Flora's calculations were most just. Tököly, in those days, stood high in the favour of the Sultan, was on terms of intimacy with all the pashas and viziers, and very frequently a casual word from him had more effect than other people's supplications. And Flora showed a fine knowledge of character when she appealed to the magnanimity of the very man who had so grievously offended her, feeling certain that just for that very reason, although Tököly might not recognise the force of his former obligations, he would be magnanimous enough instantly to grant a favour to the lady who asked him for it, especially as the woman to be liberated had been the original cause of their separation.

Aranka kissed her friend over and over again when she had read this letter, and then she suddenly grew sad.

"Oh, my letter is not nearly so pretty, I am ashamed to show it to you."

Flora looked at her friend with gentle bashfulness as Aranka handed over her letter, and blushed like a red rose all the time she was perusing it.

The girls entrusted these letters to faithful servants, sending the first letter to Temesvár, where Tököly was then residing, and the second to Feriz Beg, who, as we know, lay ill at Buda.

The news first reached Tököly at supper-time. On receiving the letter and reading it through, he at once put down his glass, girded on his sword, and telling his comrades that he was about to take a little stroll, he mounted his horse and vanished from the town.

Feriz was lying half-delirious on his carpet. His health mended but slowly, as is often the case with men of strong constitutions, and the tidings of the smallest disaster which befell the Turks threw him into such a state of excitement that a relapse was incessantly to be feared, so that at last they would not allow any messages at all to be brought to him, for even when they brought good news to him he always managed to look at them from the worst side, so that news of any kind was absolute poison to him. At last his Greek physician made it a rule to read every letter addressed to his patient beforehand; and if it contained the least disturbing element, he let Feriz know nothing at all about it. What especially annoyed Feriz were any letters from women, and these were simply sent back.

Thus Aranka's letter might very easily have had the fate of being suppressed altogether had it not been entrusted to Master Gregory Biró, a shrewd and famous Szekler courier, whose honourable peculiarity it was to go wherever he was sent, and do whatsoever he was told, be the obstacles in the way what they might. If he had been told to give something to the Sultan of Turkey, he would have wormed his way to him somehow—all inquiries, all threats would have been in vain; he would have insisted on seeing and speaking to him if his head had to be cut off the next moment.

One day, then, worthy Gregory Biró appeared before the kiosk of Feriz Beg and asked to be admitted.

At these words a Moor popped out, and, seizing him by the collar, conducted him to a room where a half-dressed man was standing before a fire cooking black potions in all sorts of queer-shaped crooked glasses. The Moor presented Gregory to the doctor as another messenger.

"What is your name?" he asked, venomously regarding him from over his shoulder, and treating him to the most terrifying grimace he could think of.

"Gregory Biró," replied the Szekler, nodding his head twice as was his custom.

"Gregory, Gregory, what do you want here?"

"I want to see Feriz Beg."

"I am he; what have you brought?"

Gregory twisted his mug derisively at these words, and immediately reflected that the business was beginning badly, for the person before him did not in the least resemble Feriz Beg as described to him.

"I have brought a letter—from a pretty girl."

"Give it to me quickly, and be off."

Gregory twisted round his short jacket that he might get at his knapsack; but while he was fumbling inside it he was cute enough to extract the contents of the letter from its cover, and only handed the empty envelope to the doctor.

"'Tis well, Gregory, now you may go," said he gently, and without so much as opening the envelope he thrust it into the fire and held the blazing paper under a retort which he wanted to warm.

"Is that the way they read letters here?" asked Gregory, scratching his head, and he crept to the door; but there he stopped, and while half his body remained outside he thrust his arm up to the elbow into the long pocket of his szüre,17 drew from thence a diamond-clasp, and holding it between two fingers cried: "Look! I found this ring on the road not far from here, perchance Feriz Beg has lost it."

The doctor took the splendid jewel, and feeling convinced that only a nobleman could have lost such a thing, he said he would show it to Feriz Beg immediately.

"Ho! then you are not Feriz Beg after all!" cried the humorist.

The doctor burst out laughing.

"Gregory! Gregory! don't jest with me. I am the cook, and if I like you I will let you stay to dinner."

Gregory pulled a wry face at the sight of the doctor's stews.

The doctor thereupon took in the diamond-clasp to Feriz Beg, after bidding the Moor, whom he left behind him, not to drink anything out of the glasses standing there, or it would make him ill.

Shortly afterwards the doctor returned in great astonishment, planted himself in front of Gregory with frowning eyebrows and roared at him in a voice which alarmed even the Szekler:

"Where did you get that jewel from?"

"Where did I get it from?" said Gregory, shrugging his shoulders; he was very pleased they wanted to frighten him.

"Come, speak!—quick!"

"Not now."

"Why not?" snapped the doctor firmly.

"Not to you, if you were to break me on the wheel."

"I'll bastinado you."

"Not if you impaled me, I say."

"Gregory! If you anger me, I'll make you drink three pints of physic."

"They are here, eh!" exclaimed Gregory, approaching the hearth, skipping among the flasks of the doctor, and seizing one of them, but he had the sense to choose alcohol, and dragging it from its case, sipped away at it till there was not a drop of it left.

"Leave a little in it, you dog!" yelled the doctor, snatching the flask away from him, "don't drink it all!"

"I'll drink up the whole shop, but speak I won't unless I like."

The doctor perceived that he had met his match.

"Then will you speak before Feriz Beg?" he asked.

"I'll speak the whole truth then."

So there was nothing for it but to open Feriz Beg's door before Gregory and shove him inside.

Feriz Beg was sitting there on a couch, a feverish flush was burning upon his pale face; he still held the jewel in his hand, and his eyes were fastened upon it; just such a similar clasp he had given to Aranka Béldi when they were both children together.

"How did you come by this jewel?" inquired Feriz in a soft, mournful voice.

"She to whom you gave it gave it to me that you might believe she sent me to you."

At these words Feriz Beg arose with flashing eyes.

"She sent you to me! She! So she remembers me! She thinks of me sometimes, then."

