CHAPTER XIII.
THE PERSECUTED WOMAN.

This was Mariska's first tidings of the lost battle, and she thanked God for it. What did she care that the battle was lost, that the glory of the Turkish Sultan was cracked beyond repair, so long as her husband remained to her? With him the husbands of all the other poor Wallachian wives were also safe. She at once hastened to tell the more remote of these poor women that they were not to be alarmed if they heard that the Turkish army had been cut down, for their husbands were free and quite near to them.

What joy at the thought of seeing him again! How she watched for her husband from morn till eve, and awoke at night at the slightest noise. If a horse neighed in the street, if she heard a trumpet far away, she fancied that her husband was coming.

One night she was aroused by the sound of a light tapping at her bedroom door, and her husband's voice replied to her question of "Who is there?"

Her surprise and her joy were so great that in the first moment of awaking she knew not what to do, whereupon her husband impatiently repeated:

"Mariska, open the door!"

The wife hastened to embrace her husband, admitted him, fell upon his neck, and covered him with kisses; but, perceiving suddenly that the kisses her husband gave her back were quite cold, and that his arm trembled when he embraced her, she looked anxiously at his face—it was grave and full of anxiety.

"My husband!" cried the unusually sensitive woman with a shaky voice. "Why do you embrace me—us, so coldly," her downcast eyes seemed to say.

The Prince did not fail to notice the expression, and very sadly, and sighing slightly, he said:

"So much the worse for me!"

His hands, his whole frame shook so in the arms of his wife; and yet the Prince was a muscular as well as a brave man.

"What has happened? What is the matter?" asked his wife anxiously.

"Nothing," said the Prince, kissing her forehead. "Be quiet. Lie down. I have some business to do which must be done to-night. Then I'll come to you, and we'll talk about things."

Mariska took him at his word, and lay down again. But she still trembled—why, she knew not.

There must be something wrong, something very wrong with her husband, or else he would not have welcomed his wife so coldly at the very moment of his arrival.

After a few moments, during which she heard her husband talking in an undertone with someone outside, he came in with his sword in his hand, and after seeming to look for something, he turned to Mariska:

"Have you the keys of your treasure-box?"

"Yes, they are in my secretaire."

The Prince took the keys and withdrew.

Mariska breathed again. "Then it is only some money trouble after all," she thought. "Thank God it is no worse. They have lost something in the camp, I suppose, or they are screwing some more tribute out of him."

In a short time the Prince again returned, and stood there for a time as if he couldn't make up his mind to speak. At last he said:

"Mariska, have you any money?"

"Yes, dear!" Mariska hastened to answer, "just ten thousand thalers. Do you want them?"

"No, no. But have them all ready to hand, and if you collected your jewels together at the same time you would do well."

"What for, my husband?"

"Because," stammered Ghyka, "because—we may—and very speedily, too—have to set out on our travels."

"Have to travel—in my condition?" asked Mariska, raising a pathetic face up to her husband.

That look transfixed the very soul of Ghyka. His wife was in a condition nearer to death than to life.

"No, I won't stir a stump," he suddenly cried, beside himself with agitation, striking his sword so violently on the table that it flew from its sheath, "if heaven itself fall on me, I won't go."

"For God's sake, my husband, what is the matter?" cried Mariska in her astonishment; whereupon the Prince proudly raised his eyebrows, approached her with a smile, and pressing his wife to his bosom, said reassuringly:

"Fear nothing. I had an idea in my head; but I have dismissed it, and will think of it no more. Take it that I have asked you nothing."

"But your anxiety?"

"It has gone already. Ask not the reason, for you would laugh at me for it. Sleep in peace. I also will sleep upon it."

The husband caressed and kissed his wife, and his hand trembled no longer, his face was no longer pale, and his lips were no longer so cold as before.

But the wife's were now. When her husband tenderly kissed her eyes and bade her sleep, she pretended that she was satisfied; but as soon as he had withdrawn from her room, she arose, put on a dressing-gown, and calling one of her maids, descended with her into the hall, and sent for a faithful old servant of her husband's, who was wont to accompany him everywhere, an old Moldavian courier.

"Jova!" she said, "speak the truth! What's the matter with your master? What have you seen and heard?"

"It is a great trouble, my lady. God deliver us from it! We only escaped destruction at the battle of St. Gothard by not standing up against the Magyars. But what were we to do? Christian cannot fight against Christian, for then should we be fighting against God. The Turkish army was badly beaten there. And now the Vizier of Buda, that he may wash himself clean, for the Sultan is very wroth, wants to cast the whole blame of the affair on the head of the Prince."

"Great Heaven! And what will be the result?"

"Well, it would not be a bad thing if your Highnesses were to withdraw somewhere or other for a time to give the Sultan's wrath time to cool."

"To my father's, eh? in Wallachia?"

"Well, a little farther than that, I should say."

"True, we might go to Transylvania; we have lots of good friends there."

"Even there it might not be as well to stay. You would do well to make a journey to Poland."

"Do you suppose the danger to be so great then?"

"God grant it be not so bad as I think it."

"Thank you for your advice, Jova. I will tell my husband quite early in the morning."

"My lady, you would do well not to wait till morning."

The woman grew pale.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you would take care of yourselves, you should take carriage this very night, this very hour. I will go before the horses with a lantern, and a courier shall be sent on ahead to have fresh relays of horses awaiting us at every station, so that by the time it begins to grow grey, we shall have left the last hill of this region out of sight."

The terrified Princess returned to her bedchamber, and quickly packed up her most valuable things, making all the necessary preparations for a long journey. But the door leading to her husband's room was locked, and she durst not call him, but with an indescribable sinking of heart awaited the endlessly distant dawn. She was unable to close her eyes the whole night. Wearied out in body and soul she rose as soon as she saw the light of dawn, sitting with her swimming head against the window, whence she could look down into the courtyard.

Gradually the courtyard awoke to life and noise again, and the hall was peopled with domestics hurrying to and fro. The grooms began walking the horses up and down, the peasant girls with pitchers on their heads were returning from the distant wells, a merry voice began singing a popular ditty in one of the outhouses. All this seemed as strange to the watchful lady as the life and the movement of the outside world seems to one condemned to death who gazes upon it from the window of his cell.

Then the door opened and her husband came out of his bedchamber and greeted his wife with a voice full of boisterous courage. He was dressed in a short stagskin jacket, which he generally wore when he went a-hunting, and wore big Polish boots with star-like spurs.

