OLD SCORES.
The inhabitants of the doomed town were warned beforehand by a friendly
informer what was in store for them. For two months they knew that they
were standing over a mine which awaited only the proper moment to be
touched off. Nevertheless, during this time they went about their usual
tasks, digging iron out of the bowels of the earth, sowing their grain,
planting and weeding their gardens, spinning their flax, tanning their
hides, sending their children to school, and all betaking themselves to
church on Sunday morning. The Sunday afternoon diversions, however, were
suspended, and in their stead the entire male population practised
military drill. Even the twelve-year-old boy cried if he was not allowed
to take part. All were determined to shed their last drop of blood
rather than let the enemy set foot inside their town. Even the women
busied themselves sharpening axes and scythes, resolute in their purpose
to defend their little ones or, if need were, to put them to death with
their own hands and then slay themselves. No woman, no child, should
fall into the enemy's clutches alive.
It was the very last day of July. The fields were dotted with sheaves of
grain, and the farmers were hastening to gather them in. They had been
surprised by countless numbers of crows and ravens which invaded the
valley and filled the air with their hoarse, discordant cries. Those
experienced in war knew that these birds were the usual attendants and
heralds of armies.
More definite tidings were not long in coming. Messengers from St.
George arrived breathless with the report that Diurbanu's troops were
rapidly approaching. But no one was disconcerted by the news; all were
ready for the enemy. Throwing scythes and pitchforks aside, they
snatched up their firearms. Each battalion of the national guard had its
assigned position. The streets were barricaded with wagons, and the road
toward Borev was laid under water by damming the brook, to prevent a
surprise from that direction. Aaron, with forty other men, clambered up
the steep slope of the Szekler Stone to repulse the enemy from this
commanding height,--forty men against as many hundred. They would have
laughed at their own folly had they but stopped to think.
Toward noon the sturdy little band of defenders was increased by the
coming of fugitives from St. George. For these, too, there were arms
enough in Toroczko. The effective force now in the village amounted to
nearly four hundred.
Manasseh was at home with the women of the family. They had declined
Aaron's offer to conceal them in Csegez Cave, preferring to remain under
the family roof and there await what God had appointed them. Manasseh
now embraced Blanka and Anna and bade them farewell.
"Where are you going?" asked Blanka, in alarm. Jonathan's pale face
seemed at that moment to float before her vision, and she feared to part
with her husband, lest he should not return.
"I am going to the enemy's camp."
"Alone?"
"No, not alone. I am well attended: Uriel goes before me, Raphael is on
my right hand, Gabriel on my left, behind me Michael, and over my head
Israel."
"But you are going unarmed."
"No, I am armed with the peace treaty which our foes concluded with me,
swearing not to attack Toroczko. That is my weapon, and with it I will
win a bloodless victory."
Blanka looked sorrowfully into her husband's face, and in that look was
expressed all that her tongue was powerless to utter,--her infinite love
for the man and her deep despair at the thought of perhaps never again
meeting those eyes so full of love and tenderness for her.
"I tried it once before, you know," he reminded her, "and you know how
well I succeeded then. The leader of the Wallachians is an old
acquaintance of mine." But this last was true in a sense that the
speaker little dreamed--as he was to learn later.
Blanka pressed her husband's hand. "Very well," said she, with a brave
effort at cheerful confidence, "do as seems best to you, and Heaven will
care for us."
Manasseh could not suppress a sigh as he kissed his wife on the
forehead. Anna, who could read her brother's face, knew what that sigh
meant.
"You need not be anxious about us, dear brother," she said. "We are
under God's protection, and are prepared for the worst. We decided long
ago what we should do if we were forced to it. When all is lost that is
dearest to us,--our loved ones, our home, our country,--we shall not
wait tamely for the enemy to break into the house. Here are two pistols:
each of us will take one of them and point it at the other's heart, each
will utter the name that is last in her thoughts, and that will be the
last word that will ever pass her lips. Now you may go on your errand
and need not fear for us."
