Sparkling sunshine and a clear blue sky reminding him poignantly of
the glory of the Indian Summer of his own land, greeted Morton upon
his arrival at the neat and attractive terminal of Kronstadt--his
present goal and the town that was to be his Rubicon. Kronstadt once
behind him, and he on his way south, his adventure would have begun. He
thought of Khartoum, recalling an earlier experience when this furthest
bulwark of civilization had been his last outfitting station before
going into the unknown regions of Africa, and experienced a similar
sensation now that he had felt then-- Was it a good omen?
The questions and doubts which had beset him so frequently during the
tedious and solitary railway journey across Italy, Austria and Hungary
again assailed him. He tried to put them out of his mind. There would
be no turning back for him. The prudent caution of the Mortons died
hard, but the Randolphs won out in the end. Of course, he was a fool,
but it was good to be a fool among so many wise ones of the earth--good
to be this kind of a fool.
Deeply occupied as he was with these and other thoughts--thoughts of
the instructions Count Rondell had given him--he was yet sufficiently
diverted by the glorious day, the novel and stimulating sights, to
enjoy the short ride from the station to the St. Aloysius Rectory.
He admired the well-paved beautiful avenue leading from the railway
station to the town nestling among the green and brown hills, which
stood out clearly against the ultramarine background of bold mountains.
Equally attractive was the town itself with its quaint and quiet
square, its clean gravel walks and the groups of religious statuary
guarded by massive chains hanging from moss-covered stone pillars.
The red-faced cabby, who looked like a character in a musical comedy,
stopped his vehicle before a narrow, red brick building somewhat
retired from the square, flanked by the gray walls of a nondescript
church. He pointed with his whip-handle to the small stone-faced door
above which was a tarnished cross and grunted something that John could
not for the life of him make out. Above the door, in a circular panel,
he made out the words, “St. Aloysius.” This was the place, no doubt.
Dismissing the cabby, he walked up to the door and gave a vigorous pull
at the bell-handle. After waiting a few minutes, he heard steps along
the corridor within and the grating in the door slowly opened revealing
the wizened features of an old woman who peered inquiringly out at him.
He spoke to her in German and inquired after Herr Reverend Moskar. The
little woman, after a prolonged and careful examination of Morton,
evidently found him satisfactory, for she opened the door and begged
him to enter.
He was ushered into a darkened sitting room and had scarcely time
to look around him, when a door communicating mysteriously with the
interior of the house was opened and there entered a heavily built,
stout man in cassock and mitred cap. The features were grave and
imposing; but when Morton gave his name, he was pleased to notice
the face relax and glad to grasp the fleshy palm extended to him in
welcome.
“You are most welcome, Herr Morton, as any friend of the noble Count
Arnim is. I have already seen your servant, Mr. McCormick, and received
the letter you sent by him.” Had the gracious gentleman, however,
brought any letters from his noble patron the Count, the priest humbly
asked.
John handed him a letter from Rondell and showed the ring. Immediately
the priest’s attitude took on an even more friendly and courteous
manner.
“If you are not too tired after your lengthy journey, perhaps you will
come upstairs where we can be more comfortable and private.”
Morton bowed. The priest led the way back to the foyer and whispered
a few words to the old woman who was standing near the door with her
withered hands complacently folded. She retired at once.
“Pardon me,” remarked the priest as they were ascending the creaking
stairs, “but our people are inquisitive and somewhat given to gossip.”
John smiled his understanding.
Morton was then ushered into a well-lighted room, the sombre walls of
which were lined with well-filled book-cases, above which hung a number
of paintings of religious subjects. When they were comfortably seated,
Father Moskar begged his visitor to speak as frankly as he wished of
all that he desired him to know.