"Going a-hunting, eh?" asked Mariska, from whose soul all her terrifying phantoms vanished instantly when her husband embraced her in his vigorous arms.

"Yes, I'm going a-hunting. I feel so full of energy that if I don't tumble about somewhere or other I shall burst. Any boar or bear that I come across to-day will have good cause to remember me."

"Oh! take care no ill befalls you!"

"Befalls me!" cried the Prince, proudly smiting his herculean breast.

The lady flung herself on her husband's neck with the confidence of a child, and lifting from his head his saucy bonnet with its eagle plume, which gave him such a brave appearance, and smoothing down his curls, kissed his bonny face, and forgot all her thoughts and visions of the bygone night.

The Prince withdrew, and Mariska opened her window and looked out of it to see him mount his horse.

While the Prince was going downstairs, a dirty Turkish cavasse in sordid rags entered the courtyard, from which at other times he was wont to fetch letters, and mingled with the ostlers and stablemen without seeming to attract attention.

A few moments later the Prince ordered his horse to be brought in a loud resonant voice, whereupon the cavasse immediately came forward, and producing from beneath his dirty dolman a sealed and corded letter, pressed it to his forehead and then handed it to the Prince.

The Prince broke open the letter and his face suddenly turned pale; taking off his cap, he bowed low before the cavasse and saluted him.

O Prince of Moldavia! to doff thy eagle-plumed cap to a dirty cavasse, and bow thy haughty manly brow before him! Whatever can be the meaning of it all? Mariska's heart began to throb violently as she gazed down from her window.

The Prince, with all imaginable deference, then indicated the door of his castle to the cavasse and invited him to enter first; but the Turk with true boorish insolence, signified that the Prince was to lead the way.

Suddenly, in an illuminated flash, Mariska guessed the mystery. In the moment of peril, with rare presence of mind, she rushed to her secretaire, where her jewels were. Her first thought was that the cavasse had come for her husband; he must be bribed therefore to connive at his escape.

Then she saw hastening through the door the old groom Jova. The face of the ancient servitor was full of fear, and there were tears in his eyes.

"Has the cavasse come for my husband, then?" she inquired tremulously.

"Yes, my lady," stammered the servant; "why don't you make haste?"

"Let us give him money."

"He won't take it. What is money to him? If he returns without the Prince his own head will be forfeit."

"Merciful God! Then what shall we do?"

"My master whispered a few words in my ear, and I fancy I caught their meaning. First of all I must take you off to Transylvania, my lady. Meanwhile my master will remain here with the cavasses and their attendants, who are now in the courtyard. My master will remain with them and spin out the time till he feels pretty sure that we have got well beyond the river Sereth in our carriage. Near there is a bridge over a steep rocky chasm, beneath which the river flows. That bridge we will break down behind us. The Prince will then bring forth his charger Gryllus, on whose back he is wont to take such daring leaps, and will set out in the same direction with the Turkish cavasses. When he approaches the broken-down bridge, he will put spurs to his steed and leap across the gap, while the Turks remain behind. And after that God grant him good counsel!"

Mariska perceiving there was no time to be lost, hastily collected her treasures and, assisted by Jova, descended by way of the secret staircase to the chapel and stood there, for a moment, before the image of the Blessed Virgin to pray that her husband might succeed in escaping. Before the chapel door stood a carriage drawn by four muscular stallions. She got into it quickly, and succeeded in escaping by a side-gate.

Meanwhile the Prince, with great self-denial, endeavoured to detain his unwelcome guests by all manner of pretexts. First of all he almost compelled them to eat and drink to bursting point, swearing by heaven and earth that he would never allow such precious guests as they were to leave his castle with empty stomachs. Then followed a distribution of gifts. Every individual cavasse got a sword or a beaker and every sword and every beaker had its own peculiar history. So-and-so had worn it, So-and-so had drunk out of it. It had been found here and sent there, and its last owner was such a one, etc., etc. And he artfully interlarded his speech with such sacred and sublime words as "Allah!" "Mahomet!" "the Sultan!" at the mention of each one of which the cavasses felt bound to interrupt him repeatedly with such expressions as "Blessed be his name!" so that despite the insistence of the Turks, it was fully an hour before his horse could be brought forward.

At last, however, Gryllus was brought round to the courtyard. The Prince now also would have improved the occasion by telling them a nice interesting tale about this steed of his, but the chief cavasse would give him no peace.

"Come! mount your Honour!" said he, "you can tell us the story on the way."

The Prince mounted accordingly, and immediately began to complain how very much all the galloping of the last few days had taken it out of him, and begged his escort not to hurry on so as he could scarce sit in his saddle.

The chief cavasse, taking him at his word, had the Prince's feet tied fast to his stirrups, so that he might not fall off his horse, sarcastically adding:

"If your honour should totter in your saddle, I shall be close beside you, so that you may lean upon me."

And indeed the chief cavasse trotted by his side with a drawn sword in his hand; the rest were a horse's head behind them.

When they came to the path leading to the bridge the way grew so narrow because of the rocks on both sides that it was as much as two horsemen could do to ride abreast. The Prince already caught sight of the bridge, and though its wooden frame was quite hidden by a projecting tree, a white handkerchief tied to the tree informed him that his carriage with his consort inside it had got across and away, and that the supports had been also cut.

At this point he made as if he felt faint and turning to the chief cavasse, said to him, "Come nearer, I want to lean on you!" and upon the cavasse leaning fatuously towards him he dealt him such a fearful blow with his clenched fist that the Turk fell right across his horse. And now: "Onward, my Gryllus!"

The gallant steed with a bound forward left the escort some distance behind, and while they dashed after him with a savage howl, he darted with the fleetness of the wind towards the bridge.

The Prince sat tied to his horse without either arms or spurs, but the noble charger, as if he felt that his master's life was now entrusted to his safe-keeping, galloped forward with ten-fold energy.

Suddenly it became clear to the pursuers that the beams of the bridge had been severed and only the balustrade remained. "Stop!" they shouted in terror to the Prince, at the same time reining in their own horses. Then Ghyka turned towards them a haughty face, and leaning over his horse's head, pressed its flanks with his knees, and at the very moment when he had reached the dizzy chasm he laughed aloud as he raised his eagle-plumed cap in the air, and shouted to his pursuers: "Follow me, if you dare!"

