"If my captivity were indeed to be of long duration," said he, "I would

of course send for you. But in the first days I must devote myself

exclusively to an examination of my position, and of my means of

defence. Völgyeshy is an honest man. I intend to retain him as my

counsel; and Akosh, I know, will find means of informing me how you are

going on. Where is Akosh?"

Mrs. Ershebet replied, that he had left the room with the sheriff; and

Tengelyi turned to arrange his papers and books, when the young man

entered. He looked excited, and his eyes showed traces of tears.

"Have you spoken to your father?" cried Mrs. Ershebet.

"I have!" replied young Rety, with a trembling voice.

"And what does he say?" asked Ershebet and Vandory at once.

"Nothing but what is beautiful and edifying, I assure you!" said Akosh.

"He wept; indeed he did! He embraced me! He called me his dear son! He

told me he was convinced of Tengelyi's innocence; and his heart bled to

think that so honest a man, and his old friend too, should be in such an

awkward position; and Heaven knows what he said besides! He pleaded

Tengelyi's cause admirably; but the end of it was that he refused to

comply with my request. He said that fellow Skinner would not take bail,

and he could not force him. In short, he said there was nothing to be

done. But then, you know, he told us his _heart_ was bleeding; can we

ask for more?"

"I could have told you so!" said Tengelyi, quietly.

"No! no! You could not!" cried Akosh, passionately. "If an angel from

heaven had told me that my father would reply to my entreaties in _this_

manner, by Heaven I would not have believed it! Oh! you cannot know how

I implored him. I wept! I knelt to him! I reminded him of my poor

mother! I told him, if he had ever loved me, if ever he wished to call

me his son, if he would not make me curse fate for having made him my

father, he should grant me this one, this poor request! And he refused

to grant it!"

Vandory felt hurt at the manner in which Akosh spoke of his father. He

said:--

"Who knows whether he was not justified in saying that he _could_ not

comply with your request?"

But Akosh replied with increased bitterness:--

"Do you really think Skinner would have dared to resist my father if he

had insisted on putting in bail for Tengelyi, or, at least, on having

him confined in our own house? Oh, indeed, and what was His Excellency,

the lord-lieutenant, likely to say to such an infraction of the rules?

And perhaps the illustrious Cortes would not be pleased with his

protecting the notary! Such are the reasons which induced my father to

stifle his better feelings, and to spurn me, his only son, who wept at

his feet!"

"Who knows," said Vandory, "how painfully he felt it that he was

compelled to refuse you?"

"No matter!" said Akosh. "When I left the house, I saw Kenihazy busy

with the carriage. We have not much time left; it were a shame to lose

that time in a dispute about my father's character." And, turning to

Tengelyi, he added, "Will you allow me to accompany you to Dustbury?"

The notary repeated to him what he had already stated to the other

members of his family. He entreated him to bring him news of Mrs.

Ershebet and Vilma; "and," added he, with a smile, "to recommend them

to your protection is unnecessary!"

"All I wish is, I had a better right to protect them. I wish Vilma were

my wife. What my father would not do for his son, he might perhaps be

induced to do for the honour of his name."

"I understand you!" said Tengelyi; "but, thank God! I want no protection

to prove my innocence. I have nothing I can leave my daughter but an

honest name; and until the honour of that name is restored, I cannot

consent to your marriage."

Akosh would have replied; but the carriage, which drove up that moment,

diverted his thoughts into another channel. Tengelyi embraced his wife

and daughter, seized his bunda, and stepped into the carriage, which

Rety had sent, to the great vexation of Mr. Skinner, who intended to

convey the notary in a peasant's cart. Mr. Kenihazy seated himself

beside the prisoner, two haiduks occupied the rumble, and the

unfortunate notary thanked heaven when the carriage drove off, and

withdrew him from the gaze of his despairing family.

The county gaol at Dustbury was, in those days, free from the prevailing

epidemic of philanthropical innovations, which a certain set of

political empirics are so zealous in spreading. The ancient national

system of Austrio-Hungarian prison discipline was still in full glory;

but as coming events cast their shadows before, so this venerable and

time-honoured system was every now and then attacked by the maudlin and

squeamish sentimentality of modern reformers. Nay more, a committee was

appointed to inquire into the condition of the prisons and their inmates

in the county of Takshony; and though the keeper of Dustbury gaol

allowed each prisoner on the day of the inquest full two pints of

brandy; though they were ordered to play at cards, and be merry, the

gentlemen of the committee insisted on giving a libellous account of

Captain Karvay's mode of treating his prisoners. The established prison

discipline suffered a still ruder shock, when, in the gaol of a

neighbouring county, no fewer than six prisoners were dull enough to

permit their feet to be frozen by the cold; and though the county

magistrates gave them the full benefit of their attention, though their

feet were amputated with a handsaw, though only one of the patients

survived, and though such things were known to have frequently happened

without any one being the worse for it, yet (so great is human

perversity) a cry of indignation was got up against the worshipful

magistrates of the said county, for all the world as if those honourable

gentlemen had _made_ the cold.

And besides, at the very time that the prisoners' feet were frozen in

the lower gaol, there were no fewer than eighty prisoners confined in

one room in the upper part of the building; and these eighty men, though

they disagreed and fought on the slightest provocation, were still

unanimous in their complaints of excessive heat. This circumstance shows

that malicious persons will complain of any thing, if they can but hope

to bring their betters into trouble. But the committee of inquiry could

not continue for ever, and the cry of indignation became hoarse from its

very excess. The new instructions, which government was weak enough to

publish during this crisis, were put on the shelf, and Mr. Karvay

returned to his Austrio-Hungarian management, of which the excellence

was clearly proved by the yearly increasing number of its

_pupils_--pupils, we say, for what is a prison but an academy for

grown-up boys and girls?

The council-houses in Hungary serve likewise the purposes of county

gaols. The council-chambers, the court, and the prison are under one

roof. This system has its merits on account of its compactness. The

council-houses, which, though not exactly _built_ by the nobility, are

built for their exclusive _use_ (always excepting the prisons, of which

the nobility leave a small part to the peasantry,) are not only used

for quarter sessions and the like; no, they are also made to serve

purposes of a more social nature.

The hall, for example, with its green table, resounds in the morning

with the shrill tones of Hungarian eloquence, or it is hushed by the

gravity (it is well known that this inestimable quality is greatly aided

by the smoking of strong tobacco) with which sentences of death are

passed, and criminals sent off to instant execution. But whatever want

of measure and order a man may detect in the debate of the morning, he

will find it brought to its level in the ball of the evening, when a

hundred couples move to the sounds of harps and violins. Among the

miscellaneous uses to which the county-house is put, one of the most

important is that it serves as a place of rendezvous for the assessors

and other officials. They meet in every room, and show a wonderful

activity in conversation, and a no less wonderful energy in smoking

their pipes, which pursuits are notoriously conducive to despatch and

accuracy in business. The Hungarian nobility resemble the Romans in more

than one respect. That classic people had an innate desire to pass their

time in the forum; the Hungarian assessor exults in his council-house.

In it he passes his life. It is here he works, eats, smokes, sleeps,

and gambles. In the county of Takshony, this laudable custom was of

course in a high state of perfection. It is therefore but natural that

Mr. Skinner should have left Tengelyi's house only to proceed to the

council-house at Dustbury, where he spread the news and surrounded

himself with a chosen body of his friends, who, with him, were eagerly

looking for the arrival of the prisoner. We find them in the recorder's

office, where Mr. Shaskay condoled with the assessor Zatonyi about the

depravity of the world; while James Bantornyi, holding the recorder by

the button, informed that worthy magistrate of all the forms and

observances of the English trial by jury; and an Austrian captain, who

spent his half-pay at Dustbury, held forth at the further end of the

room, assuring some of the older assessors that this shocking increase

of crime was solely owing to the flagitious mildness of the penal laws,

a proposition to which his hearers gave their unconditional assent by

sundry deep sighs and significant exclamations against the scandalous

scarcity of capital executions and the jeopardy into which this

ill-advised leniency put the lives and limbs of the well-clad and

bean-fed among the Takshony population. Völgyeshy, though generally

averse to large assemblies, had joined and indeed scandalised the

party, by protesting his conviction of Tengelyi's innocence.

Mr. Kenihazy's arrival, and the news that he had safely conveyed the

prisoner to Dustbury, drew the attention of the several groups in the

room to the worthy clerk, who gloried in the excitement which his

presence produced.

