Chapter I · (continued 2)

Young Rety and his reluctant companion were meanwhile beating the bushes in search of the mysterious stranger. Mr. Catspaw was vastly comforted by the darkness, which his instinct taught him would defeat the plans of any assassin who might fire at them; and, besides, if by ill-luck they should fall in with a stranger, he was firmly resolved to run away and call for assistance. But there was little chance of any unpleasant rencontre, for, what with the darkness and the brushwood, and the time which had been lost by Mr. Catspaw's prudent delay, Akosh could not expect to do any thing, except to annoy his mother's man of business. And annoy him he did, by madly rushing into the thickest part of the wood, and causing the branches of the trees to strike Mr. Catspaw's face, until at length they arrived at the furthest border of the plantation. Here Akosh stopped, and, turning to Catspaw, who stood breathless by his side, he said, "I'll take my oath there is no one in the wood; will you now confess that you were mistaken, or frightened by a hare or partridge, or some such formidable animal?"

"It was a sound of human footsteps; Lady Rety is my witness, and I——"

"Of course, if that is the case, let us go back and beat through another part of the plantation, until the fellow is caught."

"Don't, don't!" sighed Mr. Catspaw. "I am sure no one is there; goodness knows our search was minute enough. I can scarcely stand on my feet," added the little attorney, wiping his forehead.

"Very well, sir, if you are satisfied that nobody is hid here, I am so too. But let us cross the ditch; there is some chance of finding him on the other side." Saying which, Akosh leaped over the ditch, while Mr. Catspaw descended into the depth of the cutting, from whence a few bold gymnastic evolutions brought him to the other side. Having joined his companion, the two men walked silently on, and disappeared at length round the corner of the garden-wall.

All around was hushed. The night was as dark and comfortless as October nights usually are. The brilliant setting of the sun was followed by a looming and cloudy sky. The wind sighed over the boundless heath, shaking the yellow leaves from the trees. Here and there a solitary star, or the watch-fire on the far pasture-land, threw a faint and melancholy light on the scene. The footsteps of the two men were lost in the distance, and the stillness of night was at intervals interrupted only by the distant barking of a dog, or a shepherd's song floating on the breeze, when a man rose from the ditch close to the place where Akosh and Catspaw had crossed. His broad-brimmed hat, and the rough sheep-skin which hung over his shoulders, were enough to hide his features and stature, even if the night had been clearer. The man listened to the song as it rung through the stilly night, and, after looking cautiously round to satisfy himself that no one was near, he stepped out of the ditch and hastened towards the fire.

But it is time we should return to Tengelyi, whom we left just when, accompanied by his daughter, he crossed the threshold of his humble dwelling.

Reader, did you ever know domestic happiness? did you merely see it in others, or are you among the blessed whose homes are heavens of peace and love? If sacred family love is known to you; if you are convinced that this, the most precious gift of heaven, can only fall to the share of a pure heart; if you feel that all the distinctions, all the glory we struggle for, all the wealth we covet, are an nothing to the joy and love of the domestic hearth; then you will enter the notary's house with a feeling of reverence, and you will pray that happiness and peace may continue to dwell there.

After Tengelyi sat down, he said to his daughter, "Now tell me the great secret, for you must know," added he, addressing his wife, "that Vilma would not allow me to enter the house until I consented to pass a bill of indemnity in her behalf.'

"I know," said Mrs. Ershebet; "and I consented only to please my daughter. Speak, Vilma!"

But Vilma did not speak. She looked vainly for a form of words in which to prefer her suit.

"Am I to be informed of the matter or not?" said Tengelyi, impatiently. "She cannot have committed a crime!"

"Of course not, dear father. But you promised me not to be angry."

"To be angry? do I look like a tyrant? Tell me girl, where have you learned to fear your father?"

"No, father, I am not afraid of you," said Vilma. "If I did wrong, I know you will tell me that it was wrong, and I shall have your pardon for it. But I do not think I did wrong. You know there was an execution in the village, and you went away with Vandory, for you said you could be of no use to the poor people, and their sorrow grieved you too much. Mother and I remained at home, and saw all the horror. They took our neighbour's cows, and from John Farkash they took the pillows and blankets of his bed, and Peter's widow (you know she used to sell eggs, and do jobs in the town,) has lost her donkey. The son of the woman Farkash would not allow them to take his mother's bed away, and they beat him and bound him with cords, and took him to the justice's. They say he is going to prison to-morrow. We saw and heard all this," continued Vilma, wiping her eyes, "and we wept bitterly. Mother said it must be so, for the taxes are put on by law, and these poor people were not able to pay their dues. But I prayed that you might come home soon, for you read so often in your law-books, and I should say there must be some little law in those books providing that something at least ought to be left to the poor who cannot pay their taxes, hard though they may work."

"You are wrong, dearest child," said Tengelyi, "you would vainly look for such a law in my books. The nation have been so busy for the last 800 years, that they have not found time to make such a law."

"Have they not? Then I am afraid their laws will do little good, for they want God's blessing!" said Vilma, with a deep sigh. "But though the law may not, our Creed assuredly does command us to pity our neighbour's sufferings, and therefore I went to Mrs. Farkash to see whether I could not help them in some way. We are not rich, but we can do something for an honest man, and the Farkashes were always good neighbours."

"You did right, my daughter," said Tengelyi, whose eyes filled with tears. "You did right; may God bless you! I, too, have eaten the bread of poverty; and I will not shut my door against my neighbour."

"I thought so, too," said Mrs. Tengelyi, pressing her husband's hand.

"When I came to the house," continued Vilma, "I found them all in despair. Old Farkash sat on the floor, leaning his head on his hands, and looking at the empty stable; his wife was bewailing the loss of her son. The lesser children sat by the stove: they could not understand what had happened, but they wept with their mother. In the room were a few broken chairs; and the straw from the bed was spread about the floor, just as if the German soldiers had sacked the house. And the neighbours were there, comforting the poor family, and cursing the officers;—my heart bleeds to think of it! I did my best to console Mother Farkash. I promised her that the curate should talk to the sheriff, and that her son should not go to prison; for she was most afraid of that, saying, that all men who were sent to prison, were sure to come back robbers. She thanked me for my promise, but declined our assistance; for she said, if her son were free, they could manage to go on. 'We poor people,' said she, 'stand by each other; one of my neighbours gives me some bedding, another gives me bread, and a third, a few pence; and so, mayhap, the Lord will help us on. If Mr. Kenihazy had paid for the two horses which my husband sold him at Whitsuntide, we would never have come to this. But there's the misfortune. We are distrained for the taxes, and yet we are not allowed to claim our own. But at the Restauration[5], I mean to go and speak to the Lord-Lieutenant. At the last Restauration, he helped several of our neighbours, who had claims on Mr. Skinner, the justice.'

"'Oh, you are well off, you are!' said old Mother Liptaka. 'You have got a husband, and Missie tells us that John shall not go to prison, and he will work for you. Besides, you are an honest woman; but what is to become of Viola's wife? She is dying,—she, and her baby, and the little lad, and she has got a sentinel in the room, for the justice has ordered them to arrest every one that comes near the house—let alone entering it; for he says they are Viola's pals, every man of them. And that same Susi was a pretty girl and a good girl, when a child; it is not her fault, is it, that her husband is a robber? Missie, if you could help poor Susi, 'twere a good deed!'

"I inquired after Susi," continued Vilma, "and understood that Viola, formerly a wealthy peasant, had become very poor, for that he, as a robber, could not attend to his husbandry. His cattle and his ploughs were taken away, his fields are untilled, and his poor wife is left alone with two children. She is ill, almost dying. I told them to show me to the house, for I knew they would not suspect me of being an accomplice of Viola."

"You were right," said the notary; "pray go on." Thus encouraged, Vilma continued,—"The misery of the Farkash family was indeed as nothing to the wretchedness which I saw at Viola's. On approaching the house, I was struck by a fearful noise. The justice has been informed that Viola intends to see his family this very night; he has put three haiduks into the house, ordering them to lie there and to catch Viola in case he should enter. The haiduks were drunk, and would not allow anybody to leave the house, lest Viola might be informed of the snare that was laid for him,—although their drunken noise rendered this precaution perfectly superfluous. The house was quite empty; nothing was left but a heap of ashes on the hearth, and the seat by the stove, which is of clay, and which could not be taken away; every other particle of furniture that might have been there had fallen into the clutches of the justice. When I entered the kitchen the corporal recognised me at once, for he has often brought letters to our house. He came up to me, and asked me what I wanted; and on my telling him that I had come to look after the sick woman, he said it was scarcely worth while, and that the woman might be dead, for all he knew to the contrary; but if she lived till to-morrow, she would be a widow by the hangman's grace. His comrades laughed at this rude joke, but when I insisted on seeing the woman Viola, the corporal took me to the room where she lay. I asked them to remain quiet, though only for a little while, and entered the apartment, which was so dark that it was a good while before I could discern any thing. The poor thing lay in a corner on a heap of musty straw. The baby and the little boy lay by her side. They did not speak. The noise of the revellers outside contrasted painfully with the silence in the room. The woman was asleep, and so was the baby, but the little boy knew me, and creeping up to me and nestling in my arms, he told me the history of their misfortunes. Three days ago his mother had fallen sick. She had a bed to lie on; but early this morning the justice came, and ordered her to pay one hundred and fifty florins. She had no money, and could not pay; the justice cursed her, and told the haiduks to take everything away. His mother was driven from her bed, and old Liptaka was kicked out of doors by the justice, who told the haiduks to sit and drink in the kitchen. 'After this the justice went away; and mother has been in a sad state ever since,' added the poor boy, weeping; 'and I have made her a bed of the straw which they tore from our good bed. It was all that mother could do to creep up and lie on the straw, and she has been wandering in her mind ever since. The justice and the soldiers said terrible things. They said father would come in the night, and they would hang him. Mother has gone on about that. I was quite frightened. After that, my little brother fell a-weeping, and it struck me that he had not had anything to eat. As for me, I was very hungry,—so I stole out to ask our neighbours to give me some bread; but they would not, for the justice has said that no one should give us any thing, and that we are to die like dogs! I brought nothing but some water, and a few flowers which I broke from the hedge for my little brother to play with, for I would not come back empty-handed.' That is the boy's story. He wept bitterly while he told it."