The charger the same instant lowered its head upon its breast, and, with a well-calculated bound, leaped the empty space between the two sides of the bridge as lightly as a bird. The Prince as he flew through the air held his eagle-plumed cap in his hand, while his black locks fluttered round his bold face.

The terrified cavasses drew the reins of their horses tightly lest they should plunge after Gryllus; but one of them, carried away by his maddened steed, would also have made the bold leap but the fore feet of the horse barely grazed the opposite bank, and with a mortal yell it crashed down with its rider among the rocks of the stream below.

The Prince meanwhile, beneath the very eyes of the cavasses, loosened the cords from his legs on the opposite shore and also allowed himself time enough to break down the remaining balustrades of the bridge, one by one, and pitch them into the river. Then, remounting his steed, he ambled leisurely off whilst the cavasses gazed after him in helpless fury. A rapid two hours' gallop enabled him to overtake the carriage of his wife, who, according to his directions, had hastened without stopping towards Transylvania with the sole escort of the old horseman.

On overtaking the carriage he mounted the old man on his own nag, and sent him on before to Transylvania requesting the Prince to allow him and his wife to pass through Transylvania to the domains of the Kaiser. He himself took a seat in the carriage by the side of Mariska, who was quite rejoiced at her husband's deliverance, and forgot the anxieties still awaiting her.

According to the most rigorous calculations their pursuers would either have to go another way, or they might throw another bridge over the Sereth; but, in any case they had a day's clear start of them, which would be quite sufficient to enable them, travelling leisurely, to reach the borders of Transylvania, where the Seraskier of Moldavia had no jurisdiction.

In this hope they presently perceived the mountains of Szeklerland rising up before them, and the nearer they came to them the more lightly they felt their hearts beat, regarding the mountain range as a vast city of refuge stretching out before them.

They had already struck into that deep-lying road which leads to the Pass of Porgo, which, after winding along the bare hillside, plunges like a serpent into the shady flowering valleys beneath, and every now and then a mountain stream darted along the road beside them; above them the dangerous road looked like a tiny notch in which a heavy wagon crawled slowly along, with lofty rocks apparently tottering to their fall above it in every direction.

And here galloping straight towards them, was a horseman in whom the Prince instantly recognised his avant courier.

Old Jova reached them in a state of exhaustion, and Gryllus also seemed ready to drop.

"Go no further, sir!" cried the terrified servant, "I have come all the way without stopping from Szamosújvár where the Prince is staying. I laid your request before him. 'For God's sake!' cried the Prince, clasping his hands together, 'don't let your master come here, or he'll ruin the whole lot of us. Olaj Beg has just come hither with the Sultan's command that if the Prince of Moldavia comes here he is to be handed over.'"

The Prince gazed gloomily in front of him, his lips trembled. Then he turned his face round and shading his eyes with his hand, gazed away into the distance. On the same road by which he had come a cloud of dust could be seen rapidly approaching.

"Those are our pursuers," he moaned despairingly; "there is nothing for it but to die."

"Nay, my master. Over yonder is a mountain path which can only be traversed on foot. With worthy Szeklers or Wallachs as our guides we may get all the way to Poland through the mountains. Why not take refuge there?"

"And my wife?" asked the Prince, looking round savagely and biting his lips in his distress; "she cannot accompany me."

All this time Mariska had remained, benumbed and speechless, gazing at her husband—her heart, her mind, stood still at these terrible tidings; but when she heard that her husband could be saved without her, she plunged out of the carriage and falling at his feet implored him, sobbing loudly, to fly.

"Save yourself," she cried; "do not linger here on my account another instant."

"And sacrifice you, my consort, to their fury?"

"They will not hurt me, for they do not pursue an innocent woman. God will defend me. You go into Transylvania; there live good friends of mine, whose husbands and fathers are the leading men in the State; there is the heroic Princess, there is the gentle Béldi with her angel daughter, there is Teleki's daughter Flora—we swore eternal friendship together once—they will mediate for us; and then, too, my rich father will gladly spend his money to spare our blood. And if I must suffer and even die, it will be for you, my husband. Save yourself! In Heaven's name I implore you to depart from me."

Ghyka reflected for a moment.

"Very well, I will take refuge in order to be able to save you."

And he pressed the pale face of his wife to his bosom.

"Make haste," said Mariska, "I also want to hasten. If die I must—I would prefer to die among Christians, in the sight of my friends and acquaintances. But you go on in front, for if they were to slay you before my eyes, it would need no sword to slay me; my heart would break from sheer despair."

"Come, sir, come!" said the old courier, seizing the hand of the Prince and dragging him away by force.

Mariska got into the carriage again, and told the coachman to drive on quickly. The Prince allowed himself to be guided by the old courier along the narrow pass, looking back continually so long as the carriage was visible, and mournfully pausing whenever he caught sight of it again from the top of some mountain-ridge.

"Come on, sir! come on!" the old servant kept insisting; "when we have reached that mountain summit yonder we shall be able to rest."

Ghyka stumbled on as heavily as if the mountain was pressing on his bosom with all its weight. He allowed himself to be led unconsciously among the steep precipices, clinging on to projecting bushes as he went along. God guarded him from falling a hundred times.

After half an hour's hard labour they reached the indicated summit, and as the courier helped his master up and they looked around them, Nature's magnificent tableau stood before them; and looking down upon a vast panorama, they saw the tiny winding road by which his wife had gone; and, looking still farther on, he perceived that the carriage had just climbed to the summit of a declivity about half a league off.

Ah! that sight gave him back his soul. He followed with his eyes the travelling coach, and as often as the coach ascended a higher hill, it again appeared in sight, and it seemed to him as if all along he saw inside it his wife, and his face brightened as he fancied himself kissing away her tears.

At that instant a loud uproar smote upon his ears. At the foot of the steep mountain, on the summit of which his wife had just come into sight again, he saw a troop of horsemen trotting rapidly along. These were the pursuers. They seemed scarcely larger than ants.

Ah! how he would have liked to have trampled those ants to death.

"You would pursue her, eh? Then I will stop you."

And with these words seizing a large grey rock from among those which were heaped upon the summit, he rolled it down the side of the mountain just as the Turks had reached a narrow defile.

With a noise like thunder the huge mass of rock plunged its way down the mountain-side, taking great leaps into the air whenever it encountered any obstacle. Ah! how the galloping rock plunged among the terrified horsemen—only a streak of blood remained in its track, horses and horsemen were equally crushed beneath it.