"Heavy roads," said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"Heavy roads, I assure you, gentlemen! I'd never have thought that we

should have had so much trouble."

"So he did trouble you!" said Mr. Skinner. "Very well. I thought as

much. You are so late, I am sure something came in your way."

"Came in my way with a vengeance!" said Mr. Kenihazy. "Luckily, I had

the two haiduks. I could never have done without them."

"What the devil! Did the notary fight? Did they endeavour to rescue

him?"

"No! not exactly!" said Mr. Kenihazy, reluctantly; for the general

interest these questions excited made him loth to disappoint his

audience, "we fell asleep on the road. They are doing something to the

bridges. We were forced to leave the dyke. The carriage was almost

swamped in the mud; and, as I told you, if the haiduks had not been

with me, and if I and the notary had not put our shoulders to the

wheels, bless me, we shouldn't have been here till to-morrow morning; in

which case the brigand would have attempted to rob me of my prisoner.

But I'd like to have seen them, that's all!" added he, shaking his fist;

"I'd have taught them manners, dirty knaves as they are!"

This explanation of Mr. Kenihazy's late arrival was far too commonplace

to satisfy the worshipful gentlemen; but still the principal interest

remained concentrated on Tengelyi, and half-a-dozen voices asked at

once:

"How did the notary behave?"

"What did he say?"

"Did he make any ill-natured remarks?"

"He did not do any thing," replied Mr. Kenihazy; "how could he? since

the sheriff ordered me to treat him with the greatest leniency!"

Everybody was astonished, and the recorder exclaimed:

"Are you sure that the sheriff gave such an order?"

"Of course he did. I never saw him more energetic in my life than when

he told me that he was convinced of Mr. Tengelyi's innocence--yes,

innocence was the word!--and that we ought to avoid any thing which

could possibly make his position more painful."

"Strange!" cried Shaskay, shaking his head.

"_I_ thought it strange; but as the sheriff told me that to offend the

prisoner was as much as an offence to himself----"

"It's quite natural! quite! you know," cried Mr. Skinner, when he saw

and cursed his clerk for the effect which those words had on the

company, but particularly on the recorder. "It's quite natural, you

know. His son is in love with the notary's daughter; and now that

Tengelyi has got himself into trouble, the sheriff must do something in

the way of taking his part, for there is no saying what that hot-headed

fellow Akosh would not do. But _I_ am the man who knows the sheriff's

real sentiments. Lady Rety told me to use all due diligence and severity

in the trial of the offender, who has murdered her most faithful

servant; and we know, gentlemen, that the sheriff never differs in

opinion with his lady."

"If that is the case, I have been wrong in what I did," said Mr.

Kenihazy, scratching his head; "after what the sheriff told me, I did

not even offer to bind his hands and feet--indeed, I have treated him

with great politeness. I wanted to converse with him, but he made no

reply to what I said."

"Conscience! it's all conscience!" groaned Mr. Shaskay.

"That's what I thought when he refused to smoke a pipe, though I offered

it over and over again."

"You might have let it alone, sir," said Mr. Zatonyi, with great

severity. "In your relations with prisoners, your behaviour ought to be

dignified, grave, and majestic: to show them that there is some

difference between you and a vagabond."

"Never mind, Bandi," said Mr. Skinner, when he saw that his clerk

smarted under the reproof, "never mind; you're over polite, you know.

Tell them to send the prisoner up. We'll be grave enough, I warrant

you!"

Mr. Kenihazy left the room; and a few minutes afterwards Tengelyi

entered with an escort of four haiduks. Völgyeshy accompanied him. That

gentleman had left the company, when he heard of the notary's arrival:

he had gone to confer with him. The notary's face was serious, and his

behaviour had that dignity, gravity, and majesty which the assessor

advised Kenihazy to practise in his relations with culprits.

"How devilishly proud the fellow is!" whispered Mr. Skinner to Mr.

Zatonyi: "but never mind; we'll get it out of him in no time."

"So we would if the sheriff did not protect him!" sighed Zatonyi.

The formal surrender of the prisoner was made, and Tengelyi expected

every moment that they would take him to his prison; when Captain Karvay

asked the recorder what kind of a chain the notary was to have.

Simple as this question was, it seemed to puzzle the magistrate, who was

at length heard to say, that it would be better to wait for the

sheriff's arrival, before any thing was decided on the point.

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. Skinner; "give him a chain of eight or ten pounds,

and have done with it."

Before the recorder could make an answer, Völgyeshy interfered, saying,

"that to chain the prisoner was useless and therefore illegal. No

attempt had been made to escape."

"It strikes me," said Zatonyi, "that Mr. Völgyeshy is the advocate of

every criminal."

"No, not of every one," replied Völgyeshy; "but I am proud to plead the

cause of those of whose innocence I am convinced; and it is for this

reason I have asked Mr. Tengelyi to put his case into my hands."

"Have we then the honour of seeing in you the advocate of Tengelyi?"

said Mr. Skinner, with a sneer.

"_Desperatarum causarum advocatus!_" whispered Zatonyi. "If Viola had

not escaped, you might have seen a practical illustration of the results

of your defence."

"Whatever result my pleadings may have, does not depend upon me,"

retorted Völgyeshy. "All I say is, that I mean to do my duty to my

client, and I know that our respected sheriff will take my part against

you."

These last words told upon the recorder; and, after a short

consultation, it was resolved to lock the notary up without chaining

him.

Messrs. Karvay and Skinner were utterly disgusted with this resolution.

The gallant captain complained of the unfairness of the court, who made

him responsible for the safe keeping of the prisoner, and who yet

refused to sanction the necessary measures of precaution. But a

sheriff's influence is great, particularly immediately after the

election; and all Mr. Karvay gained by his demurrer was a hint from

Shaskay, to the effect that it was far easier to keep a prisoner in gaol

than to confine certain people to the field of battle; and the homeric

laughter which followed this sally drowned his voice, when he rejoined

that great caution ought to be used with any deposits in a

council-house, since certain monies, though wanting feet and though kept

in irons, had been known to vanish under the hands of certain people.

This brilliant repartee was utterly lost, and nothing was left to the

gallant gentleman but to protest that it was not his fault, if he was

unable to obey the sheriff's orders respecting the treatment of the

prisoner; for since they would not allow him to chain the notary, his

only way was to put him into the vaults.

This proposal filled the mind of Völgyeshy with horror, not indeed

because the vaults of the Dustbury prison have any resemblance to those

mediæval chambers of horror which the managers of provincial theatres

expose to the horrified gaze of a sentimental public. No! The cellars of

the Dustbury prison, though by no means eligible residences, were not

half so bad as the most comfortable of the lath and canvass dungeons to

which we have alluded. The door of these vaults, which opened into the

yard, led you to twelve steps, and by means of these into a passage,

lined with a score or so of barred doors. The whole arrangement was

simple, safe, and useful. There are none of the paraphernalia of a

romantic keep, no iron hooks, no trap-doors, no water-jars; on the

contrary, if the prisoners have any money, they can get wine and brandy,

and as much as they like, too. The Dustbury prisons are strangers to the

nervous tread of pale and haggard men. It is true that the number of

prisoners prevents walking; but there is a deal of merry society; there

is smoking, idleness, swearing, singing, in short, there is all a

Hungarian can desire. This shows that the lower prisons of Dustbury are

very satisfactory places, at least for those for whom they were built.

There were, indeed, some witnesses and a few culprits, who, though

uninured to prison life and averse to its gaieties, were compelled to a

protracted stay in these places, and who had the presumption to

complain. But of what? Of nothing at all! there was no reason to fear

that the gaoler would let them die of thirst, for on rainy days there

was an abundant supply of water, which came in by the windows, and which

was retained in its own reservoir on the floor of the prison. But they

complained of the badness of the air, (and indeed the air _was_ bad, at

least it seemed so to those who were not used to it), which might

perhaps have been the cause of the prevalence of scurvy and typhus

fever.