From a little closet he brought out a couple of goblets, a bottle of
golden wine and filled the two glasses. On the table was a box of
cigars which he pushed over to his guest. The ice thus broken, Morton
entered on his subject while the old priest listened most attentively,
taking in every word said to him. When Morton had concluded, the old
man said quickly:
“Herr Morton--I will do everything in my power--but do not tell me your
plans. It will be better if I am not in your confidence. Count Arnim
has told you that you could rely on me. I am honored; but it will be
wiser if I act according to your instructions without being acquainted
with your reasons. As I understand, your man, Herr McCormick, is now
at the wagoner’s, who is one of my flock. He will be well served
there. I am expecting, at any moment, the arrival of another member
of my congregation--a certain Papiu Ilarian, who knows well both the
mountains of our land and those south of the divide. He speaks German,
Roumelian and Bulgarian well; he has been a soldier and knows how to
obey; he is also strong, hardy and reliable. After I have talked with
Ilarian, you will find him ready to do anything you ask from him. On
receipt of the letter your man brought me, I thought it well to attend
to a few of the preliminaries. At the wagoner’s you will find horses
bred in our own hills and inured to the mountains. The wagoner has
ready what you require and you will find he will deal honestly with
you. I shall pray for you and the success of your venture. Ach--I hear
the voice of Ilarian--pray permit me to see him alone first. Kindly
make yourself at home.”
Father Moskar left Morton puffing idly at his cigar. He returned,
however, in a few minutes followed by a man of medium height, with
broad shoulders, short neck, close-cropped, round head, small, brown
eyes deeply set under bushy brows, and a heavy mustache giving the
deeply lined and tanned face a rather fierce expression. His large
hands with prominent knuckles fingered nervously a well-worn plush cap.
His stocky limbs were encased in leather breeches and heavy cowhide
boots.
“This, honorable and gracious Herr Morton, is Papiu Ilarian,” remarked
the priest. Morton nodded smilingly and a broad grin spread over
Papiu’s face as he shyly shuffled and bowed. “I have been speaking to
him and he tells me he is ready to start at once. He expects to receive
two florins per diem, the customary fee of an Alpine guide, and his
term of hire begins now and may end whenever you choose. I have given
him information about the character of the work to be performed. You
may rely on him. He has a younger brother, Mihai, lately a resident
of Roumelia, who can also be hired, if you wish. He vouches for him.
Mihai, however, speaks very little German, but he is quick and bold.
I have sworn Papiu to obey and follow you. He wishes to shake hands
with you to bind the agreement. If you will shake hands with him, Herr
Morton--the oath to me will have been transferred to you. I will leave
you together now and will return when you call me.”
He bowed gravely and passed through the door silently.
Morton had been scrutinizing the face of the guide while Father Moskar
was speaking. Not a muscle of it moved, nor did he stir an inch from
his rigid upright posture. The small, intelligent eyes looked at Morton
steadily with calm assurance.
Morton rose and offered his hand with a hearty gesture. Papiu seized it
in a vice-like grip. Morton felt the man would be as true as steel.
“Papiu, when we get back, I shall pay you liberally, and if we are
successful, I shall make you rich!”
“Herr von Moorton--a bargain is a bargain. I am your man and you are my
master. Whatever your nobleness orders--Papiu will do.”
Looking boldly into Morton’s face, he continued: “And my brother,
he is good with horses, quick with the rifle, has eye like a hawk
and knows Roumelia and the people. If I hire him for you, he will
swear--and his oath is good. You pay him the same money and give his
sweetheart a present when we come back--Mihai will help good.”
“Very well, Papiu, tell him he is engaged. And now--let us go and look
up the wagoner, where my friend waits for us. Do you know him?”
“I have seen him judging the horses. He looks good and strong and is
kind to the beasts. He comes with us, he my friend.”
“Good, Papiu, let’s go then.”
Morton had a very busy time of it during the rest of the forenoon. He
found Donald waiting for him and with his and Papiu’s help, they made
the necessary purchases and loaded the wagon. The things he had shipped
from Italy had been delivered and were also included in the load.
During a frugal meal partaken of in the smithy, Morton arranged that
he would start early that very afternoon by the regular train for
Bucharest, in his assumed character of prospective investor and buyer
of blooded horses. Donald and the two brothers were to leave next
morning with the vehicle and the relay horses. They were to join him on
Saturday at Padina, where they would make arrangements for relay horses
and prepare a safe stopping place a night’s drive beyond Padina on
their way to the mountains.