"She sent you a letter through me."

Feriz Beg stretched out a tremulous hand.

"Where is the letter?"

"I flung it into the fire," interjected the doctor.

"How dared you do that?" exclaimed Feriz angrily.

But the doctor was not afraid.

"I am your doctor, and every letter injures your health."

"Panajot! you are an impertinent fellow!" thundered Feriz, with a face of inflamed purple; and he smote the table such a blow with his fist that all the medicine bottles tumbled off it.

"Don't be angry, sir!" said Gregory, twisting his moustache at both ends, while Panajot coolly swept together the fragments of the broken bottles and boxes on the floor; "the worthy man did not burn the letter but only the envelope. I had gumption enough not to entrust the inside of it to him."

And with these words he drew from his pouch a letter written on all four sides of the sheet and handed it to Feriz, who before reading it covered with kisses the lines traced by that dear hand, while Master Panajot looked at Gregory in amazement.

"Go along, you old fox, Gregory," said he; "next time you come, I'll throw you into the fire to boot."

But Gregory, highly delighted, feasted his eyes on the youth's face all the time he was reading the letter.

As if his soul had changed within him, as if he had passed from the troubles of this world to the joys of Paradise, every feature of the youth's face became smiling and joyful. The farther he read the brighter grew his eyes; and when he came to the last word he pressed the leaf to his heart with an expression of the keenest rapture, and held it there a long time, closing his eyes as if in a happy dream, as if he had shut them to see no other object when he conjured up her image before his mind.

Master Panajot was alarmed, fancying some mischief had happened to the invalid, and turned upon Gregory with gnashing teeth:

"What infernal document have you brought along with you, Gregory?"

Feriz meanwhile smilingly nodded his head as if he would thank some invisible shape, and whispered softly:

"So it shall be, so it shall be."

"I'm afraid you feel bad, my master," said the doctor.

Feriz looked up, and his face had grown quite round.

"I?—I feel very well. Take your drugs from my table, and bring me wine and costly meats dear to the eyes and mouth. I would rejoice my soul and my palate. Call hither musicians, and open wide my gate. Pile flowers upon my windows, I would be drunk with the fragrance of the flowers that the breeze brings to me."

Panajot fancied that the invalid had gone out of his mind, and yet full of the joy of life he rose from his couch, laid aside his warm woollen garment, put on instead a light silk robe, wound round his head a turban of the finest linen instead of the warm shaggy shawl, and he who had hitherto been brooding and fretting apathetically, had suddenly become as light as a bird, paced the room with rapid steps, with proudly erected face, from which the livid yellow of sickness had suddenly disappeared, and his eyes sparkled like fire.

Panajot could not account for the change, and really believed that the patient had fallen into some dangerous paroxysm and in this persuasion bawled for all the members of the negro family. The old Egyptian door-keeper, a young Nubian huntsman, a Chinese cook, trampling upon each other in their haste, all rushed into the room at his cry.

Feriz Beg, with boyish mirth, stopped them all before the doctor could say a word.

"Thou, Ali," he said to the old door-keeper, "go to the mosque and cast this silver among the poor that they may give thanks to Allah for my recovery. And thou, O cook! prepare a dinner for twelve persons, looking to it that there is wine and flowers and music; and thou, my huntsman, bring forth the fieriest steed and put upon him the most costly wrappings; and ye others, take this worthy doctor and lock him up among his drugs that he may not get away, and call hither all my friends and acquaintances, and tell them we will celebrate the festival of my recovery."

The servants with shouts of joy fulfilled the commands of Feriz. First of all they shoved good Panajot into his drug-brewing kitchen, and then they dispersed to do their master's bidding.

Feriz then took the hand of the Szekler who had brought the message and shook it violently, saying to him in a loud firm voice:

"Thou must remain with me till I have accomplished thy mistress's commands. For she has laid a command upon me which I must needs obey."

Meanwhile, the ostlers had brought forward the good charger. It was a fiery white Arab, ten times as restless as usual because of its long rest; not an instant were its feet still. Two men caught it by the head and were scarce able to hold it, its pink, wide open nostrils blew forth jets of steam, and through its smooth white mane could be seen the ruddy hue of the full blood.

The unfortunate Panajot poked his head through the round window of his laboratory, and from thence regarded with stupefaction his whilom invalid bestride the back of the wild charger, that same invalid who, if anyone knocked at his door an hour or two before, complained that his head was bursting.

The charger pranced and caracolled and the doctor with tears in his eyes besought the bystanders if they had any sense of feeling at all not to let the Beg ride on such a winged griffin. They only laughed at him. Feriz flung himself into the saddle as lightly as a grasshopper. The two stablemen let go the reins, the steed rose up erect on his hind legs and bucked along as a biped for several yards. Then the Beg struck the sharp stirrups into its flank, and the steed, snorting loudly, bowed its head over its fore-quarters and galloped off like lightning.

The doctor followed him with a lachrymose eye, every moment expecting that Feriz would fall dead from his horse; but he sat in the saddle as if grown to it, as he had always been wont to do. When the road meandered off towards the fortress he turned into it and disappeared from the astonished gaze of those who were looking after him.

A few moments later the horseman was in the courtyard of the fortress. He demanded an interview with the general, and was told that he was receiving nobody. He applied therefore to his favourite eunuch instead. He arrived at the fortress with a full purse, he quitted it with an empty one; but he now knew everything he wanted to know, viz., that Hassan had entrusted the captive Princess to Azrael; that the two girls were tied by the hands to one chain; that he greatly feared someone would come and filch the Princess from him; that he got up ten times every night to see whether anyone had stolen into the palace; and that since Mariska had been placed in his hands he had drunk no wine and smoked no opium, and would eat of no dish save from the hands of his favourite damsel.

Feriz Beg knew quite enough. Again he mounted his horse and galloped back to his kiosk, taking the neighbouring mosque on his way, on reaching which he called from his horse to the old dervish, who immediately appeared in answer to his summons.

