A BIT OF STRATEGY.
A sharp whistle from the locomotive awakened the sleepers.
"Where are we now?" asked Blanka.
"Near Bologna," answered the artist, who alone had remained awake; "and
there I have to leave the train, which continues on, via Imola, to
Ancona."
"You leave the train? But I thought you, too, were going to Rome," said
the princess, in surprise.
"So I am," was the reply, "but by another route. My luggage will go
through to Ancona, and thence by diligence to Rome, while I push on over
the Apennines to Pistoja and Florence. It is a harder road, but its
splendid views amply repay one for an occasional climb on foot by the
_vetturino's_ side; and then, too, I shall reach Rome one day ahead of
you, who go by way of Ancona."
Blanka listened with interest. "Couldn't we take that route also?" she
asked. "What do you say to it, Maria? We could quietly leave the train
at Bologna and let our trunks go on to Rome without us."
"But are the mountain passes safe?" queried Madam Dormandy, turning to
Manasseh. "Is there no danger of highwaymen?"
"Bad men are to be feared everywhere," replied the young man; "but as
for highway robbers, they are much more to be apprehended by those
travelling with valises and trunks than by the tourist that simply
carries a satchel slung over his shoulder, as I intend to do. In my
student days I used to tramp over these mountains in every direction,
and the brigands never molested me. Whenever I fell in with a band I
used to group the men together and sketch them. Artists have nothing to
fear from gentlemen of the road."
"And besides, we are two able-bodied men, and I always carry a brace of
pistols--don't you?" spoke up the advocate, his professional zeal
kindling at the prospect of stealing a march on the enemy.
"I carry no weapons of any kind," calmly replied the artist.
"Oh, I fear no harm from bad men," exclaimed the princess; "there is but
one bad man whom we need to dread."
The others easily guessed to whom she referred; but Gabriel Zimandy was
bent on making her meaning still plainer.
"He'd better not follow us into the mountains!" he cried, "for if the
young rogue falls into my hands he'll wish he'd never been born. Lucky
for him he took our friend's gentle hint; had he kept his seat a moment
longer there would have been serious trouble."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Madam Dormandy; "how surprised he will be when he
fails to find us at Ancona and is obliged to journey on by diligence
with our baggage, but without us!"
"We shall be hurrying on ahead of him over these grand old mountains,"
added the princess, with enthusiasm, her cheeks glowing in pleased
anticipation. "And we have to thank you, Mr. Adorjan, for the
suggestion." With an impulsive movement she extended her hand to the
young artist, who scarcely ventured to touch her finger-tips in return.
"Very well, then," said he, "we will try the mountain road; and let us
take no luggage but what we can carry in our hands. When we come to a
beautiful waterfall we will sketch it, and when we chance upon a fine
view we will celebrate its beauties in song."
"Yes, and people will take us for strolling minstrels," interposed the
princess; "and we must drop our real names and titles. Mr. Zimandy shall
be the impresario, and Madam Dormandy the prima-donna; they can pass for
husband and wife. We two can be brother and sister. What is your
sister's name?"
"Anna."
"Lend me her name for a little while, will you? You don't object?"
Manasseh turned strangely sober. "It would be only for your sake that I
should object," he replied. "The bearer of that name is a very
unfortunate girl."
So they agreed to leave the train at Bologna and take the mountain pass.
It only remained to hoodwink Benjamin Vajdar, and Manasseh Adorjan
promised to effect this. He alighted before the train had fairly
stopped, having first directed the others to go into the waiting-room.
"That young man will not stir from his seat, nor will he even look out
of the window," added Manasseh, with as much confidence as if he had
acquired a talisman which enabled him to control the other's actions.
As the train rolled out of the station the artist rejoined his party,
with the welcome assurance that their enemy was now out of their way.
"Is there a mysterious relation of some sort between you two?" asked
Blanka.
"Yes--one of fear: I tremble every time I see the man."
"You tremble?"
"Yes; I am afraid I shall kill him some day."
With that, and as if regretting that he had said so much, he hurried
away to engage a carriage to take them to Vergato. During his absence
the advocate explained to his client that the Unitarians have an
especial horror of bloodshed. He declared that some of them shrank from
taking even an animal's life and abstained entirely from the use of
meat.
Blanka shook her head incredulously. She could not conceive of a
gentleman's being forbidden by his scruples to use arms when the
occasion demanded. How else, she asked, could he defend his honour, his
loved ones, the women entrusted to his charge?
When the four were seated in their carriage, the gentlemen facing the
ladies, Blanka led the conversation back to the point at which Manasseh
had dropped it.
"You said you feared you should kill that young man some day," she
began. "Does your religion forbid you to kill a man--under any
circumstances?"
"With a single exception," he replied; "but that exception is out of the
question in this instance."
Blanka wondered what the single exception could be, but refrained from
asking. "Are you well acquainted with Mr. Vajdar?" she inquired
presently.