Such places are unquestionably very disagreeable, for the prevailing

prejudice forces magistrates and guardians to dispense medicines to each

of the sick prisoners. And medicines are fearfully expensive! But this

motive was scarcely powerful enough to induce the Cortes of the county

of Takshony to build new prisons; for the gentlemen of the sessions

adopted certain remedial measures against long druggists' bills. The

prisoners were treated by a homoeopathic practitioner, and this measure

reduced the charge for medicines to a very low figure indeed. The

construction of a new prison cannot therefore be ascribed to pecuniary

motives. No! it was simply owing to the impossibility of confining more

than a certain number of people within a prison of certain dimensions;

and though one half of the culprits were always allowed to go at large

on bail, yet the county was at length compelled to provide for the

accommodation of a greater number of its erring sons. The new prison was

built on the best plan, and fitted with all modern improvements. It

contained eight good-sized rooms and a hall. Each of the eight rooms was

inhabited by from twenty-five to forty, and the hall by from fifty to

eighty prisoners. But, strange to say, the sanitary condition of the

inmates of the new prison was as bad as that of the sojourners in the

old vaults, and this extraordinary circumstance fully justified the

opinion of some of the older assessors, that the frequency and virulence

of disease had nothing whatever to do with the locality.

Such was the state of the gaol in which the people of Takshony confined

above five hundred prisoners; and it is therefore but natural that

Völgyeshy should shudder at the thought of Tengelyi being confined in

the same room with the other criminals. Four small rooms were set apart

for the reception of prisoners of a better class; and Völgyeshy insisted

on his client's right to have one of those rooms.

"What next?" cried Zatonyi, laughing. "Did I ever! A village notary and

a private room in a prison! It's too good, you know!"

"I say!" cried Mr. James Bantornyi; "Mr. Völgyeshy is right! Every

prisoner ought to be locked up by himself, that's what the English call

solitary confinement: each cell has got a bed, a wooden chair, a table

to do your work on, and a Bible, or a crucifix if you are a Catholic.

It's the best plan I ever heard of! I've seen it in England. Did any of

you ever read the second report? I mean the Second Report on Prison

Discipline?"

"Nonsense! I wish you'd hold your peace with your English

tom-fooleries!" said Zatonyi. "We are in Hungary, sir!"

"But I say," rejoined James, "there is not a severer punishment than

solitary confinement. Auburni's system, of which I saw the working at

Bridewell, is nothing compared to it!"

"Of course! of course!" laughed Zatonyi; "you'll come to advise us to

give our prisoners coffee, and sugar, and rice, as I understand people

do in America. But now tell me, how can you confine each prisoner by

himself, when there are five hundred prisoners and thirty-three wards?

There's no room, my dear fellow; that's all."

"And why is there no room?" cried the Austrian captain, passionately.

"Because, instead of hanging people, as our fathers did before us, we go

to the expense of locking them up for so many months or years. If I had

my way, I'd make room for you! Fifty stripes and the gallows! There's a

cure for you; and all the rest is d--d nonsense!"

"I should have no objection to Tengelyi's having a separate room," said

the recorder; "but really there is none. The four cells which are set

apart for solitary confinement are taken."

"Then there _are_ some rooms devoted to that purpose, are there?" cried

Mr. James Bantornyi, eagerly. "Oh, very well! Did I not always tell you

we'd come to imitate England? Solitary confinement is introduced for

four prisoners! A beginning being once made, I have no doubt but the

rest will follow."

"You are right!" said the recorder, in a mortal fear lest it should be

his lot to have a description of the Milbank prison. "But, after all,

who can help that we have but four rooms, and that they are all taken?"

"Taken? By whom are they taken?" inquired Mr. James, who took a

praiseworthy interest in prisons and their inmates.

"One of them is retained by the baron," said Captain Karvay. "It's now

three years since the poor gentleman was sent to prison, and I'll swear

to it he's innocent."

"Is he indeed?"

"Nothing more certain!" said the gallant captain. "He's a capital

fellow, but a little violent, you know: and it may have happened that he

has ordered his servant to beat a man; indeed, I don't know, but perhaps

he did it himself. It's what everybody does, you know, and nobody minds

it. But the baron had ill luck. Thirty years ago, he knocked one of his

servants on the head, and the fellow died in consequence of the blow. A

prosecution was commenced and carried on, and while it was being

carried on it was all but forgotten; when, as ill luck would have it,

the poor baron chanced to get himself into a fresh scrape. He is fond of

his garden. The peasants stole his fruit and flowers. So he swore the

first whom he could lay his hand on should have forty stripes. It was a

vow, you know. And what happened? The very next morning a young chap was

caught stealing cherries. Of course the baron could not think of

breaking his vow. The young fellow was not quite ten years of age; he

could not stand forty blows, and he died before the thing was fairly

over. There was another row, and the county magistrates could not but

sentence the baron to be confined for six months; the upper court

cancelled the judgment, and gave the poor man four years! Only fancy!

and he's seventy years old. It's an atrocious cruelty, you know, to send

such a man to prison, and for four years too!"

"Yes, I remember," said James Bantornyi. "I heard it talked about when I

returned from England. But I thought he had got over it. Some time ago I

saw him on his estate."

"Why," replied the recorder, "if we were not to give him a run now and

then, his manager would play the devil with his crops and cattle."

"The second room," continued the captain, "is inhabited by an attorney:

he was sent here for forgery. And in the third room lives an engineer,

who is likewise accused of forging bank-notes."

"And did it ever strike you," asked Mr. James, with great anxiety; "did

it ever strike you that solitary confinement exerts a salutary influence

on the prisoners?"

"It certainly does. Ever since the baron has lived with us, he's grown

fat; he never complains of any thing except of his ill luck at cards,

and that he cannot get any wine which is strong enough for him. He's

blunted, you know."

"Wine and cards are not fit agents to carry out the purposes of solitary

confinement: but, after all, the English too have, of late, relaxed the

former rigour of their system. But how do the others go on?"

"The attorney acts as middleman between the borrowers and lenders of

money, and the engineer is always writing and sketching. I suppose you

saw his last _quodlibet_ with the sheriff's portrait, and the autographs

of all the magistrates, and with a few bank-notes mixed up with them. It

was remarkably well done, especially the notes."

"Capital!" said James. "Occupation is the life of prison discipline. It

improves the criminals, you know."

Völgyeshy, who had scarcely kept his impatience within bounds,

interrupted this conversation.

"One of the cells is untenanted," said he; "why don't you put Tengelyi

in that?"

"Impossible!" said the captain, dryly. "The worshipful magistrates have

resolved that one of the rooms must be kept empty, to provide for an

emergency."

"But is not this an emergency?" asked Völgyeshy.

"I don't care whether it is or not!" said the captain, twisting his

moustache. "All I say is, that the worshipful magistrates have

instructed me to keep that room empty. I have my orders, sir. Besides,

we cannot put the notary into that room to please anybody; for Lady Rety

has used it as a larder these three years, and she keeps the key."

Still Völgyeshy persisted; but the recorder interfered, saying, that the

mildness which the sheriff had recommended could not, by any means, be

carried to the bursting open and disarranging the larder of the

sheriff's wife. And when Völgyeshy told them that, at least, an

arrangement might be made by confining two of the three prisoners in

one room, and assigning one of their cells to his client, his proposal

excited a violent storm of indignation.

"I wish you may get it!" cried Captain Karvay. "I wonder what the baron

would say if I were to force somebody upon him! And I don't know what he

would say if I were to tell him it was to make room for a village

notary."

But the decision of the affair was, as usual, brought about by Mr.

Skinner's energy. That great lawyer protested that he could not think of

fighting or squabbling for such a self-evident point; that Mr. Völgyeshy

had a right to defend the notary as much as he pleased; but that the

worshipful magistrates had an equal right not to care for Mr. Völgyeshy

or his defence.

The matter being thus settled to the satisfaction of all but the

notary's counsel, the recorder said to Karvay: "But you'll put him

somewhere where the crowd is not too great!"

"Of course. I'll send him to No. 20.,--as sweet a room as you'd like to

see, and with but five people in it. There's the old receiver; a

murderer; a man confined for horse-stealing; and two children convicted

of arson."

"Very good," said the recorder. "Whatever he wants, he must have; for

the sheriff wishes us to treat him kindly."

With a heavy heart did Völgyeshy follow the captain to the hall, where

Tengelyi was awaiting the close of the discussion.

"It's rather strange that they should leave me without chains," said the

notary, as they descended the steps to the vaults. "I am in the power of

these people; and, I assure you, they'll give me a taste of what they

can do."

"I'll make an end of it!" cried the advocate. "I'll go and talk to the

sheriff. He cannot mean----"

"He does not mean any thing!" said Tengelyi, with bitterness. "It's a

pity that you should trouble yourself; not only because you'll lose your

labour, but also because, in my position, a man gets blunted to smaller

sufferings."

"But the additional straw which----"

"I am no camel, my dear sir.--Stop here. I will not allow you to

accompany me farther." And, turning round, the notary followed his

gaoler.