"Tell her who was wont to visit me in thy stead that I want to see and speak to her early to-morrow morning."

And with that he threw some gold ducats to the dervish and galloped off.

The dervish looked after him in astonishment, and picking up the ducats, instantly toddled off to the fortress, prowled about the gate all night, met Hajat at early dawn, and gave her the message for Azrael.

This was the joyful tidings which the odalisk had received in response to her first prayer, and which had made her so happy.

Next morning she ordered her servants to admit none but the old dervish, and to close every door as soon as he had entered.

Shortly afterwards, Azrael with her retinue of servants arrived at the mosque, and a few moments after she had disappeared behind the trellised railings the form of the old dervish appeared in the street, hobbling along with his crutch till he reached the kiosk. Feriz Beg perceived him through the window, and sent everyone from the room that he might remain alone with him.

The dervish entered, closed the door behind him, let down the tapestries, took off his false beard and false raiment, and there before Feriz—tremulous, blushing, and shamefaced—stood the odalisk.

"Thou hast sent for me," she stammered softly, "and behold—here I am!"

"I would beg something of thee," said Feriz, half leaning on his elbow.

"Demand my life!" cried the odalisk impetuously, "and I will lay it at thy feet!" and at these words she flung herself at the foot of the divan on which the youth was sitting.

"I ask thee for nothing less than thy life. Once thou saidst that thou didst love me. Is that true now also?"

"Is it not possible to love thee, and yet live?"

"Say then that I might love thee if I knew thee better. Good! I wish to know thee."

The damsel regarded the youth tremblingly, waiting to hear what he would say to her.

The youth rose and said in a solemn, lofty voice:

"In my eyes not the roses of the cheeks, or the fire of the eyes, or bodily charms make a woman beautiful, but the beauty of the soul, for I recognise a soul in woman, and she is no mere plaything for the pastime of men. What enchants me is noble feeling, self-sacrifice, loyalty, resignation. Canst thou die for him whom thou lovest?"

"It would be rapture to me."

"Canst thou die for her whom thou hatest in order to prove how thou dost love?"

"I do not understand," said Azrael hesitating.

"Thou wilt understand immediately. There is a captive woman in Hassan's castle who is entrusted to thy charge. This captive woman must be liberated. Wilt thou liberate her?"

At these words Azrael's heart began to throb feverishly. All the blood vanished from her face. She looked at the youth in despair, and said with a gasp:

"Dost thou love this woman?"

"Suppose that I love her and thou dost free her all the same."

The woman collapsed at the feet of Feriz Beg, and embracing his knees, said, sobbing loudly:

"Oh, say that thou dost not love her, say that thou dost not know her, and I will release her—I will release her for thee at the risk of my own life."

The reply of Feriz was unmercifully cold.

"Believe that I love her, and in that belief sacrifice thyself for her. This night I will wait for her wherever thou desirest, and will take her away if thou wilt fetch her. It was thy desire to know me, and I would know thee also. Thou art free to come or go as thou choosest."

The odalisk hid her tearful face in the carpets on the floor, and writhed convulsively to the feet of Feriz, moaning piteously.

"Oh, Feriz, thou art merciless to me."

"Thou wouldst not be the first who had sacrificed her life for love."

"But none so painfully as I."

"And art thou not proud to do so, then?"

At these words the woman raised a pale face, her large eyes had a moonlight gleam like the eyes of a sleep-walker. She seized the hand of Feriz in order to help herself to rise.

"Yes, I am proud to die for thee. I will show that here—within me—there is a heart which can feel nobly—which can break for that which it loves, for that which kills it—that pride shall be mine. I will do it."

And then, as if she wished to clear away the gathering clouds from her thoughts, she passed her hand across her forehead and continued in a lower, softer voice:

"This night, when the muezzin calls the hour of midnight, be in front of the fortress-garden on thy fleetest horse. Thou wilt not have to wait long; there is a tiny door there which conceals a hidden staircase which leads from the fortress to the trenches. I will come thither and bring her with me."

Feriz involuntarily pressed the hand of the girl kneeling before him, and felt a burning pressure in his hand, and when he looked at the young face before him he saw the smile of a sublime rapture break forth upon her radiantly joyful features.

Azrael parted from Feriz an altogether transformed being, another heart was throbbing in her breast, another blood was flowing to her heart, earth and heaven had a different colour to her eyes. She believed that the youth would love her if she died for him, and that thought made her happy.

But Feriz summoned Gregory Biró, and having recompensed him, sent him back to his mistress with the message:

"Thy wish hath been accomplished."

So sure was he that Azrael would keep her word—if only she were alive to do so.

Hassan Pasha waited and waited for Azrael. If the odalisk was not with him he felt as helpless as a child who has strayed away from its nurse. In the days immediately following the lost battle, the shame attaching to him and his agonized fear for his life had quite confused his mind; and the drugs employed at that time, combined with restless nights, the prayers of the dervishes, the joys of the harem and opium, had completed the ruin of his nervous system. If he were left alone for an hour he immediately fainted, and when he awoke it was in panic terror—he gazed around him like one in the grip of a hideous nightmare. For some days he would leave off his opium, but as is generally the case when one too suddenly abandons one's favourite drug, the whole organism threatened to collapse, and the renunciation of the opium did even more mischief than its enjoyment.

When Azrael rejoined him he was asleep, the chain by which he held the Princess had fallen from his hand and when he awoke there was a good opportunity of persuading him that Mariska had escaped from him while he slept.

Hassan looked long and blankly at her, it seemed as if he would need some time wherein to rally his scattered senses sufficiently to recognise anyone. But Azrael was able to exercise a strange magnetic influence over him, and he would awake from the deepest sleep whenever she approached him.

Azrael sat down beside the couch and embraced the Vizier, while Mariska, with tender bashfulness, turned her head away from them; and Hassan, observing it, drew Azrael's head to his lips and whispered in her ear:

"I have had evil dreams again. Hamaliel, the angel of dreams, appeared before me, and gave me to understand that if I did not kill this woman, he would kill me. My life is poisoned because she is here. My mind is not in proper order. I often forget who I am. I fancy I am living at Stambul, and looking out of the window am amazed that I do not see the Bosphorus. This woman must die. This will cure me. I will kill her this very day."