Mihai now came on the scene and was duly introduced. Papiu held some
speech with him, looking very serious and impressive. He explained to
Morton that the holy father had instructed Mihai and that his brother
would like to shake hands with Herr von Morton. Morton accepted the
hearty grip of the mountaineer who smiled his gladness.
Mihai proved to be an elongated copy of his elder brother. On being
consulted, he suggested the “Bovu Aro” (Golden Calf) Inn as a good
rendezvous, a little beyond Padina. Morton congratulated himself on
having secured the services of two such fine fellows. He impressed
upon them, however, the necessity for avoiding giving cause for
suspicion to the natives of the country they were about to travel, and
especially to steer clear of any military guards. His own man, Don,
would keep out of sight as much as possible, so that a great deal would
be left to their discretion. If they were asked their business they
were to say that they were but going to market and returning; they
would enter Padina from the Northwest, on the road running in from the
Aluta Valley. On this road they were to make a careful record of all
telegraph stations, villages and houses between their last stop and
Padina. He gave them money sufficient to carry them on their way and
for any further expenses they might be compelled to incur. The two men
said they understood his instructions and would follow them carefully.
The horses were hitched into the shafts of the stout, canvas-covered
wagon now all loaded and ready. Don and the two men got in; the wagoner
mounted the seat and with a parting good-bye and a crack of the
driver’s whip, they lumbered away, leaving Morton alone in the yard. He
looked after the wagon and as he saw it disappearing in the distance,
he speculated as to what would be the outcome of this enterprise--an
enterprise so suddenly put to him and so suddenly entered on. Surely it
would end well! Nay, it must end well. Putting all doubts out of his
mind, he made his way to Father Moskar’s rectory. He thanked the old
priest heartily for his kindness and promised to come back and tell him
the result of his undertaking. The old man gave him his blessing in
return.
At the depot he found his train waiting. It was made up of a number
of baggage cars and but one car for passengers. Finding a comfortable
seat, he amused himself in watching the conductor, in resplendent
uniform, running alongside the train as he kept blowing energetically
through a little horn the signal to the engineer to start. Soon the
labored puffing of the locomotive told him that he was at last on
his way. It was a wearisome journey, all up-grade, through deep cuts
and over widely stretched viaducts; but he was too much occupied
with anxious thoughts of the coming days to notice the beauty of the
mountain scenery. He felt the pulling power of the engine and realized
hazily that they were climbing, climbing, climbing. Suddenly it seemed
to him as if the train had been lightened of a load, and looking out
he saw that the engine had slowed down and that they had arrived at a
little station on a small plateau. A prominent sign-post caught his
eye. It was printed red, white and green on one side, and a bright
yellow and crimson on the other. They had reached the boundary, the
divide, and all around him rose up the great peaks of the Carpathians.
The gorgeous conductor stepped up to the compartment and informed
Morton that he would have to change now. On the platform he found
a number of gendarmes busily engaged in examining the passengers’
baggage. One of these accosted Morton in foreign-sounding German, and
asked him for his valise and passport.
Everything was found to be in order. The gendarme, made happy by the
gift of a cigar, ushered Morton into another car on a side-track. A
shrill blast and the train moved slowly out. Soon the descent began
and the rapid motion roused Morton to his surroundings. It was a truly
magnificent sight to behold. White peak on white peak gleamed in the
brilliant golden light of the afternoon sun. Then came rounded hills
and after these the sharper contours of the Alpine range; and before
he had had time to take it all in, the train had entered the rolling
meadows and glades of the Great Danubian plain.
The splendid panorama had passed and Morton’s interest subsided. He
leaned back against the leather upholstery of the compartment once more
alone with his thoughts. Occasionally the conductor would look in at
the window from the stepping board on the outside of the car and nod
pleasantly to him. Morton would return the greeting automatically and
resume his meditations. Yes, he was learning, and learning fast. In the
desert from which he had but lately stepped out, so to speak, a man was
measured by his offensive or defensive value--whether he would protect
himself or be a danger to others. In the countries of civilization,
he was similarly appraised, although in terms of social standing or
money. In this isolated Transylvania, however, into which he had come,
he had found a difference. Here was a loyalty founded on faith in human
nature and religion. Father Moskar had gently but firmly declined even
his offer of a contribution for the poor; while the two rough men had
refused more than their just wages for their services. How different
were these from those he had known in his past life! Nay, how different
even from himself! Why had he undertaken this enterprise? He could not
help confessing to himself that his motives were really selfish ones.