Völgyeshy left the place sadly and reluctantly. At some distance from

the council-house he met Kalman Kishlaki, who had just come from

Tissaret to inquire for Tengelyi. The news of the notary's confinement

in the vaults struck young Kishlaki with angry surprise. He hastened to

the place where he had left his horse; and, without giving the poor

beast time to rest, he rode back to Tissaret to appeal to Akosh, and,

through him, to the sheriff.

CHAP. IV.

The last rays of the setting sun shed their brightness on the roofs of

Dustbury, when Tengelyi entered his prison. As he paused on the fatal

threshold, his heart ached within him, to think that this was his

farewell to the free light and air of heaven. The prison was dark. The

dirty panes of glass in the windows, the rough paper which, pasted over

the frames, supplied the want of them in more than one place, added to

strong bars of iron which protected the windows, created a dim twilight

even in the midst of the gladness and brightness of day; but to those

who entered the place in the afternoon, as Tengelyi did, it appeared as

dark as night, until their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. This

circumstance, and the murky and fetid air which he breathed, unnerved

Tengelyi so much, that he paid no attention to the words of comfort

which the turnkey addressed to him. That meritorious functionary, who

gloried in the military rank of a corporal, considered every new

prisoner in the light of a fresh source of income to himself; and his

politeness to the notary was not only unbounded, but even troublesome.

He bustled about the prison; selected the most comfortable place for the

new comer; deposited the notary's luggage in what he called a snug

corner; and exhorted the other prisoners, rather energetically, to be

civil and polite to their guest. He asked Tengelyi whether he had any

commands for the night. The notary asked for some bedding.

"We'll find it for you," said the corporal. "Of course I must borrow it

from some other man; and I don't know what he'll want for it a day; but

if you'll pay the damage, we'll find it for you, that's all."

Upon the notary declaring that he was willing to do so, the corporal

continued: "We find you every thing for your money. You can have meat,

brandy, wine, whatever you like, if you've got some money. I say," added

he, in an under tone; "it would make matters pleasant if you were to

send for a drop for these chaps. When they get a new companion, they

want to drink his health, you know; and these here fellows are

dreadfully put out, because they've been disturbed in their places. You

ought to make things pleasant, you know; for they _will_ be mischievous

unless you do."

The notary declared his readiness to "make things pleasant," as the

corporal called it.

"I say!" cried that person; "this gentleman is a real gentleman, and

nothing but a gentleman. He means to give you wine and brandy to drink

his health in; so don't trouble him!"

Saying which, and while several voices expressed their joy, the corporal

left the cell and locked the door. Tengelyi sat down on his luggage, and

leaning his face on his hand, he gave himself up to his gloomy thoughts;

but he had scarcely done so, when a voice from the other side of the

place disturbed him.

"Don't be sad, comrade!" croaked the voice. "This cursed cellar is

awfully cold. If you're once sad, you're done for!"

The place was so dark that Tengelyi could not distinguish the speaker's

form; but the cracked voice, and the gasping and coughing of the man,

showed him to be old and decrepit.

"What's the use of being mum?" continued the voice. "Take it easy!

People who live together ought to be cronies! Besides, we are much

better off here than you or anybody would think--ain't we, boys?"

"Yes! yes!" replied two voices, which evidently proceeded from a man and

a boy.

"We're snug and comfortable! There are some drawbacks, you know. My

poor Imri here has a whipping on every quarter day, and Pishta is going

to lose his head--that's all. It's a bore, you know."

"What the devil makes you talk of it?" said the man's voice, trembling.

"Never you mind! Who knows but you'll get off for all that? Why, you

were not even twenty when you did for that Slowak; by the same token,

you were a jackass to kill that fellow of all others for the miserable

booty of ninepence which you found in his pockets. As for me, I've twice

been under sentence of death, and you see I'm none the worse for it. But

if they _will_ chop your head off, why, it's some comfort to think that

they hanged your father before you. Never mind, boy, you're as likely to

dance on my grave as I am on yours! When a man has lived up to

ninety-three years----"

"Three and ninety years!" sighed the notary, with a shudder.

"Three and ninety years!" continued the old man, with his usual cough.

"It's a good old age, you know; and fifty-four years of that time I've

lived in gaol, and I'm none the worse for it; if the Lord keeps me

alive, they'll discharge me on St. Stephen's day that's coming."

"Fifty-four years?" cried the notary.

"Ay! it's a good long time, ain't it? I've been in gaol for stealing

horses and other cattle, and I was a party to a murder. Twice they

locked me up for arson, but, d--n me, I had no hand in it in either

case; and this time I'm caged because people _will_ have it that I was

the head man in the Pasht robbery--you know three men happened to be

killed on the occasion. Never mind, I'm to be a free man on St.

Stephen's day; and, after all, though _I_ say it who should not, their

worships were not far out when they brought that business home to me!"

"I say, father, you're an out-and-outer!" said the boyish voice. "Come,

tell us of the Jew that lost his life!"

"Tell you, indeed, you abortion!" said the old man. "Don't you hear me

coughing. Ask Pishta! he'll tell you how he diddled that Slowak."

"D--n Pishta! he doesn't tell stories half so well as you do, father; it

gives one an appetite for the business to hear you."

"Never mind, lad! you'll have your share of it, I warrant you!" laughed

the old man. "The devil shall take me by ounces, if you don't kill a man

before you've got a beard to your chin."

"I'll kill any one! I'll drink blood! Let me once get out of this place,

and you'll see!"

"Will you, indeed! You'll get the shakes before you do it, my boy."

"Drat the shakes! I'd wish you to see me at work. I'm not the coward I

was when they brought me here. Wasn't I a fine fellow, father? A knife

made me _funky_. But your fine stories have set me up. I can't help

dreaming of the old Jew whom they hanged in the forest. Let me once get

an axe in my hand! I shan't use it for woodcutting, that's all."

"Bravo!" cried the old man. "You're a bold fellow, you are! By the bye,

what's the other chap about?"

"He's asleep!"

"Is he? then box his ears, and wake him!"

And turning to Tengelyi, he added, "That boy Imri is a whapper, sir; but

the other chap's a scurvy rat!"

A loud wailing cry, and the entreaties of the other child, showed that

Imri had obeyed his patron's command; and though the notary was resolved

not to enter into any conversation with his fellow-prisoners, that cry

of pain overcame his resolution.

"Why don't you let the poor boy sleep?" said he.

"You leave my children alone, sir!" said the old robber, rather

fiercely. "They ought to fight. It does them good, you know. Makes them

hard, sir, as hard as nails! That little fellow, Imri, is a whapper,

sir. That boy'll do me honour, that boy will; but that sleepy cove in

the corner will never come to any thing. I've given them a year's

schooling, sir, and that's why I ought to know them."

"You would do better to think of your death-bed, old man. You are

driving these children to ruin."

"Ruin be d--d! I'll make men of them. I'll give them reason to be

grateful to their worships for locking them up with me. I'll give them a

bit of education, you know."

At this moment the turnkey opened the outer gate of the prison, and

brought a large lamp, which he placed in the hall, so as to economise

its light for three of the cells. The reddish glare of the lamp showed

the notary the place to which his misfortune, and the malice of his

enemies, had brought him. It was a perfect hell of sweating walls,

half-rotten straw, filth, chains, and iron bars. The old prisoner, to

whom Tengelyi had spoken, squatted in a corner, with his head leaning on

his knees, so as to conceal his features. But in the intervals of the

conversation, he raised his head, and showed a countenance on which the

crimes of nearly a century had set their mark. His was one of those

faces which, once seen, are always remembered, and the very turnkey felt

some awe when he approached him. His white beard, which covered the

lower half of his face, the thin long silvery locks which descended to

his shoulders, and his sunken eyes and temples, showed that he had

reached an age which few men attain, and the sight of which is wont to

fill us with respect, or at least with pity. It was not so in the case

of this man. The keen look of his eyes under his bushy eyebrows

impressed you with a conviction that this patriarch of the prison,

though he might want the power, did not lack the will to commit any

crime; and when his trembling and shrivelled hands were stretched forth

towards you, it was not pity, but a feeling of comfort you had in

thinking, that these hands had lost the strength to grasp the dagger or

aim the blow.