Mariska did not hear these words, all her attention was fixed upon the babbling of her child; and Azrael, with an enchanting smile, flung herself on the breast of the Vizier, embracing his waggling head and covering his face with kisses, and the smile of her large dark eyes illuminated his gloomy soul.

Poor Hassan! He fancies that that enchanting smile, that embrace, those kisses are meant for him, but the shape of a handsome youth hovers before the mind of the odalisk, and that is why she kisses Hassan so tenderly, embraces him so ardently, and smiles so enchantingly. She fancies 'tis her ideal whom she sees and embraces.

Ah, the extravagances of love!

CHAPTER XVIII.
SPORT WITH A BLIND MAN.

But these Azrael dressed up one by one to look like splendid magnates, village magistrates, and soldiers; put sealed letters, purses, and banners in their hands, and placing Hassan in the reception-room on a lofty divan, sat down with the Princess on stools at his feet, and ordered the door-keepers to admit the disguised slaves one by one.

The mockery was flagrant, but was there among them all any who dared to enlighten Hassan? Who would undertake to undeceive him when a mere nod from Azrael might annihilate before the Vizier could realise that they were making sport of him? It was a fleet-winged demon fooling a sluggish mammoth with strength enough to crush her but with no wings to enable it to get at her, and the rabble always takes the part of the mocker, not of the mocked, especially if the former be lucky and the latter unlucky.

The loutish slaves came one by one into the room, and Hassan turned his face towards them, remaining in that position while Azrael told him who they were and what they wanted.

"This is Ferhad Aga," said the odalisk, pointing at a stable-man, "who, hearing of thy martial prowess in all four corners of the world has come hither begging thee with veiled countenance to include him among thy armour-bearers."

Hassan most graciously extended his hand to the stable-man and granted him his petition.

Azrael next presented to Hassan a cook from a foreign court, who, dressed in a large round mantle of cloth of silver, might very well have passed for a burgomaster of Debreczen, and whose shoulders bent beneath the weight of two sacks of gold and silver from Hassan's own treasury.

"This is the magistrate of the city of Debreczen," said the odalisk, "who hath brought thee a little gift in the name of the municipality, with the petition that when thou dost become the Pasha of Transylvania thou wilt not forget them."

Hassan smiled at the word money, had the sacks placed before him, thrust his arms into them up to his very wrists with great satisfaction, had their contents emptied at his feet, and dismissed the envoy with a hearty pressure of the hand.

And now followed a negro, who brought some recaptured Turkish banners from the bed of a river which did not exist, in which the Turks had drowned the whole army of Montecuculi.

Hassan was now in such a weak state of mind that he no longer recognised his own people in their unwonted garments, and the more extraordinary the things reported to him the more readily he believed them.

And so Azrael kept on exhibiting to him envoys, couriers, and captains till, at last, it came to the turn of the envoy of the Grand Vizier, whose part the odalisk had entrusted to a clever eunuch who had been instructed to present to Hassan a sealed firman, which Azrael was to read because Hassan could not see the letters. It was to the effect that Hassan was to endeavour to preserve the life of the captive Princess, as the Grand Vizier himself intended in a few days to take her over alive.

When thus it seemed good to Azrael that the most striking scene of the whole game should begin she exclaimed in a loud voice to the door-keepers:

"Admit the ambassador of the Grand Vizier with the message from the Sublime Padishah!"

The guards drew back the curtains and in came—Olaj Beg!

"Truly I must needs admit," said he turning towards the odalisk, who stood there petrified with fear and amazement, "truly I must admit that thou art blessed with the faculty of seeing through walls and reading fast-closed letters, for thou hast announced me before I appeared officially and thou hast seen the firman hidden in my bosom before I have had time to produce it."

Azrael arose. She felt her blood throbbing in her brain for terror. At that moment she had that keen sensation of danger when every atom of the body—heart, brain, hands, and the smallest nerve—sees, hears, and thinks.

"Thou hast brought the firman of the Sultan?" she inquired of Olaj Beg with wrapt attention.

"Thou knowest also what is written in it, O enchantress!" said Olaj, in a tone of homage, "therefore ask not."

There was something in the yellow face of Olaj Beg which made him most formidable, most menacing at the very time when he seemed to be utterly abject in his humility.

"What doth the Sublime Sultan command?" inquired Hassan, gazing abstractedly in front of him.

"That thou prepare a scaffold in the courtyard of thy palace by to-morrow morning."

"For whom?" inquired Hassan in alarm. It was curious that it was he who trembled at this word, and not the Princess.

"That is the secret of to-morrow. Thou shalt break open and read this firman to-morrow, in it thou wilt find who is to die to-morrow."

At these words Olaj Beg looked at the faces of all who were present, as if he would read their innermost thoughts, but in vain. He recognised none of those on whom his eyes fell. Although many of them seemed to be great men he could not remember meeting any of them in the Empire of the Grand Turk; and the face of Azrael was as cold and motionless as marble, he could read nought from that.

But Azrael had already read the sealed firman through the eyes of Olaj Beg.

She had read it, and it said that if by to-morrow morning the Princess was not set free then the scaffold would be erected for her, but if she had escaped, then it would be raised for Hassan and for whomsoever had set her free.

"I must hasten to set her free," she thought.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE NIGHT BEFORE DEATH.

The hands of Hassan Pasha trembled unusually when that evening he locked the golden padlocks on the hands of Azrael and Mariska. A hundred times he tapped the key hidden in his girdle to convince himself that it had not fallen out.

Scarcely had he left the two women alone than he came back to them again to ascertain whether he had really locked their hands together, for he had forgotten all about it by the time he had reached the door.