"Poor little fellow!" said Tengelyi, "his is indeed an early knowledge of life's bitterness;" and, turning to Mrs. Ershebet, he added, "I trust you sent some relief to those wretched people. I'll go at once and see what can be done for them."

"Do not trouble yourself, father, dear," interposed Vilma. "We did not send them any thing; we have brought them to this house."

"To my house!" exclaimed Tengelyi. "Did you consider the consequences?"

"I did. I considered that they were sure to perish if they remained where they were; and I entreated the corporal, and implored him, and vowed that I would bear the blame, until he gave me his permission to remove the woman to this house. Nay, more, he helped me to carry her."

"You were right in taking them away," said Tengelyi, walking to and fro, evidently distressed; "I only wish you had taken them to some other place. I would willingly pay for any thing they want. But here! the robber's family in the house of the notary of Tissaret! What will my enemies say to that?"

"But, father, you often told me that we need not care for the judgment of mankind, if we know and feel that we do that which is good and right."

"Of course, if we are quite convinced of that. But they tell me Viola is passionately fond of his wife. She is ill, and he will brave all dangers to come and see her. What am I to do? My duty, as a public functionary, forces me to arrest him, while my feelings revolt at the idea."

"I know you will not arrest him, dearest father," said Vilma, softly. "You cannot do it."

"And suppose I allow him to escape, what then? I shall lose my place. I bear the stigma of being the accomplice of a robber, and nothing is left to us but to beg our bread in the streets."

"No, father, that will never be!" said Vilma, confidingly, though her eyes filled with tears. "God cannot punish you for a good action."

"God may not, but men will sometimes. But do not weep," added Tengelyi, seeing his daughter's tears, "we cannot now undo what you have done, and perhaps my fears are worse than the reality."

"Oh do not be angry with me," sobbed Vilma. "I never thought of the consequences. I never thought that I could be the cause of so great a misfortune."

"Angry?" cried the old man, pressing her to his heart—"I be angry with you? Art thou not my own daughter, my joy, and my pride? my fairest remembrance of the past, my brightest hope of the future?"

"But if Viola were to come," said Vilma, still weeping, "and if things were to happen as you said just now?"

"I know he will not come," replied the anxious father, who would have given anything to have concealed his apprehensions. "And if he were to come, it is ten to one that nobody will know of it. You know I am always full of fears. At all events it is not your fault, for if I had been at home, and if I had known of this woman's distress, I too would have taken her to my house—ay! so I would, though all the world were to turn against me. Dry your tears," he continued, kissing Vilma's forehead, "you did but your duty. Now go and look after the woman, while I go to Vandory: he is half a doctor."

Saying this, the notary hastened away to hide his tears, and as he went he passed some severe strictures on his own weakness, which caused him to indulge in tears, a thing which is only pardonable in a woman.

CHAP. IV.

The stranger of the ditch, whom we left in the act of approaching the fire, had meanwhile accomplished that object, and proceeded to the place where a man sat squatting by the flame, poking the burning straws with his staff, and singing a low and mournful melody.

"Are you at it again? again singing the Nagyidai Nota?"[6] said the stranger, touching the singer's shoulder.

Peti the gipsy (for it was he who kept his lonely watch by the fire) started up, and, seizing hold of the stranger's hand, dragged him away from the light, whispering, "For God's sake, take care! Some one might see you!"

"Are you mad?" retorted the stranger, disengaging his hands, and returning to the fire. "I've lain in the ditch, and am all a-muck. I must have a warm."

"No, Viola, no!" urged Peti, "the village is filled with your enemies. Who knows but some of them are by? and if you are seen you are done for!"

"Now be reasonable, old man," replied Viola, taking his seat by the fire. "Not a human being is there on this heath that I wot of. What is it you fear?"

"Oh! you know this very afternoon you and I, we were near the wood of St. Vilmosh, and the Pandurs were here close to the park palings, and yet they knew you even at that distance."

"Yes, very much as we knew them. They presumed it was I. But if they have a mind to make my acquaintance, I'd better look after the priming of my pistols. So! Now let them come. After sunset I fear no man."

"Oh! Viola, Viola!" cried Peti. "I know your boldness will be your bane. You laugh at danger, but danger will overtake you."

"But, after all, were it not better to die than to live as I do?" said the robber, feeling the edge of his axe. "I curse the day at dawn because the light of the sun marks my track to the pursuer. The wild bird in the brake causes me to tremble. The trunk of a fallen tree fills me with dread; for who knows but it may hide the form of an enemy? I fly from those I love. I pass my days among the beasts of the forests, and my dreams are of the gallows and the hangman. Such is my life! Believe me, Peti, I have little cause to be in love with life!"

"But your wife and your children!"

"Ah! you are right! my wife and my children!" sighed the robber, and stared fixedly at the fire, whose faint glow sufficed to display to Peti the cloud of deep melancholy which passed over the manly features of his companion.

Viola was a handsome man. His high forehead, partly covered by a forest of the blackest locks, the bold look of his dark eyes, the frank and manly expression of his sunburnt face, the ease and the beauty of each movement of his lofty form, impressed you with the idea that in him you beheld one of those men who, though Nature meant them to be great and glorious, pass by humble and unheeded; happy if their innate power for good and for ill remains a secret; yes, happy are they if they are allowed to live and die as the many, with but few to love them and few to hate.

"Don't be sad, comrade," said Peti. "It's a long lane that has no turning. But go you must, for here you are in danger of your life. The election is at hand, and Mr. Skinner has every chance of losing his part in it. He will move heaven and earth to catch you. After I met you this afternoon, the Pandurs arrested me, and took me to him. May the devil burn his bones! but he treated me cruelly: he was so savage that my hair stood on end. Had it not been for the younger Akosh (God bless him!), I'd be now taking my turn at the whipping-post. He has his spies among us; he did not mention their names, but certain it is that he knows of every step you take; I protest nothing short of a miracle can have saved you! But certainly if we had not agreed to meet by this fire, you could scarcely have escaped him. The landlord and his servants are bound and locked up in the cellar, and Pandurs, dressed up as peasants, watch in the inn. There are also Pandurs in your house; and the peasants have been ordered to arm themselves with pitchforks, and to sally out when the church-bells give the signal. When I was Mr. Skinner's prisoner he cursed me, and mentioned his preparations; I have found out that he said rather too little than too much."

Viola rose. "There are Pandurs in my house, and you tell me that my wife is ill?"

"Oh! do not mind her. Susi has left the house; she is as comfortable as a creature can be with the fever. They have taken her to the notary's house."

"To Tengelyi's? Is she a prisoner?"

"Oh, by no means; it's all Christian love and charity. Oh! friend, that same Christian love is a rare thing in these times. May God bless them for what they do for her!"

"Christian love and charity! Fine words! fine words!" muttered Viola. "But who tells you that this is not a snare? My wife is in the notary's hands, and with her my life."

"For once you are mistaken!" cried the gipsy. "I, too, had my suspicions at first; why should I not? since I am no peer, but merely a gipsy. It's not my fault, surely, that I mistrust those officials; and when they told me that Susi was at the notary's, I did not half like it. But I understood that old Tengelyi knew nothing at all about it, and that his daughter, Vilma, did it all. Now Vilma is a born angel, take my word for it. But do not stop here. I ought to be at St. Vilmosh before the sun rises, and every minute you stay is as much as your life is worth."

"I'll not stir a single step unless you tell me all about Susi. I cannot understand it."

Peti knew Viola too well not to yield to this peremptory demand; and he tried, therefore, to inform his friend, in as few words as possible, of all the particulars of Susi's illness. Viola, leaning on his fokosh, listened with eagerness. He stood so still, so motionless, that, but for the deep sighs which at times broke forth, he might have been mistaken for a statue.