At the old man's feet lay a boy of fourteen, with a withered and oldish

face. His cheeks were pale, his forehead wrinkled, and his eyes dull and

glazed, except when the old man called him by his name, or stroked his

hair with a trembling hand. It was then that some feeling was expressed

in that haggard face. It was then that the boy's eyes gleamed in wild

exultation. It was the yearning of the human heart for kindness, and its

gratitude even to the depraved. The other boy, whose wailings induced

Tengelyi to speak, had crept up to the iron railings of the door, and

there he stood gazing at the light of the lamp. When the flame burnt

clear and bright, the boy clapped his hands and laughed; but when it

burnt low, he said he was sure the lamp was neglected, and that it would

go out, as it did the other day.

"If I could but creep through the bars!" sighed he. "If they'd only let

me trim it! I'd give it a large wick and plenty of oil; and I'd make it

burn with a red flame, and a yellow flame, and a blue flame! Look, look!

what a bright jet of fire! Grow! grow little flame! rise to the

house-top, and shine over the town and warm it! Oh, see how splendid!"

And the poor lad pressed his glowing face to the iron bars. "Oh! if

they'd but let me touch it!"

"It's no go, my boy!" cried the young murderer from the furthest corner

of the cell; "they won't allow you to set the prison on fire, as you did

the other day. Get away from the bars, you little rascal; if you don't,

I'll drag you away by the hair!"

"Bravo, Pishta! Give it him!" said the old man; "he all but killed us

with his smoke. You see he's mad!"

Pishta got up and seized the boy; but Tengelyi interfered, and asked how

the child could have set the prison on fire.

"That boy! There never was such a boy! He used to ask me by the hour for

my steel and flint; and when he once had it, there was no getting it

away from him. He would strike fire, and when he made the sparks fly he

laughed and screamed like mad. And one night he prigged a piece of

tinder and lighted it, and put it in the old cove's straw."

"Pull his ears for him, Pishta!" cried the old man. Even Tengelyi's

interference would not have saved the lad from being beaten, had not the

appearance of the turnkey, with some bottles of wine and brandy, engaged

the attention of the prisoners.

"Give us the brandy, Imri; and I say, Pishta, take a bottle and let that

nasty toad alone, since the man who treats us wishes to protect him. Let

him stare at the flame to the end of time; only look sharp that he

doesn't claw your tinder. Will you not take a drop, sir?" added the old

man, addressing Tengelyi. The notary's refusal astonished him quite as

much as the cleanliness and neatness of his dress and appearance.

"If you don't care, I'm sure _I_ don't!" said he; and, turning to his

comrades, he added, in a whisper: "Leave him alone, for after all he

pays for our brandy. To-morrow morning we'll make him send for some

more. He's our cellar, you know! Drink, Imri, my boy! Stick to the

brandy. You look rather queer about the eyes; but never mind, you'll get

used to it, and you're a whapper for all that."

Thanks to the old man's calculations on his future generosity, Tengelyi

was left to his reflections. The prison presented a scene of uproarious

hilarity, which, at length subsiding, gave place to the deep and heavy

breathing of its drunken inmates, when the door again opened and

admitted a man, who, laying a mattress, a pillow, and a blanket at

Tengelyi's feet, introduced himself as Gatzi the Vagabond, a former

inmate of the cell, though at present a kitchen prisoner[29] of the

recorder's. Having thus informed Mr. Tengelyi of his state and station,

both in the world and in the prison of Dustbury, he produced a small

basket with eatables, adding that they were sent by Mr. Völgyeshy, who

wished the notary to be patient, for that he was sure to have his own

private room next day. "And," added Gatzi, "I'll make you a bed fit for

a king to sleep on. I've just made the recorder's bed, and he is

particular, you know."

[Footnote 29: See Note I.]

Tengelyi, who had not broken his fast since the previous day, took some

meat and bread, and invited the new comer to fall to.

"Thank you!" said Gatzi the Vagabond. "I've eaten as much as I can eat.

The recorder had no end of things for supper. I waited at table, and

minded my own business, I can assure you. But you don't take any wine! I

hope it's good; and it's I myself fetched it at the inn, and the

landlord knows he can't do me, for if he did I'd go to the Lion next

time, that's all."

"Try it!" said Tengelyi. "As for me, I do not mean to take any."

"I humbly thank you!" said the prisoner, seizing the bottle. "Ah,

well-a-day, what wine! Bless me, if you'd give me such wine every day,

I'd never wish to leave this place."

"It strikes me you are pretty well reconciled to your captivity."

"Oh I'm far more comfortable than I might be. I've been a servant ever

since I was a boy; and now I'm a kitchen-prisoner. Dear me! there's no

difference between the two; and when the weather's bad, and I sit by the

kitchen-fire thinking how they used to set me to work, both in winter

and in summer, it strikes me that I'm better off than I ever was. I've

got plenty to eat, a warm jacket, and a few kreutzers now and then for

an extra service. The haiduks don't bully me--in short, it's the very

place for a poor fellow like myself."

"But what of liberty? Would you not like to be free and unfettered?"

"These chains of mine _are_ troublesome; yes, so they are, especially

when I've to change my boots. You can't believe how awkward they are at

times, though they are lighter than any in the place. But, after all,

who knows when they take them off but that I must carry heavier loads to

gain my bread? And as for liberty, why you see, sir, in fine weather, in

a starry night, I think it would be a nice thing indeed to be racing

over the heath with my fellows; but, after all, liberty's very

uncomfortable: a man must work for his bread, you know."

The notary sighed.

"Cheer up, sir!" said the Vagabond, in happy unconsciousness of the real

cause of the notary's sigh. "Cheer up, sir! To-morrow you'll have your

own room; and since Mr. Völgyeshy's your lawyer, I am sure you'll get

through the business, however ugly it may be. The devil himself could

not live in this hole among a parcel of blackguards! Would you believe

it, sir? there isn't a respectable man among the lot!"

"Society's none of the best in the other cells, I dare say," responded

the notary, as he settled down for the night.

"Oh, but it is! It was quite a pleasure to be in the cell I once lived

in. They were all men of substance, I assure you, sir, and mighty fine

stories they told. There was no end of good stories. There was a woman,

too--but this is a place to despair in."

"Then, I presume, this is not your own cell?"

"By no means!" said Gatzi the Vagabond, with great pride. "I'm in the

habit of sleeping in the recorder's kitchen, or in the yard, and I've

only come down here because Mr. Völgyeshy told me to watch lest

something might happen to you, sir."

"What can he mean?"

"Why that old fellow there is fit for any thing in a small way. He's

been after one of the boys in such a manner that the poor child has got

the epileptics."

The notary shuddered.

"Why do they allow him to have the children in his cell?" cried he.

Gatzi the Vagabond, stretching his limbs in his bunda, replied, with

great composure:--

"They say the fellow's so desperately wicked, that whenever a man was

locked in his cell, he was sure to commit some horrid crime the moment

he came out of prison. As for Pishta, they've put him here because the

recorder says he has no chance of living. He'll lose his head to a

certainty. And the children are small and weak; what harm can they do

when they get out?"

"But what are they in prison for?"

"It's a queer thing altogether!" yawned Gatzi. "There were no end of

fires in the village where they come from, and it was found out that

half the children in the place had a hand in it; little toads, you know,

of from twelve to fourteen. Mr. Völgyeshy says it's a disease; and I

dare say he's right, for one of the boys has been a making fires ever

since he came here. But, whether it is a disease or not, it didn't

matter. The justice had the other boys and girls soundly whipped; and as

for these here two, he sent them to gaol because they're orphans. Fine

plants they'll come to be. Good night, sir!"

CHAP. V.

There are moments in the life of every votary of the world's splendour

and ambition in which, wearied by the obstacles which obstruct his path,

and harassed by the petty failures of a thousand wishes, the more ardent

because they are unreasonable, he looks back with something like regret

on his past career, while the future fills his soul with fear, mingled

with disgust. The rewards of ambition are scanty, its labours great.

There is profuseness in the promise, there is a niggardly stinginess in

the performance. The hour of doubt and sorrow comes for every one; that

hour which makes us feel that "the paltry prize is hardly worth the

cost." But the man of real ambition, the man of high purposes, who walks

the rugged paths of greatness, not because he wishes that the crowd

should stare at him, but to satisfy his own ardent mind; not because he

longs for command, but because his mind thirsts for freedom,--such a

man, even in his darkest hours, will never look back to the past with

that intensity of bitterness which the sheriff felt, when, pacing his

room, and reviewing his position, he became convinced of the fact that

his past career was as false as his present existence was hollow.