Then he came back a second time, looked all round the room, tapped the walls repeatedly, for he was afraid or had dreamt that there was another door somewhere which led out of the room. However, he convinced himself at last that there was not. Then he went to the window and looked out. There was a fall of fifteen feet to the bastions, and the ditch below was planted with sharp stakes; all round the room there was nothing whatever which could serve as a rope. The curtains were all of down and feathers; the dresses were of the lightest transparent material; the shawls which formed Azrael's turban and were twisted round her body were the finest conceivable; and the garments the odalisk actually wore were of silk, and so light that they stuck to the skin everywhere.

Azrael saw through the mind of the Vizier.

"Why dost though look at me?" she exclaimed aloud so that he trembled all over; "thou dost suspect me. If thou fearest this woman whom thou hast confided to me, take and guard her thyself."

"Azrael," said Hassan meekly, "be not angry with me, at least not now."

"Thou hast never suspected me, then?"

"Have I not always loved thee? If even thou didst want my life would I not trust it with thee?"

"Then wander not about the room so. Go and rest!"

"Rest to-night? The Messenger of Death stands before the door."

"What care I about the Messenger of Death? I know when I am going to die! And till then I will not lower my eyes before Death."

"And when will Hassan die?" asked the Vizier, seizing the hand of his favourite and watching eagerly for her answer with parted lips.

"Thou wilt survive me a day and no longer," said Azrael. There was a tremulousness in the intonation of her voice. She felt that what she said was true.

The tears trickled from Hassan's face, and he covered it with his hands.

Then the imbecile old man kissed the robe of the odalisk again and again, and folding her in his ardent embrace, actually sobbed over her. And he kept on babbling:

"Thou wilt die before me?"

"So it is written in the book of the Future," said Azrael proudly; "so long as thou seest me alive, have no fear of Death! But the sound of the horn of the Angel of Death which summons me away will also be a signal for thee to make ready."

Hassan, having dried his tears, quitted Azrael's room, and on reaching his own, sank down upon a divan, and was immediately overcome by sleep.

When he had gone, Mariska knelt down before the bed on which her little child was softly sleeping, and drawing a little ivory cross from her breast, began to pray.

Azrael touched her hand.

"Pray not now, thou wilt have time to pray later."

Mariska looked at her in wonder.

"I? Are not the hours of my life numbered?"

"No. Listen to my words and act accordingly. I will free thee."

The Princess was astonished, she fancied she was dreaming.

The odalisk now drew a small fine steel file from her girdle, and, seizing the Princess's hand, began to file the chain from off it.

After the first few rubs the sharp file bit deeply into the silver circlet, but suddenly it stopped, and, press it as hard as she would, it would bite the chain no more.

"What is this? it won't go on. What is the chain made of? Even if it were of steel, another steel would file it."

Azrael hastily filed right round the whole of the link which Hassan's smith had thought good to form of silver only on the outside, thinking that the fraud would never be discovered, and behold, the hard impervious substance which resisted the file was nothing but—glass.

"Ah!" said Azrael, "all the better for us, the work will be quicker;" and seizing an iron candlestick, she broke in pieces with a single blow the whole of the glass chain which was only covered by a light varnish of silver, only the two locked golden manacles remained in their hands.

"We shall be ready all the sooner," she whispered to Mariska, "now we must make haste and get you off."

But Mariska still stood before her like one who knows not what is befalling her.

"Hast thou thought how we are to escape?" she inquired of Azrael. "The guards of Hassan Pasha stand at every door, and all the doors have been locked by his own hand. In front of the gates of the fortress the sentinels have been doubled. I heard what commands he gave."

"I have nought to do with doors or guards; we are going to escape through the window."

Mariska looked at Azrael incredulously; she fancied she had gone mad. She could see nothing in the room by which they could descend from the window, and below stood the thickly planted sharp stakes.

"Help me to let down this gobæa ladder!" said Azrael, and quick as a squirrel herself, she leaped on the edge of the great porcelain tub, and thrust aside the vigorous shoots of the plant from its natural ladder within, which grew right up to the roof and thence descended again to its own roots.

Mariska began to see that her companion knew what she was about. She hastened to give her assistance, lowered the pliable trunk, and, looking round to see if anyone was watching, bent the branches towards the window.

But still it was too short. The longest creepers only reached to the edges of the palisade, and one could not count upon the green sprouts at the end of the creepers. Even if the ladder which formed the flower were attached to it, it would still not reach to the bottom of the trench.

Azrael looked around the room to see if she could find anything. Suddenly she had hit upon it.

"Give me those scissors," she said to Mariska, and when the latter had returned to her, the odalisk had already let down her flowing tresses. Four long locks as black as night, reaching below her knee, the crown of a woman's beauty which make men rejoice in her, were twining there on the floor.

"Give me the scissors!" she said to Mariska.

"Wouldst thou cut off thy hair?" asked the Princess, holding back.

"Yes, yes, what does it matter? It is wanted for the rope, and it will be quite strong enough."

"Rather cut off mine!" said Mariska. With noble emulation she took from her head her small pearl haube, and loosened her own tresses, which, if not so long and so full of colour, at least rivalled those of her comrade in quantity.

"Good; the two together will make the rope stronger," said Azrael; and with that the two ladies began clipping off their luxurious locks one by one with the little scissors. One marvellously beautiful tress after another flowed from the head of the odalisk. When the last had fallen, a tear-drop also followed it.

Then she picked up the splendid tresses and began plaiting them together into strong knots.

"Wouldst thou ever have thought," said Azrael, "that the locks of thy hair would be so intermingled?"

Mariska gratefully pressed the hand of the odalisk.

"How can I ever thank you for your goodness?"

"Think not of it. Fate orders it so—and someone else," she muttered softly.

And now the attached ladder was long enough to reach the bottom of the palisades. Then they pitched down all the pillows and cushions of the divans till they covered the sharp stakes, so that their points might not hurt the fugitives. Moreover, Azrael tied the tough shoots of the gobæa to the cross piece of the window with the wraps of her turban and girdle.