"Poor, poor woman!" cried the robber at length, "has it indeed come to this? A beggar, eating the bread of charity! a vagabond, abiding under the roof of the stranger! God, God! what has she done that thy hand should strike her?"

"Let us be off!" urged Peti. "Your wife is all snug and comfortable, and we ought not to stand here like fools, railing at the injustice of the world. Besides, the day of settling our accounts is perhaps nearer than you think. I owe Mr. Skinner more than one turn. Cheer up, comrade! many a man has been in a worse scrape than you are, who got out of it after all."

"What do I care for myself? I am used to it. There is blood on my hands, and, perhaps, it is but just that Heaven's curse pursues me. But she, whom I love,—she, who never since her birth did harm to any one,—she, who stands by my side like an angel of light, withholding my arm from deeds of blood and vengeance! Oh! she kneels at church, and prays by the hour. That she loves me is her only crime,—why, then, should she be punished? Let them hunt me down—torment me; ay! let them hang me! what care I, if she is but safe and free from harm?"

"So she is!" cried Peti, impatiently. "She was never better off in her life, man! Come along, or else we are done for, and by your fault too!"

"Do you mean to tell me that none of the villagers helped her?—that none of them would shelter her?"

"No! I told you, no! the judge forbade it; and none of them dared to look at her."

"Very well; I mean to be quits with them. I never harmed any of them. None of them ever lost a single head of cattle; and now that my family are in distress, there is not one of them but thinks that this is as it ought to be. But Viola is the man to make bonfires of their houses!"

"You are right!" cried Peti, seizing the robber's hand. "A little revenge now and then serves your turn. It puts them on their guard! It reminds them that there is still some justice in this world. But come to St. Vilmosh. You are safe there, at least for a few days, for the kanaz[7] there is one of our people. We will go down to him, and see what can be done."

"You had better go first; I have some business here."

"Where?" cried Peti, stopping his friend as the latter turned to leave the place.

"I tell you to go first to St. Vilmosh, and to wait for me at the kanaz's. I want to speak to the notary. By the time the sun rises I mean to be with you. Get something to eat, for I am hungry."

"Maybe the ravens are hungry, and have told you to go and be hanged, to make a dinner for them!"

"What a coward you are! I tell thee, man, it is not so easy to catch Viola as you may think. Go and tell them to cook me some gulyash[8]; and if you think it will ease your mind, I will bring you the chief haiduk gagged and bound."

"All this were well and good if the people of Tissaret were still on your side, for in that case you might do as you please. But since the parson's house has been broken into, they are all against you, they will have it that you committed that robbery."

"I did no such thing; and it is just on that account I want to speak to Tengelyi. I have never been obliged to any man, who had the dress and appearance of a gentleman. The notary is the first of the kind to whom I owe any thing, and, by G—d, he shall not call me ungrateful."

"But of what use can your capture be to the notary?" said Peti, who now yielded to Viola's obstinacy, and accompanied him to the village.

"Some villany is abroad, and Tengelyi is to suffer. It's the same affair as it was with the parson. I'll inform him of it."

"Not to-night?"

"Ay, this very night! Who knows but to-morrow it might be too late? The birds are greedy for their prey. It will scarcely take me an hour. You ought to go to St. Vilmosh."

"Not I!" said the gipsy. "If you are mad, and won't be advised, you cannot, at least, force me to leave you alone in this scrape. If they hang you, they must hang me too."

Viola said nothing; but he pressed the hand of his faithful comrade. The two adventurers approached the village, where every thing was prepared for the capture of the robber. Not only was Viola's house occupied by the Pandurs, not only was the inn garrisoned, and its inmates gagged and bound, but the streets of Tissaret, and the cottages of those peasants who were suspected to be in communication with the robber, were occupied by soldiers, or, at least, closely watched. Rety's servants, armed with pitchforks and cudgels, were assembled in a barn, and every peasant was prepared, at the first signal from the steeple, to rush out and attack the outlaw. Some generous men, devoted to the public safety, and fearing for their cattle, and some not less generous women, had contributed a few hundred florins as a reward for that lucky peasant, or Pandur, who should succeed either in capturing or killing the robber. There could be but one opinion about Viola's fate, in case he should happen to come to Tissaret; but whether he would come or not was an open question, to say the least of it; for while the justice and his clerk were out hare-hunting, the inspector Kanya had thought proper to publish Mr. Skinner's instructions by means of the public crier, who, on this important occasion, was preceded by a couple of drums, and whose commands to the peasantry were backed by the threat of five-and-twenty lashes, as a punishment of the refractory or negligent; and though the justice on his return had poured out a most energetic volley of imprecations on Mr. Kanya and his zeal, and though he had immediately given orders that no one should be permitted to leave the village, yet there was good reason to fear that Viola would smell more than one rat. Indeed, so much probability was there for this supposition, that by the time Viola and Peti drew near to the village the inhabitants of Tissaret to a man had thought proper to retire for the night, leaving the soldiers and Pandurs to follow their example, which, to do them justice, they did.

"Wait a few moments," said Peti to his companion, when they came to the threshing-floors, "I'll look out for you. It is just here where they have placed a guard of those rascals in frogged jackets. I'll try to find out what they are after." Saying which, the old man crept through the ditch and disappeared. He returned almost immediately. "They are fast asleep. If the others are equally vigilant, we are safe enough." Viola advanced with Peti. They entered the village, and walked quickly, but noiselessly, along the hedges and under the shadow of the houses.

Tengelyi's house, the neatest building in the village, was on one side bordered by a narrow court-yard, and on the other by a garden of somewhat larger dimensions. The buildings in his immediate neighbourhood were on the one side the Town-hall, and on the other the workshop of the village smith; while over the way there was the only shop in Tissaret, the property of Itzig, the Jew, and remarkable, not only for its amazing stores of European and Indian produce, but also for its bright yellow paint, and its pillars of glaring sky-blue which ornamented the hall outside.

There were but two roads to Tengelyi's house—one leading by the Town-hall, and the other touching the smithie; and though the sound of a hammer ringing on the iron of the anvil was still to be heard from the last named place, still Peti thought it advisable to take the latter road, and this the more, since he perceived that there was no light in Itzig's house,—a circumstance which led him to suppose that that "toad of a Jew" had retired into the interior of his den, there to sleep on his dollars. Quitting, therefore, the dark corner between the smith's shop and the main road, the two men hastened up to the house of Tengelyi. The fire from the smithie threw a ruddy glare on the road and on the Jew's shop, the closed shutters of which seemed to denote that all the inmates had retired to rest. But while they were in the act of crossing the road, Peti suddenly seized Viola's hand, and pointing to the Jew's house, he whispered, "They have seen us!" A human form was indeed visible behind the pillars. It moved quickly to the door, and disappeared.

"Go to the notary's! Just by the wall there's a hole in the hedge. Creep through it, and hide yourself as best you may; but for God's sake don't enter the house! I'll come to fetch you as soon as the alarm is over."

So saying, Peti crossed the road and disappeared among the buildings. Viola hastening onward, found the opening in the hedge. He had scarcely crept through it and hidden himself among the shrubs, when he saw that the gipsy was fully justified in his apprehensions. Voices were heard in the streets, lanthorns were carried by, and the quick tramp of steps, and the sound of the village bell, proved to him that the alarm was indeed given, and that the people of Tissaret were up and in arms to arrest him. Mr. Skinner's and Mr. Kenihazy's answering imprecations might have proved, to any one who doubted the fact, that the public justice of this country is not always asleep, but that its eyes are sometimes open as late as 10h. 30m. P.M.

Viola was in a dangerous position. The notary's garden was but an indifferent hiding-place. It was small, and but thinly planted with trees. A strong light from the windows of the house illumined part of it, and nothing could save Viola, if the hole in the hedge was discovered, and a lanthorn passed through it. But the robber was accustomed to danger. He kept his weapons in readiness and waited. After some time the noise of the robber hunters grew gradually less. The crowd rushed to another part of the village. The sound of distant voices and the continued ringing of the bell showed that the danger was at least in part over.

On these occasions it is only the first quarter of an hour which is dangerous in our country; after that 'mauvais quart d'heure' has once passed, there is none but seeks for an excuse for discontinuing the search. For we are an Eastern people, nor did we come to the West to toil and slave. Indeed, that man was a profound historian who protested that our ancestors left their homes in search of a country where the sun rose late, and allowed them to sleep longer than they could in their former abodes. Viola, who had often been hunted, and who was perfectly familiar with the leading features of our national character, rose from the ground and walked boldly up to the house.

That house harboured his wife, the only being on the face of the earth who loved him; the only being he could call his own, and whose mild words made him feel that, though exiled, pursued, and condemned, there was still something which he could call his own, which the world could not take from him, and which bound him to life and to his Creator. And Viola's heart, however unmoved by danger, beat loud and fast when, creeping by the windows of the house, he stopped at length in front of the one window for which he sought. Everything was tranquil in that room. His wife lay sleeping, and Vilma sat by her side, watching her, while the old Liptaka was seated at some distance, reading her Bible, and rocking a cradle. His little boy lay in an arm-chair. He was fast asleep. The robber looked long and earnestly at the group before him. He wept.