With a second, with a third rock also he greeted them. The cavasses, at their wits' end, fled back, and never stopped till they had clambered up the opposite ridge; they did not feel safe among the plunging rocks below and there they could be seen deliberating how it was possible to reach the road behind their backs.

Guessing their intention, the Prince sent his servant to fling a rock down upon them from the hillside beyond, which, as it came clattering down, made the cavasses believe that their enemies were in force, and they climbed higher up still.

"There they will remain till evening," thought the Prince to himself; "so they will not overtake Mariska after all."

And so it conveniently turned out. The cavasses, after consulting together for a long time fruitlessly as to what road they should take to get out of the dangerous pass, began to yell from their lofty perch at their invisible foes, threatening them with the highest displeasure of the Sultan if they did not allow them to pass through in peace; and when a fresh shower of rocks came down by way of reply, they unsaddled their horses and allowing them to graze about at will, lit a fire and squatted down beside it.

Meanwhile, the hunted lady, exchanging her tired horses for four fresh ones in the first Transylvanian village she came to, pressed onwards without stopping. Travelling all night she reached Szamosújvár in the early morning. The Prince was no longer there. He had migrated in hot haste, they said, before the rising of the sun, to Klausenberg.

Mariska did not descend from her carriage, but only changed her horses. Three days and three nights she had already been travelling, without rest, in sickness and despair. And again she must hasten on farther. It was evening when they reached Klausenberg. The coachman, when he saw the towers in the distance, turned round to her with the comforting assurance that they would now be at Klausenberg very shortly. At these words the lady begged the coachman not to go so quickly, and when he lashed up his horses still more vigorously notwithstanding, and cast a look behind him, she also looked through the window at the back of the carriage and saw a band of horsemen galloping after them along the road.

So their pursuers were as near to them behind as Klausenberg was in front.

There was not a moment's delay. The coachman whipped up the horses, their nostrils steamed, foam fell from their lips, they plunged wildly forward, the pebbles flashed sparks beneath their hoofs, the carriage swayed to and fro on the uneven road, the persecuted lady huddled herself into a corner of the carriage, and prayed to God for deliverance.

CHAPTER XIV.
OLAJ BEG.

As the princely pair stood on the castle battlements, the din of the town grew deeper, and suddenly the rumble of a carriage, driven at full tilt, broke upon the dreamy stillness of the castle courtyard, and dashing into it stopped before the staircase; the door of the coach was quickly thrown open and out of it rushed a pale woman, who, rallying her last remaining strength, ran up the staircase and collapsed at the feet of the Prince as he hastened to meet her, exclaiming as she did so:

"I am Mariska Sturdza."

"For the love of God," cried the agitated Prince, "why did you come here? You have destroyed the state and me; you have brought ruin on yourself and on us."

The unfortunate lady was unable to utter another word. Her energy was exhausted. She lay there on the marble floor, half unconscious.

The Princess Apafi summoned her ladies-in-waiting, who, at her command, hastened to raise the lady in their arms and began to sprinkle her face with eau-de-Cologne.

"I cannot allow her to be brought into my house," cried the terrified Apafi; "it would bring utter destruction on me and my family."

The Princess cast a look full of dignity upon her husband.

"What do you mean? Would you hand this unfortunate woman over to her pursuers? In her present condition, too? Suppose I was obliged to fly in a similar plight, would you fling me out upon the high road instead of offering me a place of refuge?"

"But the wrath of the Sultan?"

"Yes; and the contempt of posterity?"

"Then would you have me bring ruin upon my throne and my family for the sake of a woman?"

"Better perish for the sake of a woman than do that woman to death. If you shut your rooms against her, I will open mine wide to receive her, and then you can tell the Sultan if you like that I have taken her."

Apafi felt that his wife's obstinacy was getting him into a hideous muddle. This audacious woman would listen to no reasons of state in any matter which interested her humanity.

What was he to do? He pitied the persecuted lady from the bottom of his heart, but the emissary of the Sublime Porte, Olaj Beg, had come to demand her with plenipotentiary power. If he did not shelter the persecuted lady he would pronounce himself a coward in the face of the whole world; if he did shelter her, the Porte would annihilate him!

In the midst of this dilemma, one of the gate-keepers came in hot haste to announce that a band of Turkish soldiers was at that moment galloping along the road, inquiring in a loud voice for the Princess of Wallachia.

Apafi leant in dumb despair against a marble pillar whilst Anna quickly ordered her women to carry the unconscious lady to her innermost apartments and summon the doctor. She then went out on the balcony, and perceiving that the cavasses had just halted in front of the palace, she cried to the gate-keepers:

"Close the gates!"

Apafi would have very much liked to have countermanded the order; but while he was still thinking about it, the gates were snapped to under the very noses of the cavasses.

They began angrily beating with the shafts of their lances against the closed gate, whereupon the Princess called down to them from the balcony with a sonorous, authoritative voice:

"Ye good-for-nothing rascals, wherefore all that racket? This is not a barrack, but the residence of the Prince. Perchance ye know it not, because fresh human heads are wont to be nailed over the gates of your Princes every day as a mark of recognition? If that is what you are accustomed to, your error is pardonable."

The cavasses were considerably startled at these words, and, looking up at the imperious lady, began to see that she really meant what she said. For a while they laid their heads together, and then turned round and departed.

Apafi sighed deeply.

"There is some hidden trick in this," said he, "but what it is God only knows."

A few moments later a müderris appeared from Olaj Beg at the gate of the Prince, and, being all alone, was admitted.

"Olaj Beg greets thee, and thou must come to him quickly," said he.

Anna had drawn near to greet her guest, but hearing that Olaj Beg summoned the Prince to appear before him, she approached the messenger, boiling over with wrath.

"Whoever heard," she said, "of a servant ordering his master about, or an ambassador summoning the Prince to whose Court he is accredited?"

But Apafi could only take refuge in a desperate falsehood.

"Poor Olaj Beg," he explained, "is very sick and cannot stir from his bed, and, indeed, he humbly begs me to pay him a visit. There is no humiliation in this—none at all, if I am graciously pleased to do it. He is an old man of eighty. I might be his grandson, he is wont to scold me as if I were his darling; I will certainly go to him, and put this matter right with him. You go to your sick guest and comfort her. I give you my word I will do everything to get her set free. For her sake I will humble myself."