"And now let me go first," said the odalisk, when all was ready; "if the branches of the creeper do not break beneath me, then thou canst come boldly after me, for thou and the child together are not heavier than I am."

The sky was dark and obscured by clouds; no one saw a white shape descending from one of the black windows of the fortress down the wall, lower and lower, till at last it got to the bottom and vanished in the depths of the ditch.

Mariska was waiting above there with a beating heart till the odalisk had descended; a tug at the gobæa-rope informed her that Azrael was already below, and Mariska could come after her.

A supplicating sigh to God ascended from the anxious bosom of the Princess at that supreme moment of trial; then she fastened to her breast with the folds of her garment the little one, who, fortunately, was still sound asleep, and stepping from the window entrusted herself to the yawning abyss below.

And, indeed, she had need of the most confident trust in God during this hazardous experiment, for if the child had awoke, the Komparajis pacing the bastions would have heard his tearful little wail at once, and it would have been all over with the fugitives.

Nothing happened. Mariska reached the ditch in safety, together with her child. Azrael assisted her to descend, and then they began to creep along among the trenches on the river's bank. It was not advisable to clamber upon the trenches, as there they might have encountered a sentinel at any moment.

At last they came to the end of the ditch where two bastions joined together, forming a little oblique opening, through which one could look down on the town of Pesth.

Before the little opening stood a Komparaji leaning on his long lance. As his back was turned towards them, he did not notice the women, while they started back in terror when they saw him. The man stood right in front of the opening completely barring their way, and was gaping at Pesth, facing the steep declivity.

Azrael quickly caught Mariska's hand and whispered in her ear:

"Remain here! Sit down with the child, and see that he does not make a noise."

And with that, quitting her companion and pressing against the wall of the bastion, she slowly and noiselessly began creeping along behind the back of the Komparaji.

The sentinel remained standing there, as motionless as a statue, gazing at the Danube flying in front of him, when suddenly, like the panther leaping upon its prey, the odalisk leaped upon the Komparaji, and before he had time to call out, pushed him so violently that he plunged over into the abyss.

Then quickly seizing Mariska's hand, the odalisk exclaimed:

"And now forward quickly!"

Like two spirits the forms of the women flitted across the bastions. In Azrael's hand was the key of the castle garden; in a few moments they reached the subterranean staircase, and when Azrael had locked the door behind her she turned to Mariska and said:

"Now thou canst pray, for thou art saved."

The report had already spread through the two towns that early at dawn someone would be executed, and here and there people whispered that it would be the Princess of Moldavia.

The population living outside the town were able to give full reins to their imagination, for the gates of the fortress, by Hassan Pasha's command, were already locked fast at six o'clock in the evening, and after that time nobody was allowed to enter out or in except the sentinels outside, and these only by the Szombat gate.

The later grew the hour the more numerous became the crowd assembled in front of the gates thus unwontedly bolted and barred, consisting for the most part of people who lived inside the town of every rank, who thus waited patiently for the chance of reaching their houses again. Knocking at the gates was useless, the guards had been ordered to take no notice of such demonstrations.

The darker grew the night, the more numerous became the throng before the gate, and the more closely they pressed together the plainer it became to them all that they would have to sleep outside.

The largest concourse was in front of the Fejérvár gate, for that was the chief entrance.

It was already close upon midnight, when some dozen horsemen, in the uniforms of Spahis, arrived at the gate, forcing their way through the throng, led, apparently, by a handsome youth (it was too dark to distinguish very clearly), who thundered at the gate with the butt-end of his lance.

"You may bang away at it till morning," said a cobbler of Buda, who was lying prone, chawing bacon at his ease, "they won't let you in."

"Then why are you all here?" cried the youth in the purest Hungarian.

"Because they locked us out at six o'clock in the evening, and would not let us in."

"Why was that?"

"They say that at dawn of day someone in the fortress is to be executed."

"Who is it?" said the youth, visibly affected.

"Why, the Princess of Moldavia, of course."

"Oh, that cannot be in any case," exclaimed the leader of the Spahis. "I have just come from the Sultan, and I have brought with me his firman, in which he summons her to Stambul; not a hair of her head is to be crumpled."

"Then it will be just as well, sir, if you try to get into the fortress, for it may be you have come with the sermon after the festival is over, and that letter may remain in your pocket if once they cut off her head."

The youth seemed for a moment to be reflecting, then, turning to those who stood around, he said:

"Through which gate do they admit the soldiers on guard?"

"Through the Szombat gate."

The youth immediately turned his horse's head, and beckoned to his comrades to follow him.

But at the first words he had uttered, a figure enwrapped in a mantle had emerged from a corner of the gate, and when he began to talk about the Princess and the firman, this figure, with great adroitness, had crept quite close to him, and when he turned round had swiftly followed him till, having made its way through the throng, it overtook him, and, placing its hand on the horseman's knee, said in a low voice: "Tököly!"

"Hush!" hissed the horseman, with an involuntary start, and bending his head so that he might look into the face of his interlocutor, whereupon his wonder was mingled with terror, and throwing himself back in his saddle, he exclaimed: "Prince! can it be you?"

For Prince Ghyka stood before him.

"Could I be anywhere else when they want to kill my wife?" he said mournfully.

"Do not be cast down, there will be plenty of time till to-morrow morning. I have plenty of confidence in my good star. When I really wish for a thing I generally get it even if the Devil stand in the opposite camp against me, and never have I wished for anything so much as to save Mariska."

The Prince, with tears in his eyes, pressed the hand of the youth, and did not take it at all amiss of him that he called his wife Mariska.

"Well, of course, you have brought the firman with you, and if you come with the suite of the Sultan——"

"Firman, my friend? I have not brought a bit of a firman with me, and those who are with me are my good kinsfolk in Turkish costumes, worthy Magyar chums everyone of them, who have agreed to help me through with whatsoever I take it into my head to set about; but I have got something about me which can make firmans and athnamés, and whatever else I may require, whether it be the key of a dungeon, or a marshal's bâton, or a prince's sceptre—a golden knapsack, I mean."