The child in the cradle awoke. Old Mother Liptaka took it up and carried it to and fro. Little Pishta too awoke; he rubbed his eyes and stared around, as if uncertain where he was, or how he came to be there. But looking up to the window he beheld Viola, and jumping from the chair he clasped his hands and shouted—"Father! father!"

"God forbid that he should be here!" said Mother Liptaka, walking up to the window. "You are half asleep, child, and talk in a dream: you see there is no one here."

"He is not there now,—but he was there. He is gone now, but I am sure he is in the garden. I will go and call him in."

"Don't think of it!" said the Liptaka, seizing the boy's hand. "You know your father is——" Here the good woman stopped, for she was at a loss to find gentle words for a harsh fact.

"I know!" said the boy, "my father must hide himself; but I am sure it is not true, what they say about his being a robber."

"Of course not, child: be quiet, and don't say a word about it, not even to Miss Vilma. I will go, and if your father is in the garden, I'll speak to him." And the old woman left the room.

Viola's situation had meanwhile become more dangerous. When he retired from the window where his boy recognised him, he found that his movements were watched by a man, who stood in the opening through which he had entered the garden, and who withdrew when the robber's face turned in the direction of the hedge. Viola was at a loss what to do. He could not stay in the garden, for it was too small; the streets were filled with peasants and Pandurs, and the inmates of the house were strangers to him. He could not trust his life to their keeping. The tocsin was again sounded, and the approach of lights and steps showed him that his pursuers were aware of his hiding-place, and that they came to take him.

At this critical moment the Liptaka entered the garden, and called the robber by his name. Seeing no other means of escape, he walked up to her and informed her of the danger of his situation.

"Ay, brother, why did you come this blessed night?" said the old woman. "Two days later you might have been safe."

"But what is to be done? Can you hide me in the house?"

"I can, for the notary is not in, and Vilma will not betray you. Stand here until I call you." She returned into the house, and Viola stood up against the wall to hide himself. The noise increased meanwhile, and the sonorous voice of the justice was heard, denouncing the eyes, souls, and limbs of his trusty Pandurs, when the door opened, and the Liptaka appeared, motioning Viola to advance cautiously, lest the light from the windows might mark his figure: the robber crept along the wall and entered the house.

"Where is he? where?" screamed Mr. Skinner, from the other side of the hedge.

"Steady, boys!" shouted his clerk, from the furthest rear. "At him! Why should you fear the scoundrel? The man that catches and binds him shall have a hundred florins."

"Are any of you at the other side of the garden?" bawled the commissioner, with a stentorian voice.

Nobody answered.

"Smash your souls, you cursed hellhounds!" roared Mr. Skinner. "Why are you all here? Why are you not at the other side of the garden?"

"Your lordship's lordship told us to come to this place," said a Pandur; but a blow from Paul Skinner's stalwart arm sent him sprawling to the ground. "Be off!" shouted the intrepid justice; "be off a few of you—but not too many. Seize him and bind him!"

"Shoot him on the spot, if he shows fight," urged the clerk.

"Shoot him—indeed!" roared the justice. "I'll brain the man that dares to shoot him, for I must have the satisfaction of hanging the fellow."

Amidst these preparations for the capture of the robber, the person "wanted" had quietly entered the house, where old Liptaka stowed him away behind some casks, which lay in the room. Vilma trembled.

"Fear not, Missie," said the Liptaka; "they dare not enter this house. Of course, if it were a poor man's case, they'd ransack every corner, and turn the whole house out of the window. But it's a different thing with a nobleman's curia."

The Liptaka was mistaken, and she had soon ample opportunity of convincing herself of the fact that the keeping of the law is one thing, and the law itself another. For Mr. Paul Skinner, after surrounding the garden on all sides, and after summoning Viola to come forward and be hanged, found it necessary to proceed to a close investigation of the premises. He opened the garden door and entered with his posse of Pandurs and peasants. Vilma's flowers and Mrs. Ershebet's broccolis were alike trodden down by the intruders, and great exertions were made to start the game. But their search was fruitless. So were their curses. Mr. Skinner protested that the robber must be hid in the house, and Kenihazy instantly suggested the propriety of searching the suspected habitation. The justice consented, and walked up to the door which communicated between the house and the garden, when the door was opened from the inside, and Mrs. Ershebet appeared on the threshold.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the notary's wife, with a voice which, on the present occasion, was more remarkable for its energy than for its sweetness. "Who is it that dares, at this hour of the night, to break into an honest man's house? Are you robbers, thieves, or murderers? Be off, instantly, every one of you! This is a nobleman's curia, and no one has a right to be here, unless it be with my consent!"

Mr. Skinner, not a little abashed, tried to stammer some excuses; but Mrs. Ershebet, knowing that she had the law on her side, refused to listen to his explanations. Her abuse of the justice kept pace with the hate she bore him, and she eagerly seized the opportunity to give him what we poetically call "a bit of her mind." She did this so effectually that the justice was at length compelled to muster all his courage to make a reply.

"Mrs. Tengelyi," said the worthy functionary, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, "Mrs. Tengelyi, moderate yourself; consider that you stand in the presence of a superior officer."

"Superior officer, indeed!" screamed Mrs. Ershebet. "You are the master of robbers and thieves, but not mine. What care I for the county! What care I for the justice? I am a nobleman's wife, and I'd like to see the man who dares to enter my house without my permission!"

"You shall have that pleasure!" roared the justice. "Forward, my men! enter the house! search it, and capture the robber. Knock them down and bind them, if they offer you resistance! I'll teach you to know who is master here!"

"A stick! a stick! give me a stick!" cried Mrs. Ershebet. Her maid handed her Tengelyi's cane. She raised it, and exclaimed triumphantly, "I protest!"

Mr. Skinner stepped back; but, after a few moments, he rallied his forces, resolved, in open contempt of the Hungarian law and its formal protest[9], to force an entry into the notary's house. There can be no doubt that he would have accomplished his purpose, but for the opportune arrival of Akosh and Mr. Catspaw, who restrained his violence; for the attorney, to whom the justice stated the case, and who had his reasons for supposing that Viola was not in the house, did his utmost to prevent the premises from being searched. He did this not from any love he bore Tengelyi, but because he knew that the affair might at a later time serve to cast a suspicion on the notary's character. His dispute with Mr. Skinner was suddenly interrupted by a new and unforeseen event.

"Fire!" cried a voice in the street; and the crowd in the garden roared "Fire! fire, at the Castle!" The tocsin sounded, and the peasants hastened in the direction of the fire. The Pandurs alone were kept back by Mr. Skinner's express commands, for he still hoped to find Viola. But when one of the servants from the House came down to tell them that the conflagration was in the sheriff's barns, and that his whole store of hay was in flames, it was thought necessary to dispatch the power of the law to the threshing-floors to save the sheriff's hay. Not one of the intruders remained on the spot.

"For God's sake, save him!" whispered Vilma, addressing the Liptaka. "Be quick, and save him before they come back."

"Never fear, Missie. Give him but a fair start, and he is not the man to be caught. But keep your counsel; your father would never pardon you!"

The Liptaka turned to Viola's hiding-place behind the casks. "Now get thee gone," said she. "There is a fire at the sheriff's. Get out at the other side of the village, where nobody will stop your way. I can't help thinking the fire is on your account."

"Listen to me!" said Viola. "You know I owe the notary a debt of gratitude. His family have taken my wife to his house: may God bless them for it! They have saved my life, too; and I mean to show my sense of it. Tell them I know that the notary keeps some papers in an iron safe. Those papers are of great value to him and to the parson. Tell him to find another place for them, and to keep a good look out. He has powerful enemies; I know of some people who would do any thing to get those papers. Tell this the notary, and may God be with you!"

The robber was in the act of leaving the garden, when a hand held him by his bunda. "Who is it?" said he, raising his axe.

"It is I, Peti! What do you think of my illumination?"

"That it saved me for once. I knew it was your doing. Thanks! may God bless you!"

"Now let us be off to St. Vilmosh," said Peti, crawling through the opening of the hedge. "Look there," he added, pointing to the next house; "I'll lose my head if that fellow Catspaw does not stand there!"

"And if he were an incarnate devil I will go on!" muttered Viola, as they turned the corner of the street. Mr. Catspaw, for it was he, had recognised the robber. He shook his head and walked leisurely up to the Manor-house.

CHAP. V.

The day which followed this eventful night was a Sunday. Already had the church-bells of Tissaret called the parishioners to prayers; and the lower classes, obedient to the summons, crowded the little church, there to forget the disturbance of the night and the whole of their worldly cares. At the House, or Castle, as the family seat of the Retys was sometimes styled, preparations on a large scale were on foot for the reception of the guests who were expected to arrive that day. Akosh and his sister Etelka walked in the garden. Neither of them spoke, as they trod the paths which were already covered with the leaves of autumn; while Tünder, their favorite greyhound, bounded to and fro, now starting a bird, now hunting a falling leaf. The dog had its own way of enjoying the beauty of that bright day.