"We have known each other from childhood," was the reply. "Whatever I
possessed was shared with him. His father was my father's steward; and
when the steward proved false to his trust and gambled away a large sum
of money committed to his care, and then shot himself, my father adopted
the little orphan, and always treated him exactly as he did his own
children. He grew up to be a bright and promising young man, and never
failed to win a stranger's favour and confidence. But woe to those that
thus confided in him! My poor sister, my dear, good little Anna, trusted
him, and all was ready for their wedding when he disappeared, deserting
her at the very altar."
Even the shades of approaching nightfall could not hide the expression
of pain on the speaker's face.
"When did this occur?" asked Blanka, gently.
"Last year--in February."
"The date of my marriage, and of my first seeing that man," was Blanka's
silent comment. She pondered the possible connection between the two
circumstances. Benjamin Vajdar had left his affianced bride soon after
seeing Princess Cagliari; he had then entered Cagliari's service as
private secretary, and, a little later, divorce proceedings had been
begun by the prince against his young wife.
"Was it Mr. Vajdar's troubled conscience that made him leave us the
moment you appeared?" she asked, after a pause.
"No," said Manasseh; "he has no conscience. When he has an object in
view, all means are legitimate with him. He knows neither consideration
for others nor shame for his own misdeeds."
"And yet he certainly played the coward before you."
"Because he knows that I possess certain information, certain
documentary evidence, by which, if I chose, I could hurl him down in
confusion and disgrace from any height, however lofty, which he might
succeed in attaining."
"And you refrain from using this evidence against him?"
"To use it would be revenge," replied the young man, calmly.
"Is revenge forbidden where you live?"
"Yes."
"Has your sister never found a balm for her wounded affections?"
"Never. My people are of the kind that loves but once."
"Pray tell me where it is that your people have their home," urged the
princess. "Is it on an island in the moon?"
"Indeed, princess, it is not unlike those glimpses of the moon that we
get through a large telescope when we examine, for instance, the rocky
island known to astronomers as 'Plutarch,' or that named 'Copernicus.'
Everything where I live would seem to you to savour of another planet.
On the maps the place is put down as 'Toroczko.' It is in a mountain
gorge, entered by a narrow path along the riverside and through a cleft
in the rocks. The northern side of this narrow ravine, being in some
measure exposed to the southern sun, is clothed with woods; the
southern is a great wall of bare rock rising in terraces, or giant
steps, that might well suggest the dreariness and desolation of a
landscape in the moon. This barren expanse of naked rock is called the
Szekler Stone, and was formerly surmounted by the castle of a Hungarian
vice-voivode. Its ruins are still to be seen there. The lower slopes of
this mountainside are cultivated now, and the ploughshare is gradually
forcing one terrace after another to yield sustenance to the farmer.
Thus it is that by these cultivated terraces the centuries of the town's
history can be numbered. For there is a village there, deep down in the
rocky ravine, as if on the floor of a volcano's crater, and in that
village live the happiest people in all the world. Do not think me
unduly prejudiced by the fact that I am one of them. No, I am not
prejudiced. Strangers also find no terms of praise too high for those
happy and industrious people. Noted English and German travellers have
visited my native valley and afterward written books about it, as other
travellers have about Japan or Circassia. Indeed, those two countries
have something in common with my own. My people have developed and
perfected industries peculiar to themselves, as have the Japanese, and
they also are proud of their handsome women, as are the
Circassians--except that the girls of Toroczko are not for sale, nor,
for that matter, are they to be had by foreigners, even for love. Their
charms bloom only for their own countrymen, and by them they are
jealously guarded. They never work in the fields, and so their fair
faces are never tanned or freckled. The young maidens keep their rooms,
and spin, weave, and embroider for their own adornment. When Sunday
comes and they all go to church, they fill six benches and form a
veritable 'book of beauties,' of various types, both blond and brunette,
which, however, one cannot so easily distinguish, owing to the richly
worked kerchiefs under which their hair is hidden. Their entire costume
is snow-white, even to the fine sheepskin bodice worn by each."
"Ah, your young women think of nothing but dress, I fear," remarked
Blanka.
"By no means," protested Manasseh; "on the contrary, their childhood and
youth are largely devoted to education. The people of our little valley
maintain a high school for boys and a seminary for girls, as well as a
charity school for the poor."
"Then your people must be rich."
"No, not rich. There are no lords or ladies among them, and they have
suffered more from the ravages of war than any other community in
Hungary."
"But how," asked Blanka, "can they afford to dress their young women in
silks and laces, and give both boys and girls an education? They must
have some fairy talisman for conjuring wealth out of the rocks on which
their houses stand."
"And so they have. Their talisman is industry, and out of their rocky
soil they conjure riches in the shape of iron,--the best that can be
found in all Transylvania. The same men that fill the church every
Sunday, in holiday attire, dig and delve under ground the remaining six
days of the week. Another secret of their modest wealth is their
abstinence from strong drink. There is not a single grog-shop in
Toroczko. But I fear I am wearying you."
Blanka begged him to continue, and took occasion to ask him why he did
not go back to the beautiful valley which he seemed to love so warmly.
"Because," was the answer, "my people are now enjoying a period of
happiness in which I have no part. If misfortune should ever overtake
them, I should go back and strive to lighten it, or at least I would
bear it with them."