present on such occasions to play for the dancers, accompany him on their fiddles. If they take a fancy to the air, they will remember it, and invent variations to it, and in this way it will be preserved and become part of their stock.

sang Michael's opposite neighbour, in a voice of great beauty and sweetness.

"It's Esther! it must be Esther!" cried the young man, starting to his feet in great excitement. "Esther!" he said, and a flush mounted to his face; "but here, here, actually here, opposite me? Impossible! I must see her and make sure. No one could know that song, though, but herself; I made it for her, and no one else ever had it, at least from me."

Often and often Michael had wondered what had become of his little friend and the other inhabitants of the castle; but whenever he had ventured to hint an inquiry as to Mr. Samson's fate, or had tried to find out anything about the rest, the king had turned the subject, and avoided giving him any direct answer. Of course it was out of the question to press the matter, so that he had known positively nothing of what had happened ever since the eventful night when he had left the castle. But though his life had been a very busy one, and many fresh new interests had come into it, he had never forgotten the one pleasant acquaintance whom he had made in Mr. Samson's grim castle. He walked across towards the window now full of eagerness; but the singer, whose voice he thought he recognized, was sitting in such a provoking way that he could not see her face, and he had been careful to manage so that she should not see him either. Presently he stopped, with his foot on the window-sill, and then took another step forward, which apparently startled the singer, for the song ceased abruptly, and a rather frightened face looked up at him.

"It is you!" cried the young officer, in impetuous delight; and "Is it you?" said the girl, more quietly, but with a flush of pleasure.

"Well, did ever one see!" exclaimed a sharp voice behind Esther. "Jancsi! [Johnnie!] how ever did you get here?"

"It is I indeed, my little demoiselle," said Michael, in the utmost surprise. "But I am quite bewildered. How did you come here?"

"Did not you know that the king had sent for me here to Buda?"

"The king!" said the young man, and a shadow crossed his face; "when? what for?—and have you seen the king?"

"Three questions at once," said Esther, laughing. "Well, really I don't know anything more than that we came here under the escort of an old gentleman whom I don't know; and the king quartered us here, where we have been now three days, but I have not yet seen His Highness. God bless him! for I am as free here, and as happy," she went on, blushing still more, "as if I had been born again. But come in; why do you stand there in the window? We are neighbours, you know, as we used to be, and neighbours ought to be on good terms with one another."

Michael felt as if he were dreaming, but naturally he did not wait to be asked twice; and the old woman, who had shown a marked liking for him before while he was in Samson's castle, welcomed him now with the greatest cordiality.

"Why, Jancsi, stay a bit," said she, "and let me look at you! Why, what a smart lad you have turned into, to be sure! What fine buttons you have on your dolmány! and—well, I declare, you have a watch too! 'Your lentils must have sold' uncommonly well in the time; and just tell us now how you came to 'climb the cucumber-tree' so quickly, will you?"[12]

"Ah, auntie, that would take a long time to tell; but we'll have it another time. All I can tell you now is that I owe everything to the good king, and I would go through the fire for him; for my whole life, every moment of it, belongs to him."

Then in a few words he told them his history since the time when he had left the castle with Samson, and had so given Esther some hope of release.

"It is strange," said Esther thoughtfully, "that the king should have put us here opposite one another, and should have had these gloomy bastions put in order and made so habitable just for us."

"Very," said Michael. "I am surprised myself, and I don't understand it, especially as the king asked me yesterday, laughing, whether I had yet made acquaintance with my neighbour? But what is the good of troubling one's head about it? I am heartily glad, anyway; and you, Esther, are you pleased too? tell me."

The girl blushed a little, and giving Michael her hand, said: "Why shouldn't I be glad? I am sure I could not have come across a better neighbour, and it is to you most certainly that I owe my freedom."

The young officer sighed. "Indirectly, yes," he said; and then in a lower tone he added, "And the king might have entrusted you to my charge; I might have had the pleasure of bringing you here. However, when I had captured Mr. Samson, before I came back to the king, I showed the way in and out of the castle to the Jew whom Mr. Samson had intended to relieve of his pack, so it was easy enough then to get in and take possession."

"Of course," said Esther, "it did not need any very great valour to steal in at midnight and seize the place."

"And what has become of Mr. Samson? the king has never told me a word more about him."

"What has become of him? I should think he was safe in one of the king's prisons."

"Dear Esther, do tell me what happened; I am burning to know how it all came about."

"Well, when a few weeks had passed and Mr. Samson did not come home, we all began to think that something had happened to him, and that he had perished for good and all. And then one midnight we heard a great noise of shouting and the clash of arms, and then Mr. Rozgonyi came and mentioned your name, and I let him into my room. For I was so frightened, not knowing what was going on, that I had treble-bolted the door and put the bar up; but when I heard your name, of course I knew it was all right, and I opened it at once."

"And what of the castle?"

"Mr. Rozgonyi did not allow much time for questions. He just said that he had brought some stone-masons with him; and apparently they had come to pull down and not to build, at least in the first place, for he wound up by saying that the king was going to have the stones used to build a church and monastery in the nearest village. There would be enough for three, I should think!"

"And did Miss Esther ever think of the poor beggar boy?"

"To be sure! But I thought more of the valiant Alpári János [John], who was so brave as to come into Mr. Samson's hiding-place, and then so clever as to get the wicked tyrant into his hands. But, Sir Knight, I felt afraid of you too, and I must confess that I am rather afraid of you still. For—you are certainly very clever at pretending and making believe to be what you are not; and when one finds it all out, how is one to believe anything you may say?"