"What is the matter with you, Etelka?" said Akosh, at length. "You are out of spirits to-day."

"Am I?" replied Etelka, smiling, and with a slight stare. "I dare say you are like Mr. Catspaw, who in his annual fits of jaundice flatters himself that the whole world is yellow."

"Very true," rejoined Akosh; "I am a dreadful bore to-day."

"Of course you are. To be a bore is one of the privileges of a Hungarian nobleman. But do not put yourself under any restraint on my account!"—saying which the young lady turned away, and busied herself in smoothing the shrivelled leaves of a half-faded flower. Thus pursuing their walk, they reached a hill in the plantation, from the summit of which they looked down on the village, the river, and the boundless plain.

"They are coming!" said Etelka, turning her eyes in the direction of St. Vilmosh.

"I wish to God I were a hundred miles off!" sighed Akosh.

"Would not a lesser distance do? Shall we say the village, or the notary's house?"

"Don't mention it. It makes me weep to think of it. You know what has happened?"

"I should think so."

"Well, I have no hope."

"Do not say so! Vilma loves you. You are not likely to change your mind, and our father——"

"Our father,—oh, if there were no obstacle but his denial!" exclaimed Akosh. "I venerate our father; but there are limits to my veneration,—and if he compels me to choose between Vilma's love and his, I am prepared to sacrifice the man who prefers his prejudices to his son's happiness. But is Vilma prepared to follow my example? And, believe me, old Tengelyi is far more inexorable than my father!"

"But he idolises his daughter——"

"You do not know him as I know him. Yes, he idolises his daughter! He would sacrifice any thing to her, except his honour. On that point he is inexorable. After that cursed conversation with my step-mother, in which she hinted that she would be well pleased to see his daughter less frequently at our house, Tengelyi came to me. He told me all that had happened, and asked me to discontinue my visits to his family, for—such was his bitter expression—it was not well for young gentlemen of rank to hold intercourse with poor girls. Ever since that day, when I meet him in the street and accompany him to his house, he bows me off at the door, and sends me about my business. I have spoken to his wife, but she tells me that she cannot do any thing to soften him. I have spoken to Vandory, but he, too, has no comfort for me. Now consider that Tengelyi is sure to lay the blame of that disgraceful scene of last night at our door, and that our party at the next election will do all to oppose his. No! I tell you there is no hope left for me!"

"And yet I hope!" said Etelka, taking her brother's hand: "I know but too well on which side the victory is likely to be, in a contest between a woman's head and her heart."

"Do you really think so?" exclaimed Akosh, kissing her hand. "Oh if I could but know,—if I could but feel sure that my enemies will not succeed in estranging her heart from me!"

"You are mad, my respected brother," interposed Etelka; "pray who are your enemies? Old Tengelyi loves you as a son, though he does not say so; but suppose he did hate you, believe me, though father, and mother, and the whole country were to sit down for a twelvemonth abusing you, Vilma's feelings would remain as they are."

"Oh if I could but see her! if I could but see her, though it were only for a moment!"

"Be patient. Who knows what may happen when Tengelyi goes to the election? But we must turn back now; the Cortes[10] are about to make their appearance. I would not for the world lose the spectacle of their arrival."

They turned and walked to the house, whence arose the sound of many voices, like the roll of a distant thunder-storm. The Hungarians are wont to commence their affairs, no matter whether they be great or small, not with light—but with noise. I leave my readers to imagine the fearful din with which the halls of the Retys resounded. Servants and haiduks ran in all directions, fetching and carrying all sorts of things. The cook and his boys,—the bailiff and the butler, the housekeeper and the maids, were shouting at, ordering about, and abusing one another; and Lady Rety, who every moment expected the arrival of her guests, had just sent her third maid with most peremptory instructions to cause the people to be silent,—without, however, obtaining any other result from the mission than a still greater confusion of tongues and voices. Great was her rage, and violently did she struggle to preserve that gracious smile which the Cortes were wont to admire in her at fixed periods every three years, viz., at the time of the general election.

The Sheriff Rety, Valentin Kishlaki, Mr. Paul Skinner, the justice, and sundry "spectabiles" of his party, were smoking their pipes in the hall, and a couple of poor relations, who were always invited on such occasions, filled and lighted their pipes for them, and made themselves generally useful, to show their deep sense of the honour which was done to them. Mr. Catspaw stood leaning against the wall. He looked the very picture of watchful humility.

This company, the like of which may be found in Hungary every where, especially at the time of the election, but which it were next to impossible to discover anywhere else, consisted but of a limited number of individuals. They were the grandees of the county of Takshony.

The man who first attracts our attention is Valentin Kishlaki, the father of Kalman Kishlaki, whom my readers had already the pleasure of meeting on the Turk's Hill. The good old man offers much to love, but little to describe. He is a short man, and withal a stout one; his hair is white, his cheeks red. He has a good-natured smile, and a pair of honest blue eyes. He is fond of telling a story without an end, but this weakness is his greatest crime.

Among the other persons in the sheriff's hall, the most remarkable are, doubtless, Augustin Karvay, the bold keeper of the county house, and Thomas Shaskay, the receiver of the taxes. The former was a Hungarian nobleman of the true stamp: bred on the heath, fagged at school, and plucked at college. The insurrection of 1809 afforded the noble youth a brilliant opportunity of displaying his talents for homicide, which were supposed to be astounding. But the speedy termination of the war nipped Mr. Karvay's martial honours in the bud; nor does history record any of his deeds of bravery and devotion, except the fact that he left his regiment at the commencement of the first and only battle in which that gallant body took part, and in which it was routed; and that, regardless of the fatigue and toils of the way, he hastened home to defend his household gods and the female members of his family. But so modest was Mr. Karvay, that the slightest allusion to this act of unparalleled devotion was observed to cause him pain, and even to spoil his temper. This modesty we take to be a proof of true merit.

Mr. Karvay's gallantry, or, perhaps, his touching modesty, did afterwards so much execution upon the heart of Lady Katshflatty, a young widow of fifty, that she consented to bless the youthful hero with all the charms and gifts of fortune which her years and her late husband's prodigality had left her. The blessing, in either respect, was by no means very great, and Mr. Karvay was reduced to the extremity of living upon his wits, which in his case would have been tantamount to the lowest degree of destitution, but for the good fortune he had of making some enemies by his marriage with Lady Katshflatty. His enemies belonged to the opposition in the county; that is to say, they were members of the minority;—reason enough for the party in power to take him up; and under the sheriff's protection Mr. Karvay was successively appointed to the posts of Keeper of the County House, Captain of the Haiduks, and Honorary Juror, and promoted to all the honours, bustle, and emoluments of these respective dignities.

Such was the person to whom Mr. Thomas Shaskay was bound by the ties of a cordial and mutual dislike. The two men seemed to be created for the express purpose of hating one another. Shaskay was a small and spare man; his face reminded one of an old crumpled-up letter, his hair was scant, his nose sharp and long, and his narrow forehead covered with a thousand wrinkles. Karvay's huge bulk, mottled face, and curly black hair, were in bodily opposition to this frail piece of humanity. Candour was Mr. Karvay's characteristic feature; indeed, there were people in the county of Takshony who protested that the gallant captain would be more amiable if he were less candid. Now Shaskay was the closest man breathing. He answered reluctantly even to the simplest questions. Some of his friends protested that his closeness and secrecy were quite out of place, for that Nature, when she framed him, had treated him as druggists do their goods, and that "Poison" was as distinctly written on his face as it ever was on an arsenic bottle.

Shaskay had met with many misfortunes in the course of his life; but so great was his strength of mind that he was never known to allude to them, and least of all to his greatest misfortune, which, however, was mentioned in the records of the county. While he held the office of receiver-general of the district, sundry monies which were entrusted to his care disappeared; and though Mr. Shaskay protested that the money was stolen, and though the whole county believed him; nay, though no one had the least doubt that Shaskay (who said it) had seen the thief as he left the room, still the government, grossly violating the laws both of nature and of the country, dismissed the unfortunate receiver-general from his office. The county of Takshony made no less than thirteen petitions in his favour, but the worthy man could never succeed in regaining the office, of which he had discharged the duties to the unqualified satisfaction of the nobility, and from which he had not only derived no gains, but also sacrificed his own private property at cards. But so great is the virtue of a truly good man, that Mr. Shaskay, instead of joining (as might have been supposed) the opposition, remained faithful to his politics and his party, exerting the whole of his influence in behalf of the government, which had treated him so unjustly.

Mr. Rety, the sheriff, stands in the centre of his own hall. He is dressed in a blue attila with silver buttons, his boots are armed with silver spurs, and his Meerschaum pipe is embossed with silver. His thoughts were of the approaching election, and of the speech which he intended to address to the Cortes; but the brilliant phrase upon which he had just stumbled, was interrupted by a distant howling and bellowing, which became gradually more distinct.