Manasseh's feelings were too deep for utterance. Without a word he
kissed the dear ones before him and then left the house and hastened
away. He turned his face toward St. George. He was alone and had not
even a stick in his hand.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. To a good pedestrian St.
George is only half an hour's walk from Toroczko. On the outskirts of
the village Manasseh met scattered bodies of soldiery who surveyed him
in much surprise; but, as he was unarmed, they offered him no injury.
His calmness of bearing and the cool, collected look with which he met
their scrutiny completely disarmed them. Besides, they were busy cutting
up slaughtered cattle and cooking their supper in the open fields. As
was usual among such irregular troops, no outposts had been set to
challenge the approach of strangers.
Manasseh accosted the first man whose face impressed him favourably, and
asked for guidance to the commander's quarters. The man willingly gave
him his escort. On the way he went so far as to unbosom himself to
Manasseh, complaining that, at this busy season of the year, when all
ought to be at home, men were forced to make so long a march. After
showing the way to the house where the commander was to be found, he
received a cigar from Manasseh, and acknowledged himself amply repaid
for his trouble.
Manasseh advanced to the door and announced to a group of armed men
lounging about it that he wished to see Diurbanu.
"The general is not to be seen just now," was the reply; "he is at
dinner, and will not leave the table for some time yet."
Manasseh drew a visiting-card from his pocket, and, first bending down
one corner, sent it in to the general. The bearer of it soon returned
with the announcement that Diurbanu bade the visitor wait awhile, and
meantime he was to be bound and confined in the cellar. Manasseh
assented to this peculiar reception. "Many men, many manners," said he
to himself. It would have been easy enough for him to leap the railing
of the porch and flee to the woods before the others could lay hands on
him, but he had not come hither merely to run away again the next
moment.
"Very well, go ahead and bind me," said he, good-humouredly, to the
guards. But they looked at one another in helpless inquiry who should
undertake to manacle this large, strong man. When at length two had
volunteered to essay the task, it appeared that there was no rope in
readiness. "Go and get one," commanded the prisoner; and when a stout
cord had been procured, he went on with his directions: "Now take my
pocketbook out; you'll find some loose change in it which you may divide
among you. There is also a folded paper in the pocketbook; deliver it
to the general and ask him to read it. Then take a cigar out of my
waistcoat pocket, light it and stick it in my mouth."
These commands having been duly executed, two of the guards led their
prisoner down into the cellar, which appeared to be Diurbanu's
antechamber for such visitors as came to him with troublesome petitions.
Not satisfied with conducting him to the main or outer cellar,
Manasseh's escort opened the iron door leading into an inner
compartment, pushed him through it, and closed the portal upon him,
after bidding him take a seat and make himself comfortable.
Manasseh found himself in almost total darkness. Only an air-hole over
his door admitted a very feeble light from the dimly illumined outer
cellar. He began to consider his situation, comforting himself with the
reflection that at Monastery Heights he had been treated in much the
same fashion, except that there his hands had not been bound. He had
been kept in confinement all night, and in the morning his terms of
peace had been accepted. This time, too, he hoped for a like issue.
When a cigar is smoked in the dark it lights up the smoker's face at
each puff. Suddenly a voice from out of the gloom called, "Manasseh!"
"Who is there?"
"I."
It was a gipsy, whose voice Manasseh recognised. "How came you here,
Lanyi?" he asked.
"Diurbanu had me locked up--the devil take him!"
"What grudge had he against you?"
"He ordered me to play to him while he sat at dinner," explained the
gipsy; "but I told him I wouldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I won't make music for my country's enemies."
His country, poor fellow! What share had he in that country beyond the
right to tramp the public highway, and make himself a mud hut for
shelter?
"Then he gave me a cuff," continued the gipsy, "had me shut up here, and
promised to hang me. Well, he may break me on the wheel, for aught I
care, but I won't play for him even if he smashes my fiddle for
refusing."
"Well, don't be down-hearted, my little man," said Manasseh, cheerily.