The Princess Apafi's foresight already suggested to her that this humiliation would be permanent, but, perceiving that her own strength of mind was not contagious, she allowed her husband to depart.

Apafi prepared himself for his visit upon Olaj Beg. With a peculiar feeling of melancholy he did not put on his princely dolman of green velvet, but only the köntös of a simple nobleman, imagining that thus it would not be the Prince of Transylvania but the squire of Ebesfalu who was paying a visit on Olaj Beg. He went on foot to the house of Olaj Beg, accompanied by a single soldier, who had to put on his everyday clothes.

The dogs had been let loose in the courtyard, for the Beg was a great protector of animals, and used to keep open table in front of his dwelling for the wandering dogs of every town he came to.

Making his way through them, Apafi had to cross a hall and an ante-chamber, brimful with praying dervishes, who, squatting down with legs crossed, were reading aloud from books with large clasps, only so far paying attention to each other as to see which could yell the loudest.

The Prince did not address them, as it was clear that he would get no answer, but went straight towards the third door.

The chamber beyond was also full of spiders'-webs and dervishes, but a red cushion had been placed in the midst of it, and on this cushion sat a big, pale, grey man in a roomy yellow caftan. He also was holding a large book in front of him and reading painfully.

Apafi approached, and even ventured to address him.

"Merciful Olaj Beg, my gracious master, find a full stop somewhere in that book of yours, turn down the leaf at the proper spot, put it down, and listen to me."

Olaj Beg, on hearing the words of the Prince, put the book aside, and turning with a sweet and tender smile towards him, remarked with emotion:

"The angels of the Prophet bear thee up in all thy ways, my dear child. Heaven preserve every hair of thy beard, and the Archangel Izrafil go before thee and sweep every stone from thy path, that thy feet may not strike against them!"

With these words the Beg graciously extended his right hand to be kissed, blinking privily at the Prince; nor would Apafi have minded kissing it if they had been all alone, but in the presence of so many dervishes it would have been derogatory to his dignity; so, instead of doing so, he took the Beg's hand and provisionally placed it in his left hand and gave it a resounding thump with his right, and then shook it amicably as became a friend.

"Don't trouble thyself, my dear son, I will not suffer thee to kiss my hand," cried Olaj Beg, drawing back his hand and making a show of opposition so that everyone might fancy that Apafi was angry with him for not being allowed to kiss it.

"You have deigned to send for me," said Apafi, taking a step backwards; "tell me, I pray, what you desire, for my time is short. I am overwhelmed with affairs of state."

These last words Apafi pronounced with as majestic an intonation as possible.

Olaj Beg thereupon folded his hands together.

"Oh, my dear son!" said he, "the princely dignity is indeed a heavy burden. I see that quite well, nor am I in the least surprised that thou wishest to be relieved of it; but be of good cheer, the blessing of Heaven will come upon us when we are not praying for it; when thou dost least expect it the Sublime Sultan will have compassion upon thee, and will deliver thee of the heavy load which presses upon thy shoulders."

Apafi wrinkled his brows. The exordium was bad enough; he hastened towards the end of the business.

"Perchance, you have heard, gracious Olaj Beg! that the unfortunate Mariska Sturdza has taken refuge with us."

"It matters not," signified the Beg, with a reassuring wave of the hand.

"She took refuge in my palace without my knowledge," observed Apafi apologetically, "and what could I do when she was all alone? I couldn't turn her out of my house."

"There was no necessity. Thou didst as it became a merciful man to do."

"If you had seen her you would yourself have felt sorry for her—sick, half-dead, desperate, she flung herself at my feet, imploring compassion, and before I could reply to her she had fainted away. Perhaps even now she is dead."

"Oh, poor child!" cried Olaj Beg, folding both his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven.

"Her husband had left her in great misery, and alone she plunged into jeopardy," continued Apafi, trying to justify the persecuted woman in every possible manner.

"Oh, poor, unhappy child!" cried Olaj Beg, shaking his head.

"And more than that," sighed Apafi, "the poor woman is big with child."

"What dost thou say?"

"Yes, sir, and flying day and night in all sorts of weathers from her pursuers in such a condition, you can imagine her wretched condition; she was scarce alive, she was on the very threshold of death."

"Allah be gracious to her and extend over her the wings of his mercy!"

Apafi began to think that he had found Olaj Beg in a charitable humour.

"I knew that you would not be angry about her."

"I am not angry, my son, I am not angry. My eyes overflow at her sad fate."

"She, you know, had no share in her husband's faults."

"Far from it."

"And it would not be right that an innocent woman should atone for what her husband has committed."

"Certainly not."

"Then do you think, my lord, that the Sublime Sultan will be merciful to this woman?"

"What a question! Have no fear for her!"

Apafi was not so simple as not to be struck by this exaggerated indulgence, the more satisfactory were the Beg's replies the keener grew his feeling of anxiety. At last, much perturbed, he ventured to put this question:

"Gracious Beg! will you allow this unfortunate woman to rest in peace at my house, and can you assure me that the Sublime Sultan will espouse her cause?"

"The Holy Book says: 'Be merciful to them that suffer and compassionate them that weep.' Therefore, behold I grant thee thy desire: let this poor innocent woman repose in thy house in peace, let her rest thoroughly from her sufferings and let her enjoy the blessedness of peace till such time as I must take her from thee by the command of the Grand Seignior."

Apafi felt his brain reel, so marvellous, so terrible was this graciousness of the Turk towards him.

"And when think you you will require this woman to be handed over?"

Olaj Beg, with a reassuring look, tapped Apafi on the shoulder, and said with a voice full of unction:

"Fret not thyself, my dear son! In no case will it be earlier than to-morrow morning."

Apafi almost collapsed in his fright.

"To-morrow morning, do you say, my lord?"

"I promise thee she shall not be disturbed before."

Apafi perceived that the man had been making sport with him all along. Rage began to seethe in his heart.

"But, my lord, I said nothing about one day. One day is the period allowed to condemned criminals."

"Days and seasons come from Allah, and none may divide them."

"Damn you soft sawder!" murmured Apafi between his teeth. "My lord," he resumed, "would you carry away with you a sick woman whom only the most tender care can bring back from the shores of Death, and who, if she were now to set out for Buda, would never reach it, for she would die on the way?"

Olaj Beg piously raised his hands to Heaven.