What lay behind his readiness to rescue the Count’s daughter if not his
own desires? Was not even love itself a selfishness--the supremest of
all selfishness?
“I have been too long in the desert,” he muttered to himself; “it is
high time I came back to civilization. Man was not created to live
alone.”
The train crossed a bridge and the noise made by the sound roused him
to his whereabouts. He was nearing his destination. The approach to the
capital of Roumelia was not marked by the usual signs of a large city’s
outlying districts. He missed the factories and the tall chimneys
belching forth smoke; he saw no railroad crossings, or culverts, or
streets crowded with toilers. Instead, he made out, in the dark and
gloom of the fast oncoming evening, gaunt buildings against a leaden
sky and sparsely lit thoroughfares. Then, with snortings and puffings,
the train entered the ill-smelling and smoky shed of the depot. He was
in Bucharest.
Scarcely had he alighted when a villainous looking porter grabbed his
valise from him and said some words in a language which was Coptic to
Morton. He decided to allow the fellow to have his way and followed
him, through the press of outgoing people, to the entrance. Here he
found a uniformed individual with a magnificent beard black as coal.
Catching the porter by his sleeve, he held him while he asked of the
soldierly Swengali, in English, the name of a good hotel. He was
evidently understood, for the uniformed person spoke to the porter
and in wretched English asked Morton to follow him to the Grand
Hotel Metropole. John then noticed that the name of this hotel was
embroidered in gold on the man’s cap.
The porter was feed and relieved of his burden, and Morton found
himself installed in a hotel bus which was soon rattling noisily over
the stones. Arrived at the hotel, he registered as from Cleveland, U.
S. A., and was given fairly decent rooms.
His first business, after he had made himself presentable, was to
write a short note to Mr. Bronson, the American Consul, to whom he had
letters of introduction from Brindisi. He invited him to dine with him
that same evening. Morton knew that there was magic in his visiting
card and had no doubt that his invitation would be accepted.
This done, he leisurely descended the broad stairway that led to the
large and rather garishly decorated foyer there to await the return of
his messenger.
He had no sooner stepped into the hall than he was accosted by a tall
and lean individual in faultless lounging suit, who addressed him in
perfect French by name and presented his card. He was M. Puscariu,
Agent of the Department of the Interior--Would Monsieur Morton permit
him to ask him a few questions--excusable in the present state of the
country? He was sure that Monsieur would have no objection.
Monsieur Morton had none. He held the card before him and read the name
slowly and with perfect composure. Trouble was beginning already, he
thought. He begged Monsieur Puscariu to proceed.
The sergeant of gendarmes had reported that Monsieur Morton had an
American passport and had registered from Cleveland. The passport,
however, had been issued at Rome, and within five days it seems. Would
Monsieur Morton kindly explain.
John was nonplussed. He looked anxiously around for his messenger and,
luckily, spied the boy just entering and moving toward the clerk’s
desk. If there was one man on earth more than any other that he wanted
for a moment, it was the American Consul. Begging Monsieur Puscariu to
excuse him for a moment, he hurried towards the messenger boy and was
informed by him that Signor Bronson would be at the hotel without delay.
Greatly relieved, he rejoined Monsieur Puscariu and informed him that
the American Consul would arrive presently and explain for him. In
the meantime, would not Monsieur join him in a cigarette? Monsieur
Puscariu would be delighted. What a bond of fellowship there is in
a smoke! It is well called the pipe of peace. Morton and the agent
to the Secretary of the Interior, as they sat together on the broad
lounge would, to a stranger entering the hotel, have seemed to be
life-long friends, so quickly had the cigarette dissipated all feelings
of restraint. Surely it is the frailties rather than the virtues that
cement human relations! It would, indeed, seem as if it were the touch
of weakness which makes the whole world kin. Perhaps, this it was which
made Monsieur Puscariu look on the American stranger as a gentleman.