"I'm not a bit down-hearted," declared the other. "I only thought I'd
ask you not to throw away your cigar-stump when you've finished smoking.
You can walk, your feet are free; come here when you are through with
your cigar, and let it fall into my mouth, so that I can chew it."
"But you'll find it a hot mouthful."
"So much the better."
This cynical gipsy phlegm exactly suited Manasseh's mood, and he exerted
himself to cheer the poor fellow up, promising to secure his release as
soon as he himself should gain an audience with Diurbanu.
"But you won't get out of here yourself in a hurry," returned the gipsy.
"Once in Diurbanu's hands, you might as well be in the hangman's.
Already he has put to death seven envoys who came to treat for peace,
and they were only St. George peasants. So what will he do to you who
are an Adorjan and wear a seal ring? But you've a breathing-spell yet.
The others served him as a little relish before dinner; you are to be
kept for dessert. One drinks a glass of spirits at a gulp, but black
coffee is to be sipped and enjoyed. I know this Diurbanu well, and
you'll know him, too, before he's through with you. I'll bet you my
fiddle, Manasseh, you won't live to see another day; but it serves you
right! You could handle three such men as Diurbanu in a fair fight; yet,
instead of meeting him on the battle-field, you walk right into his
clutches and let him bind you fast--like Christ on the cross."
"Take not that name in vain, you rogue!" commanded Manasseh, sternly,
"or I'll let you feel the weight of my foot."
"Kick me if you wish to," returned the vagrant, imperturbably; "but,
all the same, if I had been Christ I wouldn't have chosen a miserable
donkey to ride on, but would have sent for the best horse out of Baron
Wesselenyi's stud; and as soon as I had the nag between my legs, I would
have snapped my fingers at old Pontius Pilate."
The gipsy's eloquence was here interrupted by the sound of a key turning
in the outer door of the cellar.
"They're coming!" cried the fiddler; "and I sha'n't get your
cigar-stump, Manasseh. They'll take me out first."
Through the hole above the iron door a reddish light could now be seen.
Presently the iron door itself was opened, and two men, bearing
pitch-pine torches, entered, and then stood one on each side of the
door. Diurbanu came last, dressed in the costume of a Wallachian
military commander, his face flushed with wine and evil passions, and
his long hair falling over his shoulders. Despite his disguise, Manasseh
recognised him at once. He saw that the gipsy's words had conveyed no
idle warning. The man before him was none other than Benjamin Vajdar.
Yet the prisoner lost nothing of his composure, but with head erect and
unflinching gaze faced his deadly enemy.
"Well, Manasseh Adorjan," began the other, "you asked to see me, and
here I am. Do you know me now?"
"You are called Diurbanu," replied Manasseh, coldly.
"And don't you know another name for me? Don't I remind you of an old
acquaintance?"
"To him whom you resemble, I have nothing to say. I have come to you as
to Diurbanu, I have placed in your hands the peace-treaty which your
people made with my people, and I demand its observance."
"To convince you that I am not merely Diurbanu, but also another, look
here." With that he called one of the torch-bearers and held to the
flame the paper he had received from Manasseh.
The latter shrugged his shoulders and blew a cloud of cigar-smoke.
"Do you understand now," continued Diurbanu, "that there is one man in
the world who has sworn to march against Toroczko, treaty or no treaty,
to leave not one stone on another in that town, and not one of its
people alive to tell the story of its destruction? My day has come at
last--and Toroczko's night." The speaker's features took on at these
words an expression more like that of a hyena than of a human being.
"Idle threats!" muttered Manasseh, scornfully, between his teeth.
"Idle threats, are they?" retorted the other, striking the hilt of his
sword and raising his head haughtily. "You think, do you, that I am
joking, and that I will take pity on you?"
"Oh, as for me, you may do what you please with me--torture me, kill me,
if you choose. I am ready. But that will not help you to take Toroczko.
All are in arms there and waiting for you. Go ahead with your plan.