"And what are you going to get with that?"

"Everything. I will corrupt the sentinels so that they will let me into the fortress; and once let me get in, and I'll either make Hassan Pasha sell Olaj Beg, or Olaj Beg sell Hassan Pasha. If a good word be of no avail I will use threats, and if my whole scheme falls through, Heaven only knows what I won't do. I'll chop Hassan Pasha and his guards into a dozen pieces, or I'll set the castle on fire, or I'll blow up the powder magazine—in a word, I won't desist till I have brought out your consort."

"How can I thank you for your noble enthusiasm?"

"You mustn't thank me, my friend; you must thank Flora Teleki, who is your wife's friend, and expects this of me."

"Then you are re-engaged?"

"No, my friend. Helen is my bride. Ah, that is the only real woman in the whole round world. I should be with her now if I were not engaged in this business, and as soon as I have finished with it, the pair of us will give you a wedding the like of which has never yet been seen in Hungary."

The Prince sadly bowed his head. He means well, he thought, but there is a very poor chance of his succeeding. The mercurial youth seems to have no idea that within an hour he will be jeopardizing his head by engaging in a foolhardy enterprise which runs counter to the whole policy of the Turkish Empire. But Tököly's mind never impeded his heart. His motto always was: "Virtus nescia freni."

"Then what do you intend to do?" Tököly casually asked Ghyka, just as if he considered it the most extraordinary thing in the world to find him there.

"I also want to save Mariska, and I have hopes of doing so," said the Prince.

"How? Tell me! Perchance we may be able to unite our efforts."

"Scarcely, I think. My plan is simply to give myself up instead of my wife. They would execute her for my fault; it is only right that I should appear on the scaffold and take her place."

"A bad idea!" exclaimed Tököly, "a stupid notion. If you deliver yourself up, they will seize you as well as your wife and do for the pair of you. I know a dodge worth two of that. Take horse along with us, and let us make our way into the fortress sword in hand; we shall do much more that way than if we went hobbling in on crutches. Luck belongs to the audacious."

"You know, Tököly, that I do not much rely on Turkish humanity; and I am quite prepared, if I deliver myself up, for them to kill both me and her; but at least we shall die together, and that will be some consolation."

"It is no good talking like that," cried the young Magyar impatiently. "Stop! A good idea occurs to me. Yes, and it will be better if you come with us and we all act in common. We will say openly at the gate that we bring with us the fugitive Prince of Moldavia as a captive. At the mere rumour of such a thing they will instantly admit us, not only into the fortress, but into the presence of Hassan likewise. The Pasha knows me pretty well, and if I tell him that I bring you a captive, he will believe me, or I'll break his head for him. He will be delighted to see you. But I will not give you up. I am responsible for you, and must mount guard over you. This will make it necessary to postpone the execution, for we shall have to write to Stambul that the husband has fallen into our hands, and inquire whether the wife is to be sacrificed, and we shall have time to elope ten times over before we get a reply."

The Prince hesitated. If this desperate expedient had been a mere joke, Tököly could not have spoken of it with greater nonchalance. The Prince gave him his hand upon it.

"The only question now is: which is the easiest way into the fortress. Let us draw near the first sentinel whom we find on the bridge or in the garden and wait until they change guard."

The horsemen thereupon surrounded the Prince as if he was their captive, and escorted him along the river's bank.

It was late. On the black surface of the Danube rocked the shapeless Turkish vessels, their sails creaking in the blast of the strong south wind.

It was scarce possible to see ahead at all, nevertheless the little band of adventurers, constantly pushing forward, kept looking around to see where the sentinels were, keeping very quiet themselves that they might catch the watchword.

Suddenly a cry was heard, but a cry which ended abruptly, as if the mouth from which it proceeded had been clapped to in mid-utterance.

On reaching the walls of the palace garden, however, one of them perceived that an armed figure was standing in the little wicket gate.

"There's the sentinel!" said Tököly.

"The rascal must certainly be asleep to let us come right up to him without challenging us," said Tököly; and he approached the armed man, who still stood motionless in the gate, and addressed him in the Turkish tongue:

"Hie, Timariot, or whoever you are! Are you guarding this gate?"

"You see that I am."

"Then why don't you challenge those who approach you?"

"That's none of my business."

"Then what is your business?"

"To stand here till I am relieved."

"And when will they relieve you?"

"Any time."

"Does the relief watch come by this gate?"

"Not by this gate."

"And by which gate can one get into the fortress?"

"By no gate."

"You give very short answers, my friend, but we must get at Hassan Pasha this very night without fail."

"You must learn to fly then."

"Don't joke with me, sir! I have very important tidings for the Vizier; you may possibly find it easier to get into the fortress than we could. You shall receive from me a hundred ducats on the spot if you inform the Pasha that I, Emeric Tököly, bring with me as a captive the fugitive Prince of Moldavia, and the Vizier himself will certainly reward you for it richly."

The Count had no sooner mentioned his name, and pointed at the captive prince, than the Turkish sentinel quickly came forth from beneath the archway, and Tököly and Ghyka, in astonishment, exclaimed with one voice:

"Feriz Beg!"

"Yes, 'tis I. Keep still. You want to save Mariska, so do I."

"So it is," said Tököly. "I promised the woman I do not love that I would do it, and I will keep my promise. You need have no secrets from us, for we shall require your assistance."

"Your secrets are nought to me."

The Prince listened with downcast head to the conversation of the two young men; then he intervened, took their hands, and said with deep emotion:

"Feriz! Tököly! Once upon a time we faced each other as antagonists, and now as self-sacrificing friends we hold each other's hands. I don't want to be smaller than you. A scaffold has been put up in the courtyard of the fortress of Buda, that scaffold awaits a victim, whoever it may be, for the sword which the Sultan draws in his wrath will not remain unsatisfied. That scaffold was prepared for my wife, you must let me take her place. I am well aware that whoever liberates her must be prepared to perish instead of her. Let me perish. You, Feriz, can easily get into the fortress. Tell Hassan that the scaffold shall have the husband instead of the wife—let him surrender the wife for the husband."