Had he, however, entertained any other thoughts there was no time to
dwell on them for Mr. Bronson just then entered hurriedly.
Morton rose to meet him and was greeted in return with considerable
effusion. When the Consul learned the object of the agent’s presence,
he drew the official aside--and told him very impressively who this Mr.
Morton was. The change that came over the face of Monsieur Puscariu was
amusing. From an official solemnity, it melted almost instantaneously
into smiling respect. Here was a man whose very breath was odorous of
ready cash. Ah, yes, this was quite a different matter. There was no
necessity for any explanations--none whatsoever.
But Morton insisted. He informed the two gentlemen that he was to be
in Bucharest but for a few days. He had come to make a preliminary
and merely cursory investigation of the status of certain oil
concessions. He was desirous to find out how the government would
take the investment of foreign capital for developing this natural
product of the country. At present, however, he would prefer to engage
an attorney of high standing to make these inquiries and report to
him. Incidentally, he might seize the occasion of his visit to secure
some good stallions and a few brood-mares of the celebrated strain of
Carpathian percherons for his farms in Ohio. These were his principal
reasons for asking the Consul to call on him.
Monsieur Puscariu and the Consul exchanged quick glances--here was a
fine opportunity for both. The Roumelian was now convinced that the
quiet young man must be made much of--there was no doubt about that. He
was the more firmly convinced after smoking one of Morton’s fine cigars
and drinking a glass of Tokay. He knew the very attorney for Monsieur
Morton’s business. He would send the gentleman to call if Monsieur
Morton desired it. As Monsieur Morton did desire it, Monsieur Puscariu
was still more firmly convinced of John’s importance. Assuring Monsieur
Morton of his most sincere esteem and promising that the honored
visitor to his beloved country would receive every consideration, the
agent bowed himself out, leaving John alone with the Consul.
Mr. Bronson, a bright young fellow from one of the South Atlantic
states, quickly took occasion by the ear and informed John of his
disappointment with the position he occupied in Bucharest. His salary
was far from adequate for his office. It was bad enough to be in
Bucharest before the political upheaval; but since the revolution,--the
place had become absolutely a hell’s hole. There was no money in his
job! His fees for the past few weeks wouldn’t buy a square meal.
If John had any scruples, they vanished at hearing Mr. Bronson’s words.
He felt himself justified in throwing out hints of the “governor always
taking care of his friends,” and spoke of fees and commissions for
parties handling the proposition rightly. He indulged in some “tall
talk” about petroleum, and asked the Consul’s opinion as to the fitness
of the attorney the agent had recommended. The Consul knew him and
advised his retention; he was in with the powers that be, and that,
just now, was important.
The attorney was sent for and arrived so quickly that Morton concluded
Puscariu had not wasted any time. The lawyer proved to be the very
man he wanted--shrewd, obsequious and greedy. A fat retainer to this
powerful gentleman and he was sure he would neither be disturbed nor
watched. From this same individual he obtained the name of a breeder
of horses whose stud was an hour’s drive from Padina, in a small town
at the foothills of the Arges. He obtained this information, as well
as a letter of introduction, on the plea that, as he would be going
north for a couple of days’ hunting, he would like to utilize the
time looking for horses. He thought he would be back in Bucharest the
following Saturday or Sunday, in which event he would advise the Consul
and Mr. Attorney.
When the two gentlemen left Morton, they were both richer by many
dollars than they had been prior to their visit. They parted from him
with still larger hopes of future reward, and anxious to do the rich
American every service in their power.
Morton, as he mounted the staircase, congratulated himself on having
done a good day’s work--he was convinced he had provided for the
removal of many unknown obstacles in his way.
In his room he sat down at the table and wrote the following letters:
The first in German, and written with a stub pen and in a disguised and
uneducated hand, on plain paper, was addressed to Sig. Jacobo Rosen,
Casa Cornu, Via Colomba, Padina. Rosen was the name of the Jewish
merchant recommended by Count Rondell.