His was not an unfeeling heart. In his younger years he was loving, and

zealous for the love of others. Moderately accomplished, with a fine

property, and a good face and figure, Rety was formed to pass his life

in tranquil happiness. But there was something in his character which

blasted the fair hopes of his youth. He was weak and vain, and these two

qualities spoilt his appetite for the good things with which fortune had

so amply provided him. Once removed from his natural sphere, his life

was a series of bitter disappointments. His attachment to the friends of

his early youth sprang from a desire of praise and friendly

conversation. When he entered into practical life, he was equally

influenced by the views of his family, and by their advice; and though

in the outset he was rather a passive than an active sharer of the high

plans of his father, his vanity soon caused him to covet those very

distinctions which he for a time pretended to disregard. His first move

in that career brought him in opposition to Tengelyi, the friend of his

youth. Rety was not insensible to the meanness of the transaction. He

did all he could to change his father's purpose. He told him that to

treat his friend in this manner would for ever undermine his

self-respect. But his father protested that all the hopes of his life

were bound up in this one desire; his mother added her entreaties; and

the neighbours said there never was so young and so gentlemanly a

justice in the county. And when they all protested that Tengelyi had not

the least chance of carrying the election, Rety wanted the strength to

resist, and all that the nobler feelings of his mind effected was to

make him ashamed of himself. He was afraid to meet his friend; and he

added to his wrongs by breaking off the acquaintance.

Thus launched into public life, accustomed to the frequent

glorifications and distinctions of county life, Rety's innate vanity

became of gigantic growth; and when he took his father's place of

sheriff, when the Cortes of the Takshony county made him the object of

their devotion, he exulted in what he considered his pride of place.

Some people accused him of want of principle. They protested that his

habitual dignified reserve was the result of a deep scheme, and that his

ambition was of the most insatiate and the boldest kind. They were

mistaken. The sheriff was satisfied with his position. All he wished was

to be the first man, the beloved and exalted man of the county. His was

a modest vanity. His mind did not crave for fame, or for a grand sphere

of action. He was satisfied to rise gradually and peaceably, and to be

surrounded by an admiring circle of friends. The county of Takshony

yielded the fullest satisfaction to these wishes, and the sheriff's

aspirations were confined to its borders. It never struck him that it is

a disgrace for a man to be the favourite of _all_ parties. But this

tranquil enjoyment of petty honours could only last while there was no

one near him to disturb it. His distinctions ceased to be grateful to

him when new wishes were awakened in his heart. The death of his first

wife and his second marriage served to disgust him with his repose upon

his laurels.

In the choice of his first wife he had followed his heart; his second

alliance was caused by ambition. The woman of his choice had no

property; but she was a magnate's daughter, and celebrated for her

beauty and her talents. To think of the many that would envy him if he,

a widower, were to marry the most beautiful woman in the county, made

him happy; and that thought was a solace to him, even when he found to

his cost that his wife had other qualities besides beauty and talents.

Lady Rety felt uncomfortable in her position as the wife of the sheriff

of Takshony. Though her father was poor, he had rich relations, many of

whom were high in office; and the uninterrupted correspondence in which

she stood with some of the greatest men in Hungary, while it

dissatisfied her with her present station, caused her to strain every

nerve to raise her husband to a higher rank. From the moment she entered

his house, she strove to urge Rety on.

And she succeeded. He had hitherto prided himself on being the first man

in the county. She told him that was a small matter indeed. She told him

the county of Takshony was not worth living for; that the cheers, the

exultations of the crowd were caused by his cellar, and not by his

merits. The affability which his office imposed upon him as a duty

became perfectly odious to Rety's mind, when his wife convinced him that

it was a meanness to bow and smile to the Zatonyis, Skinners, and

Kishlakis. She spurred him on; she sneered at him and his county

politics, until he felt utterly wretched, demoralised, and contemptible.

He yielded, and resolved to aim at higher dignities.

That resolution was the curse of his life. A vain man wants the breath

to run a long race: vanity must have applause for each word, and praise

for each act. Rety knew that the road to higher things is open to those

only who league themselves with one party. And when he left his batlike

position, when he joined a party for good, he saw to his horror that

there were some people who doubted his excellence; the criticisms of his

enemies made him miserable. And when he yielded to the impulse of his

ruling passion, when he returned to his undecided position between the

hostile factions, their shortlived applause was poisoned by the sneers

of his wife. The sheriff's conduct was vacillating and fickle. Nobody

could be more painfully conscious of this fact than he himself was.

The part which Lady Rety played in the robbery of Tengelyi's papers was

divulged by Viola's confession, and eagerly commented on by the gossips

of the county. Those who credited the robber's statement believed too

that the sheriff had acted in concert with his wife. But this opinion

was erroneous. The sheriff knew nothing of Lady Rety's plans; and,

though sensible of the importance of the papers which Vandory possessed,

he was too honest, and, indeed, too weak, to consent to any thing like a

crime. But when the robbery had been perpetrated, and when his wife

informed him of Viola's confession, he asked her with horror whether the

robber had spoken the truth. "He has!" replied she, with that boldness

which experience told her was wont to awe him into submission. "I have

done the thing I am accused of. But why did I do it? It was for the

benefit of your family, name, and interests. Will you accuse me? Can you

think of producing me in a court of justice? Will you dare to cast

dishonour upon your own name? If you do, you effect your own ruin,

without convincing any one of your innocence. They accuse you more than

me. If you turn against me they will say, it is not because you are

innocent, but because you are a knave. The only thing you _can_ do is,

to hush the matter up."

Rety was miserable. But there was no alternative; and he chose to become

an accessory after the fact. Mr. Catspaw's assassination increased the

difficulties of his position. Some papers, of which the property was

traced to Tengelyi, were found in Mr. Catspaw's room. So long as

Tengelyi was thought to be the murderer, the circumstance of the papers

being found might be explained by asserting that the notary had lost

them when he committed the crime; but if he could prove his innocence,

were not those papers likely to increase the suspicions which the

sheriff felt were entertained against him? And was not Tengelyi likely

to rest his defence on those very suspicions?

Rety, as is usually the case with weak men, was by no means fond of the

person who reigned over him; the coldness of years ripened into hate. He

was estranged from his old friends; scorned, and perhaps hated, by his

own children; he was exposed to danger and infamy, and all for her sake.

He could not pardon his own weakness, but he hated her the more

cordially; a feeling which she returned with interest. This distracting

position was still heightened by the contents of a letter which the

sheriff took up at times, and threw down again, to stamp the floor and

ponder on certain points which seemed to move his feelings. That letter,

which was in Vandory's handwriting, was to the following purpose:--

"My dear Brother,

"You know that I am not in the habit of using this

name too often. I loved it once; but I have dropped it

since I saw that it would hurt your interests. I am

your brother, but I have never claimed other rights

than those your heart gave me; and if I now remind you

of the bonds which unite us, it is to recall you from

the path which leads to certain ruin.

"Samuel, you are on the brink of an abyss. The very

next step you take will decide your fate for ever. If

you proceed in your career, you are given over to

evil. Your honour, now jeopardised, is irretrievably

lost. There are crimes which defy all repentance.

Consider, my brother, whether worldly honours and

riches can repay you for peace on earth and for the

loss of your hopes of heaven!

"There was a time in which you professed friendship

for Tengelyi; but let that pass. You thought proper to

sacrifice his friendship to the cravings of your

ambition. I leave it to your heart to decide whether

you were right or wrong. But even if Tengelyi had

never been your friend, you ought to feel for his

situation. You are convinced of his innocence; you

know the circumstances to which he fell a victim; you

know the authors of his misfortunes; and you know

those who accuse him because they wish to hide their

own misdeeds. Will you suffer him to fall a prey to

his enemies? Will you plunge his family in misery and

ruin? I never thought that I should have to raise my

voice in a case in which duty speaks so clearly. I was

convinced that you, who bear so great a share in

Tengelyi's misfortunes, would strain every nerve to

save him. I was mistaken. The entreaties of your own

son could not prevail upon you even to alleviate the

sorrows of this ruined family. All that is now left to

me is to remind you of your promise to me; and, though

reluctantly, I must also remind you of the

obligations which, according to your own words, you

are under to me.

"Yes, Samuel; a review of the past will convince you

that I was always a faithful brother to you: that, for

your sake, I sacrificed what mankind prize as most

high and valuable; and that I have a claim upon your

gratitude.