"Eljen Rety! Eljen Skinner! Eljen the liberty of Hungary! Hujh rá!" and similar exclamations, with now and then a curse, and the report of a pistol, resounded through the village. And besides there was the wonderful burden of the song:—

which will do for any election, and which is remarkable for the ease with which it may be adapted to the case or the name of any candidate. And there was a van with a gipsy band performing the Rakotzi, and all the dogs of the village stood by and barked their welcome.

"This is indeed enthusiasm! this is indeed popularity!" said Karvay, stroking his moustache, and looking pleased; "by my soul it is a fine thing to be so much beloved! I am not rich, but I would give fifty florins any day to hear myself extolled in this manner."

"Ah! but I trust to goodness they won't burn any thing!" said one of the poor relations, whose reminiscences of the last election were not of an agreeable kind.

"Burn any thing! Terrem tette! of whom dost dare to speak?" roared Karvay. "Dost not know that thou speakest of noblemen? that St. Vilmosh has three hundred votes? The sheriff's house is insured, and if the worst were to come to the worst, and if all the village were burnt down, we ought to bless our stars that they have come to us instead of siding with the other party!"

"Karvay is right," said Rety to his trembling cousin; "How dare you speak disrespectfully of my guests? I know the gentlemen of St. Vilmosh."

"So do I!" roared Karvay, "every tenth man of my prisoners is from St. Vilmosh. Capital fellows they are! Your thief and murderer is a capital fellow in war, or at an election."

"There are some exceptions to that rule," interposed Shaskay. "In the insurrection of 1809, I understand the men of St. Vilmosh——"

It was lucky for Shaskay that the Cortes had by this time come to the gate, for Mr. Karvay was preparing to pay the ex-receiver-general in kind, by an allusion to sundry monies. His biting jokes on that tender topic were, however, cut short by the arrival of the whole noble mob in not less than thirty large vans. The vans in front and in the rear were ornamented with large yellow flags with suitable mottoes, such as

"Rety for ever!" "No nobleman will condescend to build streets and dykes!"

and mongrel rhymes in the following fashion:—

Every nobleman had a green and yellow feather stuck in his hat or kalpac; these colours being emblematical of the hopes of their own party, and the envy of their adversaries, while they served the practical purpose of a badge of recognition.

The sheriff advanced, amidst violent cheering, to the front steps of the hall; the mob of noblemen shouting Halljuk[11]! formed a circle, and the notary of St. Vilmosh, stepping forward, addressed the patron in a speech of extraordinary pathos; in the course of which the words—Most revered,—Greece,—Rome,—Cicero,—patriotism,—singleness of purpose,—load star,—fragrant flowers,—forked tongues, pyramids, and steeple—were neither few nor far between, and which concluded with an assurance of the unbounded attachment of the constituency to the illustrious patriot he (the orator) had the supreme honour of addressing, and the quotation of "Si fractus illabetur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ," or to adopt the translation of the whipper-in of the Cortes:—

This speech, but especially its conclusion, called forth a torrent of applause; and the enthusiasm reached its culminating point, when Mr. Rety, as usual, assured them that he was overwhelmed with confusion—that he was unprepared—that this was the happiest day of his life—that he had no ambition, but that it appeared his friends of St. Vilmosh commanded his services, and that he was always the man who——

The assurance that Mr. Rety was "always the man who" excited cheers of the most deafening magnitude from his audience; and after the whipper-in had informed the sheriff that but one thing was wanting to the happiness of the noble mob, and that this one thing was the permission to kiss Lady Rety's hand, the crowd uttered another frantic shout of Eljen! and rushed into the house.

A sumptuous repast awaited them in the sheriff's dining-room and in the barn. The former apartment was occupied by the élite of the company, while the lower precincts of the barn sheltered a less select, though by no means a less noble party. The élite feasted on four-and-twenty different kinds of sweetmeats, with Hungarian Champagne, Tokay, and ices; and the great mass of the Cortes filled their noble stomachs with Gulyash and Pörkölt, Tarhonya, cream-cakes, dumplings, roast meats, wine and brandy.

Etelka left the company immediately after dinner, while the Lady Rety conversed with some of the rising assessors and clergymen of the district. The gentlemen smoked their pipes in the hall, and in front of the house; and if the notary of St. Vilmosh was not among their number, his absence may perhaps be accounted for by the fact that Etelka's maid, Rosi, lived in another part of the house.

Akosh and Kalman were walking in the garden. They were equals in age and station, and of course they were sworn friends. Nevertheless, the two young men were utterly different in their characters and tempers. Kalman was, by his education and constitution, a Betyar, that is to say, a root-and-branch Magyar of the old school; but it was his great ambition to be mistaken for a man of high European breeding and refinement. Akosh, on the other hand, who had the advantage of the best education which Paris and London can afford, had taken it into his head to act the Magyar, par excellence. Neither of them succeeded in maintaining his artificial character; and especially on that day they had both signally failed in their endeavours to falsify the old proverb: "Naturam expellas furcâ; tamen usque recurret."

Akosh was indeed a Betyar when the dinner commenced; but he grew less talkative and noisy as the talking and the noise around him increased, until at length he found himself fairly silenced. Kalman, who sat by Etelka, and who was greatly cheered by the kind manner in which she treated him (for poor Kalman was desperately in love with Miss Rety), took but little wine, and for a time his conduct and conversation were all that he or Etelka could wish. But by degrees he fell back into his Betyarism, until the displeased looks and curt replies of the lady made him aware of his error. At the end of the dinner he was as silent as his friend. He scarcely ventured to look at Miss Rety; and when dinner was over he hurried Akosh to the garden, there to bewail his sad and cruel fate.

"I am the most wretched of mortals!" cried he. "Did you observe the manner in which your sister treated me? She does not love me—nay, she detests and despises me!"

"Are you mad?" replied Akosh.

"No! I am not mad. Etelka does not love me; nor will she ever love me, and she is right. She is too good for the like of me."

"You ought never to take any wine, Kalman; it makes you sad."

"So you did see it? And she, too, is disgusted with me! I will leave the country! I will go to a place where nobody knows me! where your sister will not be annoyed by my presence!"

Kalman's lamentations were here cut short by Akosh, who, on being informed of the reason of this extraordinary distress, pledged his word that he would reconcile his sister to his friend; and Kalman's grief having given way to the hope of fresh favour, the two young men turned back to the house to find Etelka, and to solicit and obtain her pardon for any offence which her lover might have committed. But fate had willed it otherwise.

Old Kishlaki, misled by the excitement of the day, had taken rather more wine than he ought to have done; his ideas were consequently less steady than they might have been. A match between Miss Rety and his son had always been among his pet projects. Urged on by the conviviality of the day, he had undertaken to address the Retys, and to solicit their daughter's hand for Mr. Kalman Kishlaki, his son and heir. Rety's answer to this unexpected offer was that he could not presume to judge of his daughter's inclinations; and the Lady Rety, in her turn, gave Mr. Kishlaki to understand that it would be more wise to reserve matters of such moment for the period after the election. The good man was too much excited to understand the real meaning of these answers. He fancied that everything was arranged; and, walking from group to group, he told the great secret to every one whom he met.

The Cortes were meanwhile actively employed in rehearsing their votes for the election. They had already disposed of some of the lower places, and they now proceeded to elect Kalman Kishlaki a justice of the district. They strained every nerve of their lungs in shouting "Eljen Kalman Kishlaki!" Old Kishlaki was transported with joy, but he was grieved that his son's glorification should be lost within the walls of the barn. He called his servant, and informing him of the great secret, he hinted at the pleasure Miss Rety was sure to feel if the Cortes were to seize Kalman and to carry him in triumph to her room. The servant was, of course, quite of his master's opinion. He made his way to the barn, shouted "Halljuk!" and spoke so much to the purpose that the whole crowd of electors consented to accompany him to the garden. We ought to observe that Kishlaki's messenger gained his point chiefly by informing the Cortes of the proposed alliance between Etelka and Kalman.

The three hundred noblemen of St. Vilmosh set up a deafening shout of "Eljen!" and directed their steps to the garden, while old Kishlaki wept with joy, and muttered: "Hej! it is a fine thing to be so popular!"

Akosh and Kalman were close to the house when they met Kishlaki with all the Cortes at his heels. The old man had just time to embrace his son, and to cry out, "Do you hear it, Kalman? This is meant for you, my boy!" The very next moment they were surrounded by the men of St. Vilmosh. Their shout of "Eljen Kalman Kishlaki! Etelka Rety!" put a stop to all further conversation. The two young men were astonished. They did not know what to do or to say. But when old Kishlaki's servant proposed that the young man should be taken to "Miss Etelka, his betrothed bride;" and when a score of arms were stretched out to seize the fortunate lover, then it was that Kalman began to see how matters stood. He resisted, he prayed, he imprecated; and his father, too, who had no idea of proclaiming the affair in this way, did his utmost to prevail upon them to leave Miss Rety's name unmentioned. His endeavours were in vain. Kalman's resistance was of no avail. There was a sudden rush—a scuffle—and he found himself hoisted on the shoulders of a couple of stout fellows. His hair was dishevelled and his coat torn. He had lost his cravat and his hat. But the crowd, unmindful of these drawbacks to the personal graces of their favourite, bore him onward to the apartments of his mistress. Great was the uproar, and violent were their cheers of "Eljen Kalman and Etelka!"