"Life and death are inscribed above in the Book of Thora, and if it there be written in letters embellished with roses and tulips that Mariska Sturdza must die to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, die she will most certainly, though she lay upon musk and were anointed with the balm of life, and neither the prayers of the saints nor the lore of the Sages could save her—but if it be written that she is to live, then let the Angels of Death come against her with every manner of weapon and they shall not harm her."

Apafi saw that he would have to speak very plainly to this crafty old man.

"Worthy Olaj Beg! you know that this realm has a constitution which enjoins that the Prince himself must not issue ordinances in the more weighty matters without consulting his counsellors. Now, the present case seems to me to be so important that I cannot inform you of my resolution till I have communicated it to my council."

"It is well, my dear son, I have no objection. Speak with those servants of thine whom thou hast made thy masters; sit in thy council chamber and let the matter be well considered as it deserves to be; and if thereafter ye decide that the Princess shall accompany me, I will take her away and take leave of thee with great honour; but if it should so fall out that ye do not give her up to me, my dear son, or should allow her to escape from me—then will I take thee instead of her, together with thy brave counsellors, my sweet son."

The Beg said these words in the sweetest, tenderest voice, as old grandfathers are wont to address their grandchildren, and descending from his pillows he stroked the Prince's face with both his hands, and kissed him on the temples with great good will, quite covering his head with his long white beard.

Apafi felt as if the whole room were dancing around him. He did not speak a word, but turned on his axis and went right out. He himself did not know how he got through the first door, but by the time he had shut the second door behind him he bethought him that he was still the Prince of Transylvania, and by descent one of the first noblemen of the land, whereas Olaj Beg was only a nasty, dirty Turkish captain, who had been a camel-driver in the days of his youth, and yet had dared to speak to him, the Prince, like that! By the time he had reached the third door he had reflected that in the days when he was nothing but the joint-tenant of Ebesfalu, if Olaj Beg had dared to treat him so shamefully, he would have broken his bald head for him with a stout truncheon. But had he not just such a stout truncheon actually hanging by his side? Yes, he had! and he would go back and strike Olaj Beg with it, not exactly on the head perhaps, but, at any rate, on the back that he might remember for the rest of his life the stylus curialis of Transylvania.

And with that he turned back from the third door with very grave resolves.

But when he had re-opened the second door he bethought him once more that such violence might be of great prejudice to the realm, and besides, there was not very much glory after all in striking an old man of eighty. But at any rate he would tell him like a man what it had not occurred to him to say in the first moment of his surprise.

So when he had opened the first door and was in the presence of Olaj Beg, he stood there on the threshold with the door ajar, and said to him in a voice of thunder:

"Hearken, Olaj Beg! I have come back simply to tell you——"

Olaj Beg looked at him.

"What dost thou say, my good son?"

"This," continued Apafi in a very much lower key, "that it will take time to summon the council, for Béldi lives at Bodola, Teleki at Gernyeszeg, Csaky at Déva, and until they come together you can do what you think best: you may remain here or go"—and with that he turned back, and only when he had slammed to the door he added—"to hell!"

CHAPTER XV.
THE WOMEN'S DEFENCE.

It could be seen from the Prince's face that for at least two hours Teleki had been filling his head with talk. Nalaczi greeted everyone present with a courtly smile, but nobody smiled back at him. Teleki, with cold gravity, led the Prince to the throne. The latter on first looking up at the throne, stood before it as if thunderstruck, and seemed to be deliberating for a moment whether it ought not to be taken away and a simple chair put in its place. But after thinking it well out he mounted the steps, and, sighing deeply, took his seat upon it.

Michael Teleki stood silent in his place for some time, as if he was collecting his thoughts. His eyes did not travel along the faces of those present as they generally did to watch the effect of his words, but were fixed on the clasp of his kalpag, and his voice was much duller than at other times, often sinking to tremulous depths, except when he pulled himself together and tried to give it a firmer tone.

"Your Highness, your Excellencies,—God has reserved peculiar trials for our unfortunate nation. One danger has scarce passed over us when we plump into another; when we try to avoid the lesser perils, we find the greater ones directly in our path, and we end in sorrow what we began in joy. Scarcely have we got over the tidings of the battle of St. Gothard (we had our own melancholy reasons for not participating therein), and the consequent annihilation of the far-reaching designs of the Turkish Empire, by the peace contracted between the two great Powers, amidst whose quarrels our unhappy country is buffeted about as if between hammer and anvil, when we have a fresh and still greater occasion for apprehension. For the generals of the Turkish Sultan impute the loss of the battle to the premature flight of Prince Ghyka, and at the same time hold us partly responsible for it—and certainly, had our soldiers stood in the place of the Wallachian warriors, although they would not have liked fighting their fellow-Magyars, nevertheless, if once they had been in for it, they would not have ran away and so the battle would not have been lost—wherefore the wrath of the Sublime Sultan was so greatly kindled against both the neighbouring nations, that he sent his cavasses to seize the Prince of Moldavia and carry him in chains to Stambul with his whole family. As for Transylvania, but for the mercy of God and the goodwill of certain Turkish statesmen, we might have seen it suddenly converted into a sandjak or province, and a fez-wearing Pasha on the throne of his Highness. Now it has so happened that the Prince of Moldavia, wresting himself and his wife out of the hands of their pursuers, took the shortest road to Transylvania. We sent a message to them that on no account were they to try to come here, as their flight would cost us more than a Tartar invasion. The Prince, therefore, took refuge in the mountains, but let his wife continue her journey, and, in an evil hour for us and herself, she arrived here a few days ago with the knowledge and under the very eyes of the Sultan's plenipotentiary. The husband having escaped, the whole wrath of the Sultan is turned upon the wife and upon us also if we try to defend her. What, then, are we to do? If we had to choose between shame and death, I should know what to say; but here our choice is only between two kinds of shame: either to hand over an innocent, tender woman, who has appealed to us for protection, or see a Turkish Pasha sitting on the throne of the Prince!"

"But there's a third course, surely," said Béldi, "by way of petition?"

"I might indeed make the request," interrupted Apafi, "but I know very well what answer I should get."

"I do not mean petitioning the envoy," returned Béldi. "Who would humiliate himself by petitioning the servant when he could appeal to the master?"

At this Apafi grew dumb; he could not bring forward the fact that he had already petitioned the servant.