HON. SIG. ROSEN:--
Your friend, the good Sig. Nimar, the merchant returning from India,
Arabia and Egypt, was taken seriously ill in Italy and could not
come in person. He has heard from Constantinople and so as to admit
settlement of the business pending between yourselves has requested
and empowered me to act for him.
I shall be in your town to-morrow evening intending to purchase
horses from the Olata ranch for export. I desire to buy the two
famous mares about which Sig. Nimar spoke to me.
Upon my arrival I shall call upon you and ask you to arrange the
affairs of your friend so that I can conclude my business at an early
date. I have moneys with me and papers.
I shall stop at the “Bovu Oru.”
Most Respectfully,
JOHN R. MORTON.
This letter he enclosed in a soiled envelope.
The second letter, written on the hotel’s paper and with a fine pen,
was addressed to his father at 210 Euclid Ave., Cleveland, Ohio, U. S.
A.:
BUCHAREST, October ----, 189--.
DEAR FATHER:--
I arrived here to-night, and immediately got into touch with the
Consul, Mr. J. S. Bronson, and through him with an attorney, Sig.
Andra Jonescu, whose card I herewith enclose. He was recommended to
me as the best lawyer on affairs of land titles, etc., and looks and
acts like a capable business man. He understands English well and you
can correspond with him directly. I have paid him his retainer and he
will make a preliminary report shortly.
I am going to try to get some good percherons from the “Olata”
ranch--our own strain will stand some new blood. If I secure any good
animals I will try and ship them while I am here.
Everything appears to me to be quite normal; transfer of titles would
be perfectly legal and all acts of the _de facto_ government will
stand test, I am told. We should have no difficulty in dealing either
with owners of land or the administration.
Of course, I shall act with due caution and have some official of
high rank confirm this before acting finally.
The government, I am told, would welcome the investment of foreign
capital in land and industries and will give both protection and
guarantee.
I am well and have enjoyed the trip. I will not remain longer than
the business requires. I might get a chance at some good shooting
(there is fine game to be had in the mountains and in the Delta), in
which case I may prolong my stay a few days. If I don’t get to Paris
by November 20th, will cable.
With love to dear mother and Ruth, I am, dear father,
Your loving son,
JOHN.
Putting on his coat and cap, John walked down to the foyer, and having
learned from the gloriously arrayed and imposing chief porter the
location of the nearest mail box, he leisurely sauntered toward it.
The street was totally deserted, not even a lighted shop window was
to be seen. This surprised him. He had been told that Bucharest was
known as the “Paris of the East.” It looked like anything but that
just now. He surmised the change was owing to the troubled times. As
he slipped the letters into the mail box, he had a feeling that he had
been followed. Without in the least betraying his suspicions, he paused
and lit a cigar and then slowly made his way back to the hotel, smiling
quietly. “You are welcome to read both letters--but one of them, I
guess, you won’t recognize as mine,” he muttered to himself.
The next morning was spent in making a few necessary purchases. He
visited the principal streets, and made it his business to look into
the largest stores. He observed that he was being followed wherever
he went; but he took no notice and went about his business as if
seeing nothing. The town was in that state of suspended animation that
betokens an unusually unsettled condition. Shopkeepers seemed surprised
to find a patron; the few women he saw were sober and barely let
their glances fall on him, though it could be easily seen that Morton
was a stranger--he had taken good care to get himself up like the
typical English tourist. Few conveyances of any description disturbed
the curious quiet that had come over the city, a quiet as if from
drowsiness.
Evidently, an ominous cloud was hovering over the place, and Morton
felt that he was walking on the thin crust of a lake of molten lava,
when any moment his feet might break through. Wherever he went he was
certain to meet either a “Guarda Civil” with his fierce mustachios, or
an officer with clanking sword and spurs, or a gendarme in his bizarre
hat and baggy pantaloons many inches too long for him. But no one said
a word to him, nor did he hear any words spoken.
He was not sorry to find that a train would take him to Padina and land
him there that evening. Quickly packing a valise and informing the
clerk that he would retain his room, he made his way to the railway
station and found the train on time.