The guests in the house rushed to the door, and, hearing the names of Kalman and Etelka, they turned to the sheriff and wished him joy. Mr. Rety received their congratulations with a sickly smile. Lady Rety, though mindful of Kishlaki's influence, protested with some warmth that there must be some mistake. But Karvay raised his powerful voice in honour of the young couple, whose St. Vilmosh friends had by this time arrived at the threshold of Etelka's room.

Kalman was more dead than alive. He was about to appear before the lady of his love with his coat torn and his hair out of curl, and borne on the arms of three hundred Cortes! Entreaties, tears, imprecations—all were in vain; and they certainly would have introduced him to Miss Rety in the most disgraceful plight that ever lover faced his mistress in, if that lady had been in the room. But, when the door opened, they discovered in her stead Rosi, Miss Rety's maid, and at her side no less a personage than the hopeful notary of St. Vilmosh. This event brought matters to a favourable crisis. Akosh interfered, and pointing out to the assembly that a justice must needs have a juror, and that nobody was better qualified to fill that office than his friend, the notary of St. Vilmosh, he caused that gifted individual to be raised on the arms of the Cortes, who carried him after the justice that was to be, and at length presented both justice and juror to the sheriff.

It need scarcely be said that Rosi was greatly shocked, but she became comforted on beholding her beloved notary on the shoulders of the Cortes, and when she understood that the public voice designated her chosen husband to fill the office of juror. She busied herself with arranging the things in the room, which had been put in disorder by the tumultuous entry of the Cortes. While she was thus occupied she heard Mr. Catspaw's voice in the next room (which was his own). He was, it appears, in the act of dismissing some individual, for he said:—

"Well, then, at seven o'clock precisely, near the notary's garden."

"Yes, your lordship! I mean to be punctual, your lordship," said another voice, which, though Oriental, did not seem to belong to a Hungarian.

"You know your reward," rejoined Mr. Catspaw, as his interlocutor left the room.

"Confusion!" exclaimed the frightened maid. "Mr. Catspaw was in his room! He knows all now, for he is wondrous sharp of hearing. What if he were to peach to my lady?" And uttering maledictions on the head of the attorney and his Jew, Rosi locked the door of her mistress's room and made the best of her way to the kitchen.

The sheriff had meanwhile informed the most influential of his guests that he wished them to meet him for the purpose of a consultation. The Dons of the county assembled in the dining-room, which had been arranged for the sittings of a committee. In a corner of this room, which was ornamented with Rety's family portraits, and which still retained a faint smell of the dinner, there were three men of note standing together. They were Mr. Slatzanek, the agent and plenipotentiary of the Count Kovary; Baron Shoskuty; and Mr. Kriver, the recorder. Their conversation ran in the most natural course, that is to say, it turned on the chances of the election.

"Are you sure," said Mr. Slatzanek, addressing the recorder, "of that wretched Vetshösy having joined Bantornyi's party?"

"I grieve to say that there can be no doubt about it."

"Did I not always tell you," cried the Baron—"did I not tell you a thousand times that I suspected Vetshösy? Three years ago, just a fortnight before the election, on a Friday afternoon, unless I am mistaken, I met you, Mr. Kriver, at the coffee-house. There were some of us, and some officers likewise, and I lighted my pipe and sat by you, and I said: 'That fellow Vetshösy——'"

"You were quite right, sir; but——"

"That fellow Vetshösy, said I, is a liberal, and, what is worse, he talks of his principles; he has some property, and——"

"Just so!" interposed Slatzanek. "Vetshösy is an influential man; the more fools we for making him justice of a district in which there are so many votes; but——"

"I know what you are about to say!" cried the Baron. "He might be gained over. Now, I'll tell you, I live in his district. Very well then, what do you say to a hunt—a legal hunt—a wolf hunt? We will have the peasants to drive the game. You will all come, and he, as justice of the district, must be one of us. Of course our wolf hunt is but a legal fiction, but he, as district judge, must be one of us, and we'll snare him, that we will."

"Alas!" sighed the recorder, "this is well and good; but the great obstacle is your son, the young Baron. He has more influence in the county than you have, and he is against us."

"Devil of a boy! devil of a boy!" cried the Baron, "and yet how often did I not say: My son Valentine——"

"Suppose you were to exert your paternal authority?"

"Just so! You are right. My paternal authority authorises me to force my boy to any thing I like. And we are always of the same opinion, that boy and I; and he obeys me in all things, that boy does; and I think he had better, so he had! but on that one subject he is most unreasonable, I tell you."

"But it is on that very subject that he ought to yield to your superior wisdom."

"You are right! indeed you are. I'll disinherit that boy, confound me if I do not!"

Slatzanek, who was aware that the old Baron had very little to leave, and whose sagacity taught him to expect little or no effect from so vague a threat of a remote contingency, inquired whether there was no other means of compelling the young man; to which the Baron replied that there was no lack of means, especially if the lad could but be induced to marry.

"You have no idea, sir, how strongly marriage tells upon a man," said he, "especially in our family. When I was a bachelor, I was the most liberal man you could meet with in three counties any summer's day; and at present——. But the boy won't marry!"

"How do we stand in this district?" said Slatzanek, addressing Mr. Kriver.

"As bad as can be. Tengelyi is against us."

"Tengelyi!" cried the Baron. "Tengelyi indeed! A mere village notary! Bless my soul! Tengelyi! How many Tengelyis does it take, do you think, to face me at the election?"

"Alas!" said Slatzanek, "votes are counted in this country, and not weighed; I know few men that are more powerful than this notary."

"And Akosh Rety," suggested Mr. Kriver, "does not indeed oppose us, but that is all."

"Ah!" cried the Baron; "just like my own son! I said just now——"

"However, if the Kishlakis stand but by us, we are pretty certain of this district."

"But we cannot rely on the Kishlakis," said Kriver. "Kalman is out of temper; he is jealous of the Count Harashy."

"You don't say so! Miss Rety was proclaimed as his future wife."

"Ay, but the Cortes did it," whispered the recorder, "and it struck me that Lady Rety was not at all pleased."

"You are right," said the Baron. "It struck me too. I sat by Lady Rety, talking of the weather, when the Cortes bore Kalman about, and when I heard them shouting,—'Dear lady,' said I——"

"We must be careful," said Slatzanek; "I fear ours is a bad position."

"As for me," said Mr. Kriver, "you are aware of my zeal; and I assure you that I will keep our party au courant of all the enemy's manœuvres."

"And to know your adversary's plans is half the battle!" cried the Baron, clapping his hands.

"Oh! if the noblemen in the county were all like my own tenants!" cried Slatzanek. "They vote with me; if they do not, they lose their farms. They are the men for an election!"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the sheriff, and the labours of the committee commenced in due form with a provisional election of functionaries: Rety came in for the shrievalty; Mr. Kriver, the recorder, was appointed his Vice; and almost every one of the persons present obtained the promise of a place, either for himself or a friend. This done, the committee directed their attention to the means of fighting the battle of the real election; and, after a lengthened conversation on the usual electioneering tactics,—the favouring of a class, the kidnapping of electors, and the devising of plans for the especial annoyance of the hostile party, it was finally resolved to arrange the reception of the Lord-Lieutenant, who was to conduct the election, in such a manner as to impress that great functionary with a favourable opinion of the Rety party. But the most arduous duty of the committee was the "finding the ways and means" for the confirmation of their political friends, and the conciliation of such among the enemy's troops as had some scruples about the justice of the cause which they had espoused. But Slatzanek's talents of persuasion, and the Lady Rety's sarcastic remarks, prevailed against the prudential considerations of certain timid assessors and justices; and the subscription having terminated to the general satisfaction of Rety and his friends, the meeting dispersed.

CHAP. VI.

While the committee were carrying on their deliberations in the castle of Tissaret, the house of the notary stood in peaceful tranquillity, and only the lights, which shone through the windows, gave evidence of the presence of its inhabitants. The house had two rooms fronting the street; one of these apartments, which had a back door communicating with the court-yard, was devoted to the use of Tengelyi, who kept his papers in it. The other room, which opened into the former apartment and the kitchen, was occupied by Mrs. Ershebet and her daughter. The kitchen had two doors, one leading to the garden, and the other to the yard. Next the kitchen was the store-room in which Viola had been hidden. At the further end of the house was the servants' room, and a small chamber in which lay Viola's wife. Tengelyi had spent the day at Tsherepesh, at Mr. Bantornyi's house; for the Bantornyi party, too, had their meetings and committees. Mrs. Ershebet, and Vandory who had dined at the notary's, were in the sick chamber, and Etelka and Vilma sat chatting in the second front room.