"Good Esther!" said Michael, looking a little shamefaced, "but didn't I keep my promise to you? I said you should be released, and you were."

"True," admitted Esther.

"And if I acted the part of a dissembler with Mr. Samson, I was not my own master, you know; I belonged to the king, and was obeying his orders, not following my own fancies and wishes. But as regards yourself, I have never dissembled at all, from the time when first I began to make your acquaintance, and it rests with you to put my sincerity to the test."

"How do you mean? But I see we have been chattering away a long time.—Euphrosyne, light the candles.—And you, sir, must go, if you please; we have talked enough for to-day."

But though Esther dismissed him now, no day passed after this without his coming to see her; and both she and Euphrosyne seemed to be always glad to see him and to listen to all he had to tell them, first about his own life and adventures, and the king whom he was never tired of extolling, and then about the day's incidents, his work and his studies, and what was going on in Buda; for they lived very quietly, and saw and heard but little of the outside world. Often, too, Esther would bring out her harp and play and sing. Her voice had gained in power and richness during the past two or three years, and she had had some teaching from one of the king's musicians; but nothing pleased Michael so well as to hear her sing the favourite old songs which he remembered of old, except—to hear her sing his own.

CHAPTER IX.
THE KING'S WHIM.

The conversation was less animated than usual this evening: Esther seemed to find a difficulty in talking and she said positively that she could not sing; and Michael was becoming quite uneasy and almost inclined to take his departure, when—whether she felt that she was not wanted or not—something or other made Euphrosyne discover, or perhaps pretend to discover, that she had something to attend to in another room.

Such a thing had never happened before, and Michael seized his opportunity, blessing her in his heart for leaving them to themselves, but fearing she would be back before he had said what he wanted to say.

"Now, Esther," he said persuasively, seating himself on the divan by her side—"now, Esther, tell me what has happened. What is troubling you? you look so sad and out of spirits. What is the matter? I am sure there is something."

"My friend," answered Esther, "I am sad, for I am to leave Buda."

"Why? where are you going?" cried Michael.

"I don't know," said the girl—"I don't know! There! read what he says." And she handed Michael a letter.

"The king's writing!" he exclaimed; and then he read with a beating heart:—

Michael let the letter drop from his hand in dismay, and then exclaimed passionately, "Why, the king placed me here; and, besides, he asked me himself whether I had made acquaintance with my neighbour."

"True," said Esther sadly, "and I told His Highness so myself; but he gave me quite a scolding for letting you come and see me so often."

"What!" cried Michael, surprised and even startled; "the king has been here?"

"He has indeed," said Esther, the tears springing to her eyes. "Yesterday, while you were out riding the beautiful cream-coloured horse with the green silk trappings, the king came. I had never seen him before, but as he closed the door behind him, I knew in a moment that it was the king and no one else. I felt it somehow, I don't know how."

"And what did he say? was he in a good humour?"

"Good? not by any means. He looked at me as fiercely as if I were going to do him I don't know what injury, and yet I pray for him every day, and have never sinned against him so much as in thought."

"Strange!" said Michael. "And this count! The whirlwind take him and all his ancient family pedigree away together! Do you know this count? And is there any count in all the wide world who loves you as well as I do?"

"You?" said Esther, lifting her tearful eyes; "but you see you never told me you did."

"I have told you!" said Michael, impetuously seizing Esther's hand and covering it with kisses; "every word I have uttered has told you so, ever since I first saw you. Ah! you might have understood me, because—I was once a beggar boy, how could I speak more plainly? I have no family pedigree, and I shall never be a Supreme Count," he finished gloomily.

"Is it true?" said Esther, blushing very prettily, but looking several shades less melancholy than before.

"Why shouldn't it be true, my star? Of course it is true! Don't you believe me?" said Michael, drawing her to himself. "But I am the son of poor parents, only a beggar boy, and that abominable count, hang him! may—what was I going to say?—well, anyhow, may the grasshoppers fall upon him!"

"Michael," said Esther, a little shyly, "if you do love me—but understand well, I mean really love me, really and truly—well then, I will just confess that I love you too, with all my heart, truly, as my life. You are more to me than all the counts in the world, for you are my Supreme Count; and even if you can't point to a line of ancestors, what does it signify? Somebody has to make a beginning, and you are making your own name; surely that is a great deal more than merely inheriting it! Besides, your family pedigree is as long as any one's in the world after all; for it reaches back to old Father Adam, and no one can go further."

At that moment Euphrosyne reappeared with the lights; but Michael cared little for her, now that he had found out what he wanted to know. Esther cared for him; what else could possibly matter?

"I must go to the king," said Michael. "He has always been most gracious to me, and why should he want to crush me now, after being the making of me? Why should he make my heart bitter, when it beats true to him and to my love? Don't be sad, my star. I will see him to-morrow, and tell him everything. He is so good, so kind, and so just! and it wouldn't be just to take you away from me, after bringing you here and letting us learn to know one another. If I only knew which count it was! but there are more than fifty. There is not one of them, though, that found you out in Mr. Samson's castle, and you never sang any of their songs, did you now? Did any one ever make songs for you but me?"

"No one! I don't know any count, unless the old gentleman who escorted us was one, and I hardly spoke to him."

But just then they were interrupted, for the door opened, and one of the royal pages stepped in.

"I have been looking for you in your quarters, lieutenant-general," said he; "and as I did not find you at home, it is a good thing you are here. See, this is from the king; please to read it." And he handed a note to Michael, who turned deadly pale as he took it and read as follows:—