"I was a child when my mother died, but I was old

enough to become conscious of the change in my life

when our father married for the second time. Your

mother was the bane of my childhood. Before she was a

mother she hated me, because I reminded her of what

she longed for; and when you were born, she feared

lest I should share our father's property with you.

Everybody pitied me, and there were some people who

wished me to hate you. But I loved you. I loved to

embrace you; to hear you speak, and to teach you my

childish games. I was neglected, hated, and

persecuted; but I had a brother, and I hoped to be

happy when he came to be a man. My childhood was so

utterly wretched, that my hopes had nothing but the

distant future, and the older I grew, the more

insupportable became my condition. You say my father

loved me. He never showed it. The slightest mark of

kindness from him would have prevented me from

quitting his roof as I did. My departure from home

was covered by a distant relation of my mother's, who

found the means and the passports for a journey to a

foreign country. He supported me during the first

years of my voluntary exile. At the end of three years

he died. Death surprised him with such awful rapidity,

that no time was left to inform his friends of my

whereabouts, or to provide for me in his will, and I

found myself, at the commencement of my studies at

Göttingen, thrown upon my own resources, and, though

not friendless on foreign soil, I felt homesick. But I

had no faith in my father's affection, and I conquered

that feeling. My poverty could not shake my

resolution. I worked for my living, and was happy and

proud that I could support myself. I lived thus for

more than ten years. My longings for my country passed

away. I all but forgot my mother's language; and when

I passed my examinations and took my degrees, I felt

as a native of the foreign land in which I lived. It

was at this time I saw your name in the lists of the

University of Heidelberg. I left Göttingen, and

hastened to meet you.

"I write this, not to reproach you. If I was useful to

you, your presence was a source of happiness to me.

What I wish is, to remind you of those happy days, of

those days when there were no secrets between us;

when it was as unlikely that I should ask for any

thing that could give you pain, as that you should

refuse to comply with any of my requests.

"No one knew of our consanguinity, and many people

wondered at our friendship; I was so much older than

you. Even Tengelyi could never suspect that we were

brothers. We agreed to return together to my father's

house, and to ask his pardon for my rash and

injudicious step.

"Heaven would have it otherwise. You knew the woman

whose love caused me to forget all other ties, and to

make her country mine. I knew my father was proud. I

knew that my chosen wife would be a source of

annoyance and sorrow to him. He could never be

reconciled to the marriage of his son with the

daughter of an artisan; and you, too, advised me to

take the place which at that time was offered to me,

and to remain in Germany.

"My happiness was of short duration. My wife died a

few months after your departure from Heidelberg. I

felt very lonely. You were far away. Tengelyi had left

the place before you. My soul was sorrowful, even unto

death. I resolved to turn my steps homewards, but I

did not inform you of my resolution.

"I wished to see my father and his house before

introducing myself to him as his son. What I saw

convinced me that it was better to remain unknown as

long as my father lived. My name and my claims to the

property were likely to inflame your mother's hate

against me, and the prodigal's return would have

embittered the last days of his father. We resolved to

keep the secret between us; and when your

recommendation caused me to be appointed to the curacy

of Tissaret, I had no reason to desire a change of my

position. I lived in the house as one of the family.

My father, led by instinct, loved me like a son, and I

was permitted to cheer his declining age. Your mother

died, and my father's death followed soon afterwards.

In his last hour I knelt by his bed, told him who I

was, and asked his pardon. He wept. He embraced and

blessed me as his son. You were present, he blessed

you too, and entreated us to be of one mind, and to

love one another.

"After my father's death there was no obstacle to my

assuming my real name; but while I stayed in your

house a variety of circumstances had come to my

knowledge which prevented my taking that step. Our

father was in debt, and you and your wife had, for

some years, lived on your expectations. To claim my

share of the property was to condemn you to a life of

privations and regret; and to assume my name and

resign my heritage was ungenerous. It was burdening

you with an obligation in the eyes of the world.

Besides, I was fond of my new vocation, and I felt

that the position my name would give me was likely to

interfere with my duties as a clergyman. I entreated

you not to reveal the secret of my birth to the world.

As it was, I could live with you, and love you as a

brother, and that was all I wanted.

"The world would say that I sacrificed much to you. I

sacrificed a name of which you yourself are proud, a

fine property, and an enviable position; for though I

am not eager for honours, I have often felt that my

power of doing good to my fellow creatures would be

greater if I had not resigned the advantages of my

birth. Do not force me to believe that I made that

sacrifice for one who is unworthy of it!

"Tengelyi's fate is in your hands. It is in your power

to save him, and to restore his honour and reputation

to their pristine purity. I need not tell you how you

can do it. But, my brother, if you ever loved me, if

our father's last prayer is indeed sacred to you, and

unless you wish me to curse the moment in which my

love for you induced me to sacrifice my interests for

your sake,--do, for your children's sake, for the sake

of your hopes of heaven, what your duty and conscience

command you to do.

"BALTHASAR."

The sheriff had just read the last lines of this letter, when the door

opened. His brother stood before him.

When Kalman returned from Dustbury, he went to Vandory, and gave him an

account of Tengelyi's situation; on hearing which, the curate hastened

to the sheriff, to intercede in behalf of his friend.

Vandory's arrival took the sheriff by surprise. He was not prepared for

an interview with his brother; and, evidently confused, he held out his

hand. But the curate did not seize it. His face had lost its habitually

mild expression. It was solemn and severe.

"Balthasar!" said the sheriff, sadly; "will you not take the hand which

I hold out to you?"

"Samuel!" replied the curate; "why should our hands meet, since our

hearts are far asunder?"

The sheriff threw himself back in his chair.

"Alas!" cried he; "and you, too, repulse me! you, too, condemn me,

Balthasar! you, whose heart is so full of love and pity!"

Vandory was deeply moved by the sorrow which his brother's features

expressed.

"I condemn no one," said he. "Believe me, I would not have come to you

if I were not convinced that your good natural disposition would triumph

over these guilty passions. But the least delay is fatal. Tengelyi is in

prison----"

"Don't name him!" cried Rety, violently. "Would to God I had never heard

his name!"

"You are indeed far gone," sighed Vandory. "To think that, instead of

repenting, you should hate the man whose pardon you ought to implore!"

"Implore his pardon? his?" cried Rety. "No! he is the spoiler, the

destroyer! Is it not he who caused my only son to leave my house,

cursing fate which made him son to _me_? Is it not he who robs me of the

affections of the last person that loved me? Tell me of one of my

sufferings which may not be traced to him!"

"And who is the cause of all this?"

The sheriff was silent.

"Whose fault is it," continued Vandory, with great earnestness, "that

the bonds of friendship which once united you are now torn asunder? Who

was the persecutor? who the destroyer?"

The sheriff would have spoken, but Vandory proceeded:--

"Tengelyi is in prison. He is locked up with murderers and thieves; and

you, the sheriff of the county, use your power and influence only to

wreak your vengeance upon him, and to add to his sufferings. Who, I ask,

is the injured party?"

"I am not the cause of the notary's sufferings," said the sheriff,

pettishly. "I am convinced of his innocence; but I cannot stay the arm

of justice, even though it strike in a wrong direction."

"Samuel!" replied the curate, sadly, "that excuse will exculpate you in

the eyes of man; but how will you stand with it before God, when He

calls you to account for Tengelyi's sufferings?"

"I've done all I could do!" retorted Rety. "I offered to bail him. I

implored Skinner, and I instructed Kenihazy, to treat the notary with

the greatest mildness. Can you, in reason, ask me to do more?"

"I, as your brother, can indeed ask you to do more! I sacrificed

everything to you----"

The sheriff looked confused and ashamed.

"Fear nothing," said the curate, with a sneer (the first he ever was

guilty of): "nobody can hear my words. You need not be ashamed to be

reminded of what, it seems, you have forgotten; namely, that it is your

brother who speaks to you."

Rety made an unsuccessful attempt to speak; but Vandory continued:--

"Yes; I am your brother. The papers by which I could have proved my

birth are lost. A court of justice might, perhaps, refuse to hear me, if

I were to claim my name and property; but you know the truth of what I

say, and you cannot deny that I treated you as a brother ought to do."

"My gratitude----" muttered Rety.

"Where is it? Where is the brotherly affection which was to indemnify me

for the loss of wealth; that is to say, of power and influence to do

good? This is the fulfilment of your voluntary promise never to refuse

any request of mine! I confided in those promises; for I was convinced

that I should never abuse my power. We were happy as it was; and I was

satisfied with my position, which gave me an opportunity to improve the

condition of the peasantry. Even our former intimacy with Tengelyi was

on the point of being restored. He was willing to forgive and to forget.