You'll find many an old acquaintance to receive you there. Our defences
are abundantly able to withstand your soldiers, who, you know well
enough, are tired of fighting and have no love for storming ramparts.
Kill me, if you wish, but there will be only one man the less against
you; and all the satisfaction you and your men will get from Toroczko
will be broken heads. Not one stone will you disturb in all the town."
"We'll soon make you sing another tune," returned Diurbanu, and he began
to roll up his sleeves, like an executioner preparing to torture his
victim. "You shall hear our plan. I will be perfectly honest with you.
While a part of my forces conduct a feigned assault in the valley, and
so engage the attention of your men, my main body will descend on the
town from the direction of the Szekler Stone, and will assail it in the
rear, where none but women and children are left to receive the attack.
What the fate of these women and children is likely to be, you may
conjecture from the fact that the assaulting party is led by a woman,--a
woman whose heart is full of bitter hatred, a maiden whose father and
two brothers have been killed before her eyes, a proud girl whom your
brothers have driven from their door with insulting words. This woman is
Zenobia, Ciprianu's daughter, once your brother Jonathan's sweetheart,
but now betrothed to me--or, at least, she fancies she is. While I keep
your armed forces busy, she will knock at the door of your house. At her
signal the work of carnage and destruction will begin. Your whole family
will fall into her hands."
Manasseh shuddered with horror, and drew a deep breath. His head was no
longer proudly erect, his self-confidence was gone. "God's will be
done!" he murmured.
"So I've found your tender spot, have I?" cried the other, with an
exultant laugh. "Just think what is in store for your wife (but what am
I saying? She is not your wife)--your mistress."
At this insult to his adored Blanka, Manasseh's wrath blazed up and
mastered him. He spit his burning cigar stump into the speaker's face.
It was the utmost he could do. The other swallowed his rage at the
indignity and wiped the ashes from his face, which presently broke into
a smile--a hideous smile.
"Very good, Manasseh! One more score to charge up against you. I don't
attempt to even the account on your unfeeling body, but on your soul,
which I know how to torture. For this last insult, as well as for a
hundred former injuries, I shall wreak ample revenge on Blanka Zboroy,
before your own turn comes."
"Do not count too confidently on that," rejoined Manasseh. "The moment
your ruffian crew break into our house, two women will put their pistols
to each other's hearts, and your men will find only a couple of dead
bodies."
"Ha, ha! To deprive you of even this last consolation, I beg to assure
you that the two women will not lay a finger on their pistols, because
Zenobia is to gain entrance to them before the men appear. She will come
to them in the guise of a friend and deliverer, promising to rescue them
for Jonathan's sake. She will furnish them Wallachian peasant clothes,
help them about their disguise, and, amidst the general confusion, bring
them away with her, alive and unharmed, to St. George, so that you will
have the pleasure of seeing Blanka Zboroy in my power. Further details I
will leave to your own imagination; and to enable you to pursue these
pleasant fancies undisturbed I will now say good night."
"Manasseh!" called a voice from the darkness, when Diurbanu had gone.
"Who calls? Or is it only a rat?" Manasseh had forgotten that his
dungeon contained another prisoner beside himself.
"Yes, it's a rat," answered the voice. "I heard my schoolmaster tell a
story once about a lion that fell into a snare, and a mouse came and
gnawed the ropes so as to set him free. If you will bend down here I'll
untie your knots with my teeth."
Manasseh complied. The gipsy had splendid teeth, and he bit and tugged
at the knots until the prisoner's hands were free, and he felt himself
another man altogether.
"Now pull this stake out from under my knees," directed the fiddler,
whose hands were tied together and passed over his bent knees, where
they were held fast by a stick of wood. His legs being freed, he slipped
the cords from his hands like a pair of gloves. He was no little elated
over his achievements. "And now we will sell our lives dear!" he cried,
with a glad leap into the air.
The rattle of small arms in the distance began to be heard, and through
the little opening over the iron door a ruddy light as from a fire
became visible. At first Manasseh thought some one was coming again with
a torch; but as the iron door did not open, and the red light grew
constantly brighter, he finally guessed the cause of the illumination.