At the Padina depot, he inquired from a sleepy looking guard after the
best hotel, and was glad to have the man point down the street to the
very house he had intended to stay at. It was but a short walk and the
foggy evening air hid the inhospitable appearance of the place. But it
could not hide the miserable condition of the roadway, a trench-like,
broad furrow, between low, dingy buildings of box-like structure. It
was full of holes and pitfalls, and a pedestrian sank ankle-deep in its
mud. John recognized the hotel by its swinging sign--an unnaturally
meaty bull painted with garish, coppery bronze--which glittered in
the feeble rays of an antiquated oil lamp fastened above it. He set
down his bag and with a resigned sigh gave a vigorous pull at the
bell-handle.
The door was opened by the landlord in person. He looked astounded
to see a man with a valise--evidently, guests were not an event
of everyday occurrence. But his countenance quickly assumed its
professional smile and, with a nod of his unkempt head, he invited
Morton in. To Morton’s inquiries, he responded in a curious jargon
of German and Roumelian, which Morton understood sufficiently to be
satisfied that he would find the accommodation he needed.
Bearing aloft an ill-smelling and smoky tallow candle in a tin
receptacle, the landlord led the way up a stairway, the walls of which
had been anciently plastered and whitewashed. Arrived at the upper
floor, he entered a room and placed the light on a small table and the
guest’s bag on a most uninviting looking bed. Then, turning, he gave
vent to some more guttural sounds and left Morton alone. The sounds
were intended to convey the information that the gentleman’s dinner
would be ready in half an hour in the tap-room.
It was with many misgivings that Morton looked about the cell that was
to serve as his residence for the next few days. The prospect was by no
means a pleasing one. The walls of a dirty white, roughly plastered,
showed many cracks and nail-holes, and numerous blotches of soot or
smoke where previous visitors had evidently sent up burnt offerings
on the altar of a night’s peace from vermin. The bed, piled high with
pillows and quilts, assured warmth, but not cleanliness; a rickety
washstand with rough bowl and pitcher, both chipped and cracked, two
rickety chairs, a small table, and a number of wooden pegs driven into
the wall, completed the furnishing. This was the first real shock to
John’s fortitude. He had realized that he might have to encounter
dangers, but he never thought that he might be nauseated. In his camp
in the desert, vermin and insects were a part of the natural order of
things, so to speak; but in this “hotel”--faugh!--Morton’s lips twisted
themselves into an expression of disgust.
Still, it was an ill wind that did not blow some good. The very
primitiveness of the place would protect him from an espionage which
might prove to be far more inconvenient than the discomfort. And
he was not just now interested in offering suggestions for running
model hotels. He was about to make up his mind to risk a descent to
the tap-room, for he was very hungry, when a gentle knock sounded on
the door. Taking the battered candlestick in one hand and cautiously
opening the door, he peered into the dark stair-landing. In the
flickering light, the shadow of a man stretching along the deal boards
of the hall seemed gigantic. But the feeling aroused by the size was
quickly dispelled by the voice which emanated from the person. In a
low, whining and apologizing tone, and in a language which was intended
for German, the man inquired for the most honorable and respected
Signor Moor-ton.
John made himself known. The little man bowed low, removed his hat, and
begged permission to introduce himself. He was the unworthy and humble
store-keeper Rosen, a purveyor to the wants of travelers whatever their
needs or desires might be. Would not his Honor permit him to be the
first merchant of the town to offer his services to provide whatever
the gentleman wished to purchase in Padina? His stock of goods was the
choicest to be had anywhere outside of Bucharest and the prices the
lowest.
John was very much taken aback. Was this grotesque and trembling
shadow, this ridiculous little figure the man in whom the Count had
placed such reliance? Was he to be the mainstay of his enterprise?
It surely could not be. And yet he must have come in response to the
letter Morton had sent him, the night before. Perhaps the fellow was
playing a part of set purpose! Still, it was an untimely hour for a
visit.
“Why do you come here? Why did you not wait and see me downstairs? You
Jews don’t waste any time, that’s certain. Well, now that you are here,
come in and state your business. Be quick about it for I haven’t much
time!”
He had spoken roughly, and with a quick turn he walked into the room.