"Then you did not see him after all!" said Etelka. "'Tis a pity. I would give any thing to meet Viola, for I take a great interest in him."

"How can you talk in that way! God knows I pity the poor man; but I certainly do not wish to make his acquaintance. You are bold and courageous! but as for me, I am sure it would kill me to see him. They say he is a murderer."

"Nonsense! a man who is so fond of his wife as Viola cannot be so wicked as they say he is. I do not know of any man—except your father—who would brave so great a danger to see his wife under such circumstances: I can admire that love, even in a robber; and thus I too wish to be beloved, no matter by whom!"

"If that can satisfy you," said Vilma, "I am sure there is nothing but what Kalman will do for you."

"Always excepting the being sober, and eschewing swearing, and all the clumsy affectation of a cavalier. Kalman would do any thing for me, but the one thing I ask him to do."

"Now you are unjust. I am sure he would leap into the fire for your sake."

"Of course he would, especially if some of his friends were present to extol his bravery. Kalman is very brave; it is his nature to be so; he cannot help it. He has many good qualities, I grant, but pray do not tell me that he loves me."

"I see you are again at odds with him. What is his crime?"

"He—but never mind! I will not talk about it. I cannot respect him, nor can I believe that he loves me."

"Akosh has a far different opinion of him."

"So he has!" rejoined Etelka; "but may I not question the justness of his views? Men are wont to prize their friends for those qualities which are of the greatest use to them. A good sportsman, a man that sticks to his word, and who will fight a duel for his friend at a moment's warning—such a man is their idol; they are half astonished, and more than half disgusted that we should ask for more. But I do!"

Vilma was silent. She saw that Etelka was hurt, and Etelka too wished to change the topic of their conversation. Addressing Vilma again, she said:—

"I can fancy your father's disgust last night, when he came home and learned what had happened."

"I never saw him in such a state. But Vandory came with him; he succeeded in quieting my father. I tremble when I think of it. He says he will have his right in this business."

"Never fear," said Etelka.

"But do you know whom he suspects of being the cause? He lays it all at the door of your father and mother?"

"Of my stepmother; and I am afraid he is right in his suspicions."

"Yes; but my father is again angry with all your family, except yourself. He is most violent against Akosh, who saved us from ruin. Only think if they had searched the house and found Viola! My father——"

"He will never know it."

"But if my father were to bring an action against Mr. Skinner? He protests he will do it."

"He will never do it. He was angry at the time, and I am sure he will reconsider the subject. But do not speak to him about it. If he knew it, he would not keep quiet, and there are many people who would be glad of any opportunity of showing their enmity against him."

"That's what old Mother Liptaka said. But you cannot think how distressing my situation is. I, who never kept any thing secret from my father, must now face him with an untruth. Every noise alarms me; for with my secret I lose my father's love. Oh! I cannot bear it!"

"And yet you must bear it," replied Etelka, embracing the weeping girl. "The peace of mind and the welfare of your father demand this sacrifice."

"I think so too," said Vilma; "but then you have no idea how kind my father is, and how I long to kneel down and confess my fault to him!"

"My poor Vilma," sighed Miss Rety, "I am at a loss whether I am to pity you, or to envy you. I am not in a position to confide in my parent. But be comforted: trust me, things will be altered. I understand my father is to resign after the election, and Mr. Tengelyi's anger will subside. Vandory will perhaps provide for Viola's wife. In a few weeks you will be able to tell your father all your sorrows."

"But what am I to do in the meantime? Viola came, though he knew that the whole village was in arms against him. The Liptaka tells me that he loves his wife more than I can think or understand. May he not come to-morrow, or to-night, or any time?—Jesus Maria!" shrieked Vilma, turning her pale face to the garden—"there he is!"

"Who?" asked Etelka, looking in the same direction.

"He! he is gone now,—but trust me, there he stood! I saw his face quite plainly!"

"Do you speak of Viola? Believe me you will not see him here, so long as Mr. Skinner, with half the county at his back, keeps infesting the place. How foolish and how pale you are! Come. I will fetch you a glass of water; it will do you good."

Just as Etelka got up to leave the room, some one outside knocked softly at the door.

"Oh, pray do not go!" cried Vilma. "Who can it be that knocks. It is so late! I fear——"

"Some one for your father; but we'll see. Come in!" said Etelka.

The door opened, and a Jew entered with many low bows and entreaties to excuse the liberty he was taking in saying good evening to the high and gracious ladies.

Vilma's fear, and the Jew's humility, formed so strange a contrast, that Etelka could not repress a smile, especially when she saw that Vilma remained still in bodily fear of the stranger, who stood quietly by the door, turning his brimless hat in his hands. His appearance was not that of a robber; on the contrary, he was a sickly and unarmed man; still his aspect was of a kind to make even a bold man feel uncomfortable in his presence. Jantshi, or John, the glazier (such at least was his name in this county) was the ugliest man in the whole kingdom of Hungary. His diminutive body seemed as if bowed down by the weight of his gigantic head; his face was marked with the small-pox, and more than one-half of it was covered with a forest of red hair, and a wiry, dirty beard of the same colour. He had lost one of his eyes—its place was covered with a black patch; the searching and roving look of his other eye, his shuffling gait, and his cringing politeness, made him an object of suspicion and dislike to every one that chanced to meet him. Even Etelka felt disagreeably touched by the man's looks, and she became positively alarmed when Vilma whispered to her, that that was the face which she had seen at the window.

"Mr. Tengelyi is out, I tell you," said Etelka. "You may come to-morrow morning."

"Most gracious lady," said the Jew, still turning his hat and looking round, "this is indeed a misfortune! I have some pressing business with the high-born Mr. Tengelyi."

"Well then, come back in half-an-hour; perhaps he'll be home to supper."

"If so, may I wait outside?" asked the Jew, without, however, moving from the place where he stood. "Has his worship any dogs?"

"Dogs?" said Vilma.

"Yes, if there are no dogs in the yard I can wait; but if there are any I cannot wait. I am afraid of them."

"You may wait!" said Etelka, angrily; "there are no dogs in the house."

"Yes: but there may be some in the next house. I am a stranger, and it was but last year, in the third village from here, that the dogs nearly tore me to pieces. Since that time I fear them." And the stranger told them a long story, how he was walking through the village, how the dogs attacked him, and how he was saved by a shepherd who happened to hear his cries. "Bless me!" added the Jew, "if that man had not come they would have torn my cloak, and it was a very good cloak; it was not new, but it was a good cloak, for I bought it at Pesth for five florins and thirty kreutzers."

The Jew was so cunning, and withal so awkward, that Etelka could not help laughing at him; but Vilma felt uncomfortable, and asked him to go and come back in half an hour. Whereupon the Jew said that he would wait in the servants' room.

"No!" said Vilma; "there is a sick woman lying close by the servants' room; besides, we have told you over and over again that you must come back in half an hour, and that you shall not stay."

The Jew bowed very humbly, and walking to the door which led into the kitchen, he opened it.

"Stop!" said Vilma; "where are you going to?"

"I throw myself at your feet! I ask a thousand pardons! I am so confused. May I go through that door into the yard?"

"That door is locked. Get out by the door through which you came in."

The Jew made another low bow, and walked across Tengelyi's room to the door by which he had entered; not, however, without looking to the adjoining room, dropping his hat on the floor, and turning the handle of the door in every direction but the right one, while his eye seemed to peer into and examine every corner of the apartment.

"What do you say to that?" asked Vilma, when he was gone; "I will bet you any thing that fellow is a spy."

"Nothing is more likely; for he seems to be capable of any thing, and in war he would certainly act as a spy. But why should he exercise that noble trade in your house?"

"He was looking after Viola and his wife. You know how eager Mr. Skinner is to arrest the robber."

"I know that yesterday he was in pursuit of the poor man; but to-day he has other matters to think of. No, I am sure the Jew has some request or some complaint to make to your father."

"But he asked so many questions; he looked into every corner of the room."

"He was afraid of the dogs, and perhaps he hoped to discover a broken pane of glass. It would have been a job for him, you know."

But Vilma was by no means easy in her mind. She was about to give vent to a great many more fears, when Tengelyi's arrival put a stop to the conversation.

While his daughter took charge of his hat and cane, the notary turned to Etelka.

"I was hardly prepared to find Miss Rety here," said he, "there are so many guests at the Castle."

"Are you not aware that their presence at the Castle adds to my reasons for coming here?"

"Indeed! I fancied that these gentlemen could not be sufficiently honoured just before the election."

Etelka's feelings were hurt, and she was at a loss what to say; but Vilma, who wished to turn the conversation into another channel, asked her father whether he had not met a Jew, who had just left the house.

"I did meet him," said the notary. "I found him near my door, talking to Mr. Catspaw. By the by, now I think of it, Mr. Catspaw asked me to give his compliments to Miss Rety, and to inform her that he is going to send a servant with a lanthorn. They are going to supper; the sheriff has several times asked for Miss Rety."

"But what did the Jew want with you? He was very pressing; he wanted to see you on business of great importance."