Those who were now assaulting Toroczko must have set fire to St. George
first, to furnish the people of the former place an example of what they
were themselves to expect, and perhaps also to supply a light for the
attacking party. The whole village was in flames. So it appeared that
Diurbanu's words had conveyed no empty threat. The work of revenge had
begun with St. George, and now came Toroczko's turn. That the latter
place was offering a spirited resistance could be inferred from the
lively firing that was to be plainly heard. But how would it be when the
attack in the rear should begin, from the direction of the Szekler
Stone? Could Aaron and his forty men offer any effectual opposition to
the invaders?
Night must have fallen ere this. Manasseh paced his prison cell in
almost unbearable impatience, as he listened to the distant firing, and
watched the red glow over the door growing gradually brighter. A heavy
booming as of cannon was heard from the Szekler Stone. So the attack in
that quarter had begun, and Aaron's battery was at work. Zenobia must be
leading the enemy into the town, for surely no means at Aaron's command
could repulse the assaulting party.
Manasseh was fast losing all self-control. "I will find a way out of
this!" he cried, in a frenzy.
Running to the door, he seized its iron ring and shook the heavy portal
in impotent fury. Then he turned back and surveyed his place of
confinement with searching eyes. It was now fairly well lighted by the
ruddy glare that came through the air-hole. The place had formerly been
a wine cellar, but every cask and barrel was now gone. The support on
which they had rested, however, remained behind. This was a massive oak
beam which had served to keep the wine casks from the damp earthen floor
of the cellar.
"Lanyi," commanded Manasseh, in quick, energetic tones, "take hold of
one end of this beam, and we will batter the door down."
"I'm your man!" responded the gipsy, with alacrity. He was small of
person, but every sinew in his wiry frame was of steel. He grasped the
beam behind while Manasseh carried the forward end, and so they
converted it into a Roman battering-ram.
The booming of cannon was drowned now by the pounding on the iron door.
The two prisoners wondered that no one in the house seemed to hear them.
But those who might before have heard were engaged elsewhere, while to
those outside the noises in the street drowned all tumult in the cellar.
At length the lock gave way under the tremendous battering to which it
was subjected, and soon the door flew open. The outer door was of wood,
and yielded readily.
"Hold on, stand back!" cried the gipsy, as Manasseh was about to run up
the stairs. "Wait until I take a peep and see if the coast is clear.
I'll mayhap find a gun that some one has thrown down."
"But I can't wait," returned the other, brushing him aside. "I need no
gun. The first man that dares get in my way shall furnish me with arms.
I am going to seek my wife! Let him who values his life run from before
me!"
He burst through the door, and sprang up the steps. No sooner was he in
the open air than an armed figure confronted him. But Manasseh did not
strike down this person, for it was a woman,--Zenobia. A dirk and a
brace of pistols were stuck in her belt.
"Take care!" she cried to Manasseh, and she made as if to shield him
from view with her cloak. "Stay where you are!"
But Manasseh seized her by the wrist and shouted hoarsely in her ear:
"Where are my wife and sister?"
Zenobia understood his tone and the frenzy with which he grasped her
arm. With a sad smile she made answer:
"Calm yourself. They are well cared for. They are at home in their own
house, where no one can harm them."
He looked at her, in doubt as to her meaning. Zenobia handed him her
weapons.
"Here, take these," she commanded. "You may need them. I have no further
use for them." Thus, disarmed and in Manasseh's power, she stood calmly
before him. "Now be quiet and listen to me," she went on.
The cannon thundered on the Szekler Stone in one continuous roar, while
fiery rockets shot from Hidas Peak in a wide curve and fell into the
valley below, hastening the mad flight of routed and panic-stricken men,
who fled as if for their lives to Gyertyamos, Kapolna, and Bedellö, to
the woods, and into the mountain defiles. The burning village of St.