"I believe that Béldi is right," said young Michael Bethlen, "and that is the only course we can take. I am well acquainted with the mood of an eastern Despot when he gets angry, and I know that at such times it is nothing unusual for him to level towns to the ground and decapitate viceroys; but fortunately for Transylvania it is situated in Europe, where one state has some regard for another, and it is the interest of all the European kingdoms to maintain a free state between themselves and the Ottoman Empire, even if it be only a small one like Transylvania. And it seems to me that if our petition be supported at Stambul by the French, Austrian, and Polish ambassadors, there will be no reason for the Sultan, especially after such a defeat as the last one, to send a Pasha to Transylvania. And, finally, if we show him that our swords have not rusted in their scabbards, and that we know how to draw them on occasion, he will not be disposed to do so."

The youth's enthusiastic speech began to pour fresh confidence into the souls of those who heard him, and their very faces appeared to brighten because of it.

Teleki shook his head slowly.

"I tell your Excellencies it will be a serious business," said he. "I am obliged to arouse you from an agreeable dream by confronting you with a rigorous fact. Europe has not the smallest care for our existence; we only find allies when they have need of our sacrifices; let us begin to petition, and they know us no more. It is true that at one time I said something very different, but time is such a good master that it teaches a man more in one day than if he had gone through nine schools. In consequence of the battle of St. Gothard, peace has been concluded between the two Emperors. I have read every article of it, every point, and we are left out of it altogether, as if we were a nation quite unworthy of consideration. Yet the French, the English, and the Polish ministers were there, and I can say that not one of them received so much pay from his own court as he received from us. If they want war, oh! then we are a great and glorious nation; but when peace is concluded they do not even know that we are there. In war we may lead the van, but in the distribution of rewards we are left far behind. And now the Pasha of Buda, who is bent upon our destruction and would like to set a pasha over Transylvania, after the last defeat, has sent down Yffim Beg to us to go from village to village demanding why the arrears of taxes have not been paid, and then he is coming to the Prince to ask the cause of the remissness and threaten him with the vengeance of the Pasha of Buda."

There was a general murmur of indignation.

"Ah, gentlemen, let us confess to each other that we play at being masters in our own home, but in fact we are masters there no longer. We may trust to our efforts and rely upon our rights, but we have none to help us; we have no allies either on the right hand or on the left; we have only our masters. We may change our masters, but we shall never win confederates. The Power which stands above us is only awaiting an opportunity to carry out its designs upon us, and no one could render it a better service in Transylvania than by raising his head against it. We have all of us a great obligation laid upon us: to recognise the little we possess, take care to preserve it, and, if the occasion arise, insist upon it. It is true that while the sword is in our hands we may defend all Europe with it; but let our sword once be broken and our whole realm falls to pieces and the heathen will trample upon us in the sight of all the nations. We shall bleed for a half-century or so, and nobody will come to our assistance; the gates of our realm will be guarded by our enemies; and, like the scorpion in a fiery circle, we shall only turn the bitterness of our hearts against ourselves. Do you want reasons, then, why we should not defend those hunted creatures who seek a refuge with us? The World and Fate have settled their accounts with us; this realm is left entirely to its own devices. Matters standing thus, if we refuse to deliver up to Olaj Beg the above-mentioned Princess of Moldavia, the armies of the Pashas of Buda and Grosswardein will instantly receive orders to reduce Transylvania to the rank of a vassal state of the Porte. There is no room here for regret or humanity, self-preservation is our one remaining duty and the duty of self-preservation demands that where we have no choice, we should do voluntarily what we may be forced to do."

Teleki had scarce finished these words than an attendant announced that the Princess of Moldavia requested admittance into the council chamber.

Apafi would have replied in the negative, but Teleki signified that she might as well come in.

A few moments later the attendant again appeared and requested permission for the ladies of the Princess's suite to accompany their mistress, as she was too weak to walk alone.

Teleki consented to that also.

The counsellors cast down their eyes when the door opened. But there is a sort of spell which forces a man to look in the very direction in which he would not, in which he fears to look, and lo and behold! when the door opened and the hunted woman entered with her suite, a cry of astonishment resounded from every lip. For of what did the woman's suite consist? It consisted of the most eminent ladies of Transylvania. The wives and daughters of all the counsellors present accompanied the unfortunate lady, foremost among them being the Princess and Dame Michael Teleki, on whose shoulders she leaned; and last of all came old Dame Bethlen, with dove-white hair. All the most respectable matrons, the loveliest wives, and fairest maidens of the realm were there.

The unfortunate Princess, whose pale face was full of suffering, advanced on the arms of her supporters towards the throne of the Prince. Her knees tottered beneath her, her whole body trembled like a leaf, she opened her lips, but no sound proceeded from them.

"Courage, my child," whispered Anna Bornemissza, pressing her hand; whereupon the tears suddenly burst from the eyes of the unfortunate woman, and, breaking from her escort, she flung herself at the feet of the Prince, embracing his knees with her convulsive arms, and raising towards him her tear-stained face, exclaimed with a heart-rending voice: "Mercy! ... Mercy!"

A cold dumbness sat on every lip; it was impossible for a time to hear anything but the woman's deep sobbing. The Prince sat like a statue on his throne, the steps of which Mariska Sturdza moistened with her tears. The silence was painful to everyone, yet nobody dared to break it.

Teleki smoothed away his forelock from his broad forehead, but he could not smooth away the wrinkles which had settled there. He regretted that he had given occasion to this scene.

"Mercy!" sobbed the poor woman once more, and half unconsciously her hand slipped from Apafi's knees. Aranka Béldi rushed towards her and rested her declining head on her own pretty childlike bosom.

Then Anna Bornemissza stepped forward, and after throwing a stony glance upon all the counsellors present, who cast down their eyes before her, looked Apafi straight in the face with her own bright, penetrating, soul-searching eyes, till her astonished husband was constrained to return her glance almost without knowing it.

"My petition is a brief one," said Dame Apafi in a low, deep, though perfectly audible voice. "An unfortunate woman, whom the Lord of Destiny did not deem to be sufficiently chastened by a single blow, has lost in one day her husband, her home, and her property; she implores us now for bare life. You see her lying in the dust asking of you nothing more than leave to rest—a petition which Dzengis Khan's executioners would have granted her. That is all she asks, but we demand more. The destiny of Transylvania is in your hands, but its honour is ours also; ye are summoned to decide whether our children are to be happy or miserable. But speak freely to us and say if you wish them to be honourable men or cowards. And I ask you which of us women would care to bear the name of a Kornis, a Csaky, or an Apafi, if posterity shall say of the bearers of these names that they surrendered an innocent woman to her heathen pursuers and constrained their own sons thereby to renounce the names of their fathers? Look not so darkly upon me, Master Michael Teleki, for my soul is dark enough without that. An unhappy woman is on her knees before you, hoping that she will find you to be men. The women of Transylvania stand before you, hoping to find you patriots. We beg you to have compassion for the sake of the honour of our children."