"Leave the scaffold alone, Prince. He who deserves it most shall get to the scaffold."

"Don't listen to the Prince!" said Tököly to Feriz; "he has lost his head evidently, as he wants to make a present of it to Hassan. All I ask of you is to let me into the fortress; once let me get inside, and no harm shall be done. I was born with a caul, so good-luck goes with me."

"Good. Wait here till the muezzin proclaims midnight, which will not be long, I fancy, as the night is already well advanced; meanwhile, keep your eye on those horsemen below there."

The men fancied Feriz wanted to join the sentinels when the watch was relieved, and taking him at his word, hid themselves and their horses behind the lofty bank.

The night was now darker than ever, only here and there a lofty star looked down upon them from among the wind-swept clouds.

Hassan had a restless night. Horrible dreams awoke him every instant, and yet he never wholly awoke, one phantom constantly supplanted the other in his agitated brain.

The raging blast broke open one of the windows and beat furiously against the wall, so that the coloured glasses crashed down upon the floor.

Aroused by the uproar, and gazing but half awake at the window, he saw the long curtain slowly approaching him as if some Dzhin were inside and had come thither to terrify him.

"Who is that?" cried Hassan in terror, laying his hand on his sword.

It was no one. It was only the wind which had stiffened out the curtains, expanding them like a banner and blowing gustily into the room.

Hassan seized the curtain, pulled it away from the window, fastened it up by its golden tassels, and laid him down again. The wind returned to torment him and again worried the curtain till it had succeeded in unravelling the tassels, and again blew the curtain into the room.

And then the tapestries of the door and the divans began fluttering and flapping as if someone was tugging away at their ends, and the flame of the night-lamp on the tripod flickered right and left, casting galloping shadows on the wall.

"What is that? Have the devils been let loose in this palace?" Hassan asked himself in amazement.

The closed doors jarred in the blast as if someone was banging at them from the outside, and every now and then the bang of a window-shutter would respond to the howling of the blast.

Men have curious supernatural faculties through which their minds are suddenly illuminated. At that moment the idea flashed through Hassan's brain that, in the apartments of the wing beyond, a window must needs be open, which was the cause of the unwonted current of air which fluttered the curtains of his palace and made the doors rattle, and this window could be none other than Azrael's, and if it were open, then the two women must have escaped.

At this horrible idea he quickly leaped out on to the floor, seized his sword, which was lying at his bedside, and, bursting open the door, rushed like a madman through all the apartments to Azrael's dormitory.

At the instant of their escape Azrael had turned over the long divan and placed it right across the room in such a way that one end of it was jammed against the door, whilst the other end pressed against the wall, so that when Hassan tried to open the door, he found it impossible to do so.

Everything was now quite clear to him.

He called to nobody to open the door; he knew that they had escaped. In the fury of despair he snatched a battle-axe from the wall and began to break open the hard oaken door, so that the whole palace resounded with the noise of the blows, and the guards and the domestics all came running up together.

Having beaten in the door at last, Hassan rushed into the room, cast a glance around, and even his eyes could see that his slave had flown.

Howling with rage he rushed to the window, and when he saw the dependent branches of the gobæa, he beat his forehead with his fists and laughed aloud as if something had broken loose inside him.

"They have run off!" he yelled; "they have escaped, they have stolen their lives, and they have stolen my life, too. Run after them into every corner of the globe, pursue them, bring them back tied together, tied together so that the blood may flow through their fingers. Oh, Azrael, Azrael! How have I deserved this of thee?"

And with that the old man burst into tears, and perceiving the odalisk's girdle on the window-frame, to which the plant was attached, he took it down, kissed it hundreds of times, hid his tearful face in it, and collapsed senseless on the floor.

"Hasten, Princess, hasten!"

The odalisk pressed her companion's hand, and dragged her down along the bushy hillside. And now they had reached the hollow forming the entrance to the underground passage which terminated at the gates of the garden on the banks of the Danube.

The odalisk had succeeded in filching the keys of the door of this secret passage from Hassan. While she was trying which of the two it was that belonged to the lock of the inner door, a cry resounded through the stillness of the night. "Hassan!" exclaimed the two girls together. They had recognised the voice.

"They have discovered our escape," said Azrael.

"Oh, God! do not leave me!" cried Mariska, pressing her hands together. "My child!"

Azrael quickly opened the grating door. It took a few moments, and during that time a commotion was audible in the town, no doubt caused by the cry of Hassan. Cries of alarm and consternation spread from bastion to bastion, the whole garrison was aroused, and there was a confused murmur within the fortress.

"Let us hasten!" cried Azrael, quickly opening the door and dragging after her the Princess into the blind-black corridor.

At that moment a cannon-shot thundered from the fortress as an alarm-signal.

Mariska, at the sound of the shot, collapsed in terror at Azrael's feet, and lay motionless in the corridor, still holding her child fast clasped in her arms.

"Hah! the woman has fainted," cried the odalisk in alarm; "we shall both perish here," she cried in her despair.

The din in the fortress grew louder every instant, from every bastion the signal-guns thundered.

"No, no, we must not perish!" exclaimed the heroine, and with a strength multiplied by the extremity of the danger, she caught up the moaning woman and child in her arms, and raising them to her bosom began making her way with them along the covered corridor.

Pitch darkness engulfed everything around them; the odalisk groped her way along by the feel of the wet, sinuous walls, stumbling from time to time beneath the burden of the dead weight in her arms, but at every fresh shot she started forward again and went on without resting.

Onwards, ever onwards!—till the last gasp! till the last heart-throb! The awakened child also began to cry.

Azrael's knees tottered, her bosom heaved beneath the double load, her staring eyes saw nothing; and the world was as dark before her soul as it was before her eyes.

Heavy was the load upon her shoulder; but heavier still was the thought in her heart that this woman whom she was saving at the risk of her own life was the darling of him whom she loved herself, yet save her she must, for she had promised to do so.