George no longer offered them an asylum, and its streets were by this
time nearly deserted.
"That is over," said the Wallachian girl, calmly, and she led Manasseh
into the empty house. "Aaron might as well stop now," she murmured to
herself; "for there are no more to frighten." Then to Manasseh: "You
know it takes two to get up a scare,--one to do the frightening and the
other to be frightened. If I had but said to our men, 'Stop running
away! Those are not the brass cannon of the national guard, but only
Aaron Adorjan's holes in the side of the rock, where he is harmlessly
exploding gunpowder; and that roll of drums that you hear on the Csegez
road does not mean an approaching brigade of Hungarians, but is only the
idle rub-a-dub of a band of school children,'--if I had said that,
Toroczko would now lie in ashes. But I held my tongue and let the panic
do its work. With this day's rout all is ended, and in an hour's time
you can safely return home. When you meet your wife and sister, tell
them you saw me this evening, and let them know that the Wallachian girl
has forgotten nothing--do you hear me?--nothing. They wrote me a
beautiful letter, both of them on one sheet of paper, a letter full of
love and kindness. They called me sister and invited me to your wedding,
promising me that Jonathan should be there, too, and making me promise
to come. And when they had written the letter they even coaxed the
stiff-necked Aaron, who hates us Wallachians like poison, to add his
signature to it, though I could see in the very way he wrote his name
how he disliked to do it. I promised to come, and I kept my word. And
Jonathan came with me--I brought him. That night I told your wife and
your sister that I should come to Toroczko once more, and not with empty
hands, but should bring them something. I have come, and I bring
them--you, Manasseh, alive and unharmed. That is how a Wallachian girl
remembers a kindness."
She turned to go, but then, as if remembering something, came back and
drew a ring from her finger.
"Here," said she, "I will give you this ring. Do you remember it?"
"It belonged to my sister," answered Manasseh, in a tone of sadness. "I
bought it for her to give to her lover as an engagement ring. Soon
afterward he deserted her."
"I know it. Her name is engraved inside the ring. The pretty fellow who
gave it me told me all about it. He said to me: 'My pearl, my
turtledove, my diamond, see here, I place this ring on your finger and
swear to be true to you. But I can't marry you as long as that other
woman lives who wears my betrothal ring, for our laws forbid it. That
woman dwells in the big house at Toroczko. You know her name and know
what to do to enable me to marry you.'"
Manasseh trembled with suppressed passion as he listened. The girl
handed him the ring and proceeded:
"Give her back her ring; it belongs to her. And tell me, did not this
man come to you and tell you how a shameless creature in woman's form
was to steal into your house, and, under the pretext of rescuing your
wife and sister, lead them away to misery and dishonour? Speak, did he
not tell you some such story?"
"Yes, he did."
Zenobia laughed in hot anger and scorn. "Well, then," said she, in
conclusion, "I have another present for you. The proverb says, 'Little
kindnesses strengthen the bonds of friendship.' And this will be the
smallest of gifts I could possibly make you. The handsome young man who
gave me this ring, and is betrothed to me--or thinks he is--lies
somewhere yonder in a ditch. His horse took fright at the tumult, and
threw him so that he broke his ankle. His fleeing troops left him lying
there; they stumbled over him and ran on; no one offered to help him up.
They all hate him, and they see in his fall a punishment from Heaven.
The Wallachian fears to lend aid to him that is thought to lie under
God's displeasure. The fallen man's horse you will find in the church.
Mount it and hasten back to Toroczko. As for the rider, you will do well
to hang him to the nearest tree. You have a gipsy here to help you. And
now farewell."
She blew a little whistle that hung at her neck, and a lad appeared
leading two mountain ponies. Zenobia mounted one, waved a final adieu to
Manasseh, and rode away with her attendant toward Bedellö.
"Come, sir," said the gipsy, touching Manasseh's elbow, "let us set
about what she told us to do. You go into the church and get Diurbanu's
horse while I go and find the rider. You have two pistols and a dagger.