Teleki, upon whom the eyes of the Princess had flashed fiercely during the speech, as if accepting the challenge, answered in a cold, stony voice:

"Here, madam, we dispense justice only, not mercy or honour."

"Justice!" exclaimed Anna. "What! If a husband has offended, is his innocent wife, whose only fault is that she loves the fugitive, is she, I say, to suffer punishment in his stead? Where is the justice of that?"

"Justice is often another name for necessity."

"Then who are all ye whom I see here? Are ye the chief men of Transylvania or Turkish slaves? This is what I ask, and what we should all of us very much like to know: is this the council chamber of the free and constitutional state of Transylvania, or is it the ante-chamber of Olaj Beg?"

The gentlemen present preserved a deep silence. This was a question to which they could not give a direct answer.

"I demand an answer to my question," cried Dame Apafi in a loud voice.

"And what good will the answer do you, my lady?" inquired Teleki, pressing his index-finger to his lips.

"I shall at any rate know whether the place in which we now stand is worthy of us."

"It is not worthy, my lady. The present is no time for the Magyars to be proud that they dwell in Transylvania; we are ashamed to be the responsible ministers of a down-trodden, deserted, and captive nation. This your Highness ought to know as well as any of us, for it was a Turkish Pasha who placed your husband on the Prince's seat. And, assuredly, it would be a far less grief to us to lose our heads than to bend them humbly beneath the derisive honour of being the leaders of a people lying among ruins. But, at the most, history will only be able to say of us that we humbly bowed before necessity, that we bore the yoke of the stranger without dignity, that running counter to the feelings of our hearts and the persuasions of our minds, we covered our faces with shame, and yet that that very shame and dishonour saved the life of Transylvania, and that poor spot of earth which remained in our hands saved the whole country from a bloody persecution. We are the victims of the times, madam; help us to conceal the blush of shame and share it with us. There, you have the answer to your question."

Dame Apafi grew as pale as death, her head drooped, and she clasped her hands together.

"So we have come to this at last? Formerly valour was the national virtue, now it is cowardice. What is our own fate likely to be if we reject this poor woman? What has happened to-day to a Princess Ghyka might easily happen to the wives of Kornis and Csaky and Béldi to-morrow. For their husbands' faults they may be carried away captive, brought to the block, if only God does not have mercy upon them, for you yourselves say that this would be right. Why do you look at us? You, Béldi, Kornis, Teleki, Csaky, Bethlen, here stand your wives and daughters. Draw forth your coward swords, and if you dare not slay men, at least slay women; kill them before it occurs to the Turkish Padishah to drag them by the hair into his harem."

As Dame Apafi mentioned the names of the men one after another, their wives and daughters, loudly weeping, rushed towards them, and hiding their heads in their bosoms, with passionate sobs, begged for the unfortunate Princess, and behold the eyes of the men also filled with tears, and nothing could be heard in the room but the sobbing of the husbands mingled with the sobbing of their wives.

On Teleki's breast also hung the gentle Judith Veér and his own daughter Flora, and the great stony-hearted counsellor stood trembling between them; and although his cast-iron features assumed with an effort a rigorous expression, nevertheless a couple of unrestrainable tears suddenly trickled down the furrows of his face.

The Prince turned aside on his throne, and covering his face, murmured: "No more, Anna! No more!"

"Oh, Apafi!" cried the Princess bitterly; "if perish I must it shall not be by your hand. Anna Bornemissza has strength enough to meet death if there be no choice between that and shame. Be content, if Olaj Beg demands my death, I shall at least be spared the unpleasantness of falling at your feet in supplication. And now, pronounce your decision, but remember that every word you say will resound throughout the Christian world."

Teleki dried the tears from his face, made his wife and daughter withdraw, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion:

"In vain should I deny it, my tears reveal that I have a feeling heart. I am a man, I am a father, and a husband. If I were nothing but Michael Teleki, I should know how to sacrifice myself on behalf of persecuted innocence; and if my colleagues around me were only companions-in-arms, I should say to them, gird on your swords, lie in wait, rush upon the Turkish escort of the Princess, and deliver her out of their hands—if we perish, a blessing will be upon us. But in this place, in these chairs, it is not ourselves who feel and speak. The life, the death of all Transylvania depends upon us. And my last word is that we incontinently deliver up Mariska Sturdza to the ambassador of the Porte. If my colleagues decide otherwise, I will agree to it, I will take my share of the responsibility, but I shall have saved my soul anyhow. Speak, gentlemen, and if you like, vote against me."

The silence of death ensued, nobody spoke a word.

"What, nobody speaks?" cried Dame Apafi in amazement. "Nobody! Ah! let us leave this place! There is not a man in the whole principality."

And with these words the lady withdrew from the council chamber. Her attendants followed her sorrowfully, one by one, tearfully bidding adieu to the unfortunate Princess. Aranka Béldi was the last to part from her. During the whole of this mournful scene her eyes had remained tearless, but she had knelt down the whole time by Mariska's side, holding her closely embraced, and assuring her that God would deliver her, she must fear nothing.

When all the ladies had withdrawn, and Dame Béldi beckoned her daughter to follow her, she tenderly kissed the face of her friend and whispered in her ear: "I have still hope, fear not, we will save you!" and smiling at her with her bright blue eyes like an angel of consolation, got up and withdrew.

The Princess, tearless, speechless, then allowed herself to be conducted away by the officers of the council chamber.

The men remained sitting upon their chairs, downcast and sorrowful. Every bosom was oppressed, and every heart was empty, and the thought of their delivered fatherland was a cold consolation for the grief they felt that the Government of Transylvania should fling an innocent woman back into the throat of the monster which was pursuing her.

The silence still continued when, suddenly, the door was violently burst open, and shoving aside the guards right and left, Yffim Beg entered the room. He had been sent by Hassan Pasha to levy contributions on the Prince and the people.