What, don't you want them? Then give them to me."
The fiddler was proud to find himself so well armed. He made a belt of
the cords he had brought with him from the cellar, and stuck the weapons
into it.
"Now we must hurry," he urged, "or the people will be coming back."
While Manasseh made his way to the church, his companion hastened in
search of Diurbanu. The little man had sharp eyes and keen wits. He
conjectured that the fallen rider, with his broken leg, would avoid the
dry harvest-fields, over which the fire was rapidly spreading, and would
be found in the moist ditch beside the road. Nor was he wrong in this
surmise. He was soon saluted in a voice that he recognised.
"Gipsy, come here!"
"Not so fast," the fiddler replied. "How do I know you won't shoot me?"
"I have nothing to shoot with. I am lying in the water, so that even if
I had my pistols the powder would be soaked through."
"But what do you want of me?"
"I wish you to save my life."
"And won't you have me locked up afterward?"
"If you will help me get away from here I'll make you a rich man. You
shall have a thousand florins."
"If you had promised me less I should have believed you sooner."
"But I will pay you the money now. Come, take me on your back and carry
me away."
"Where to?"
"Into the church yonder."
The gipsy laughed aloud. "First do your swearing out here, then," said
he, "for no one may curse God in his house. But what will you do in the
church?"
"I will wait while you run to Gyertyamos and hire a carriage for me. You
shall have a thousand florins, the driver the same, and for every hour
before sunrise that you accomplish your errand you shall receive an
extra hundred."
"You won't see the sun rise," muttered the fiddler to himself as he
obeyed the other's directions.
The burden proved not too heavy for the little man's back; he could have
carried him all the way to Gyertyamos, but the horse must obey his
rider, so into the church he went with him.
"There, Manasseh," he cried, in triumph, "there's our man!" And he
dropped his burden on the stone floor.
Diurbanu cried out with pain as he fell, then raised himself on one
elbow and met Manasseh's gaze.
"Kill me and be done with it," he muttered, in sullen despair.
But Manasseh remained standing with folded arms before him. "No,
Benjamin Vajdar," said he, "you shall not die by my hand. He who kills
Cain is seven times cursed. My promise to an angel whom you would have
destroyed is your safeguard. I shall neither kill you myself nor let any
one else lay hands on you. You are to live many days yet and continue
in the way you have begun, obeying the sinful impulses of your wicked
nature, and doing evil to those that have done nothing but good to you.
You weigh upon our house like a curse, but it is God's will thus to
prove and try our hearts. Fulfil your destiny, plot your wicked scheme's
against us, and then at last, broken, humbled, scorned of all the world
beside, come back to us and sue for pity at the door of those to whom
you have shown no pity. God's will be done!"
Manasseh allowed himself to use no reproach, no word of withering scorn,
in thus addressing his enemy. He even spoke in German, to spare the
fallen man's shame in the gipsy's presence. He had the horse in
readiness for its master, and bade the fiddler help him lift the injured
rider into the saddle and tie him there with ropes to ensure him against
a second fall, especially as one foot was now unfit for the stirrup.
"Aha!" cried the little gipsy, "a good idea! We'll take him alive and
show him off in Toroczko."
The fires in the village made the spirited horse restive and hard to
manage. Manasseh took him by the bridle and led him out of the church,
the gipsy following at the animal's heels.
"Turn to the right and begone!" whispered Manasseh to the rider, and he
caused the horse to make a sudden spring to one side.
"Oh, he's got away!" cried the gipsy, in great chagrin. "Why didn't you
let me take the bridle? Catch me bringing you another thousand-florin
prize, to be thrown away like that!"
"Never mind, my lad. From this day on you shall find a full trencher
always ready for you at our house. But now let us start for home."
* * * * *
Six weeks later Benjamin Vajdar made his reappearance in Vienna, the net
result of his expedition to Transylvania being, first, a heavy draft on
the bank-account of his chief, and, second, a limping gait for himself,
which proved a sad affliction to him on the dancing-floor.