Your children were a new bond of union between you. Whose fault was it

that those happy days are gone? I will not accuse you; but I will ask

you, when were you happier,--then, or now? You sigh? Oh, Samuel! why did

you not listen to the still small voice within you, which protested

against the first step on that fatal path? I will not talk of the

heartlessness with which you treated Tengelyi. Akosh loved Vilma. You

knew it was my dearest wish that these children should not be separated;

but your pride revolted at the thought that your son should marry the

daughter of a notary; and Tengelyi, the friend of your youth, was

ordered to leave your house!"

"I knew nothing of my wife's doings!" cried the sheriff. "I would never

have consented to her treating the notary as she did."

"Be it so!" continued Vandory, warmly, and even passionately. "I will

not argue with you whether that assertion agrees with what you did

afterwards. As the world goes, a father has a right to dictate to his

children; I will not quarrel with you because you abused that right. But

the abstraction of my documents----"

The sheriff started up. "All is lost!" cried he. "My own brother

condemns me as a villain!"

"God sees my heart!" replied Vandory. "When the first attempt at a

robbery was made in my house, I would have spurned such a suspicion. I

made a voluntary resignation of my birthright. How, then, could I

suspect that any one should desire to rob me of the documents by which I

could prove my rights? That I had no suspicion against you, is shown by

my informing you and your wife of my intention to commit those papers to

Tengelyi's keeping. But when the robber followed them even to my

friend's house; when Viola accused the attorney and your wife as guilty

of the theft; when I considered that no one besides you could take an

interest in those papers----"

Vandory stopped before he pronounced his conclusion. The sheriff covered

his face with his hands.

"I am not naturally prone to suspect any one," continued the curate;

"and to suspect you, of all men, gives me unspeakable grief. If you can

explain it, if you can exculpate yourself,--I will thank God, and ask

your forgiveness, even on my knees!"

Rety rose from his chair. His heart was full, to overflowing. Not to

speak was death to him. So he told his brother the share which his wife

had taken in the robbery, and of her having informed him of it after the

deed was done. "You may despise me," continued he; "you may hate me;

but I could not, I cannot, act otherwise than I did. My evil genius

induced me to marry that beldame. I was blinded by her family, her

beauty, and by the praises of people who called her the queen of the

county. I knew that she married me for my fortune; and I never mentioned

your existence to her. Afterwards, I waited for a good opportunity to

break the matter to her; until circumstances forced me to an

explanation. She discovered my son's attachment to Vilma, and insisted

on my sending Tengelyi, or, rather, Vilma, out of the house. As for me,

I admit that I would have liked it better if Akosh had chosen another

woman for his wife; but, partly for your sake, and partly because I

hoped that he would change his mind, I refused to obey Lady Rety's

commands. She acted for herself; and, when I reproached her, she sneered

at me for being in fear of a curate and a poor notary. It was then I

told her of your real position, and of the power you had of depriving me

of one half of my estates. The wretched woman would not be dependent on

your generosity: she availed herself of the attorney's help to deprive

you of the papers by which you could prove your claims."

"My poor Samuel!" cried Vandory.

"Oh, my brother!" continued the sheriff; "neither you nor any one else

can conceive the agony of my heart! My children turn away from me; my

reputation is gone; and you yourself consider me as the partisan of

robbers and thieves!"

Vandory would have spoken; but the sheriff continued, violently:--

"Don't speak! don't try to comfort me! I _am_ the accomplice of robbers;

and my very position compels me to hush down and cloak this villanous

business!"

"The bonds which unite you to your wife are sacred," said the curate.

"You are not allowed to abandon her to her fate; and, fallen though she

is, it is your duty to defend her. But you must not sin for her. You

may, indeed, you ought to, sacrifice yourself for her sake; but it is

sinful to endanger the life of a guiltless man merely to shield that

guilty woman from the punishment she so richly deserves!"

"I understand you," replied the sheriff; "nor would I hesitate for one

moment, if I could save Tengelyi by sacrificing my wife. I hate her! But

what is the use of accusing her, and of dishonouring the name of my

children? The more clearly it is proved that the attorney robbed

Tengelyi of his papers, and that my wife was accessory to the act, the

more convincing will be the proof of his seeming guilt."

Vandory acknowledged the justness of this view of the case. He admitted

that the sheriff was unable to effect Tengelyi's liberation; and he

therefore entreated him to protect the notary against the petty

persecutions of his enemies. The sheriff was amazed when Vandory

informed him of the manner in which the people at Dustbury had thought

proper to execute his orders respecting Tengelyi. He promised to go to

Dustbury early the next morning, and to provide for the prisoner's

comforts.

"Do, Samuel," said Vandory; "do your best for poor Tengelyi, and leave

it to God to do the rest."

The sheriff sighed.

"Be of good cheer!" continued the curate: "let us hope for better days."

"Brother!" said Rety, sadly; "the man whose conscience accuses him,

knows neither hope nor comfort."

CHAP. VI.

A few days after Tengelyi's incarceration, Mrs. Ershebet removed to

Dustbury, where she hired a small house. The wretched woman was a prey

to the deepest misery. She was proud of her husband. She was accustomed

to hear his praises wherever she went. It was generally admitted that

Tengelyi was the most honest and upright man in the county; and that

man, the pride of her heart, and her idol, was in gaol! He was accused

of a crime: the dangers which threatened him made her shudder. Ershebet

was a strong-minded woman. She stood by Tengelyi in all the reverses and

vicissitudes of his life. But the last blow was more than she could

bear. Her distress made her careless of everything; even her daughter's

society and conversation failed to cheer her, and her former friends

were convinced that she could not survive Tengelyi's sentence.

Vilma, on the other hand, rose with the storm. She was convinced of her

father's innocence, and firm in her hopes of better days. Her sorrow was

of the keenest, but it was tempered by her conviction that it was her

duty to cheer her mother, and by her love for Akosh, whose devotion kept

pace with the unfortunate events which threatened for ever to destroy

the honour and prosperity of the notary's family. The sheriff was now no

longer opposed to the wishes of his son; indeed, there was nothing to

prevent the perfect happiness of the young couple, except their anxiety

concerning Tengelyi's fate.

The notary himself bore the blows of misfortune with his usual sturdy

perseverance, but, we regret to say, with more than his usual

bitterness. Neither Völgyeshy's advice, nor the entreaties of Akosh and

Vandory, could induce him to see the sheriff. He refused to avail

himself even of the legal remedies which were at his command, unless

they agreed with his ideas of what the law ought to be; and Völgyeshy's

complaints that his conduct was likely to injure the defence, he met

with dogged indifference.

"I am innocent!" was his usual plea on such occasions. "My innocence

will sooner or later come to light; and although I am forced to prove

that I am not guilty, I will at least avoid guilty means in doing so."

This was the state of affairs during winter; nor was it changed in the

beginning of spring. The prisoner passed that time surrounded by all

the comforts, and even luxuries, which the ingenuity of the sheriff

could devise, and which the nature of a gaol would admit of. His little

room was comfortably furnished; he was not without society, and among

those who visited him, no one was more assiduous or more eager to effect

a formal reconciliation between the notary and the sheriff, than

Völgyeshy the advocate. It is in the midst of one of their discussions

on the manner and time of the defence, that we find them on a fine day

in March.

"Consider, my friend," said Völgyeshy; "there can be no humiliation in

your speaking a few kind words to the sheriff: nor is there any meanness

in writing one or two simple lines to the lord-lieutenant, entreating

him to adjourn your case."

"But I tell you it is a humiliation!" retorted the notary. "I will not

condescend to beg for mercy. I am innocent. If they condemn me, it is

their affair, not mine!"

"But you need not beg for mercy," replied the advocate, with a sigh.

"All I desire is, that you should treat people with kindness and

civility; that you should not insult them when they show you sympathy,

as you did the other day when Kriver and the attorney-general called on

you."

"And what is the use of this sympathy? Do these people think me

guiltless? No! they came because the lord-lieutenant mentioned my name

with kindness? Am I to herd with beings like these?"

"My dear sir!" entreated the advocate, "consider the nature of the

charge; pray consider the consequences of your conduct!"

"The consequences? Oh, I am aware that my conduct leads me to the

scaffold!" replied the notary, passionately. "Let them do their worst;

and may my blood be on their heads! I am not their first victim, nor

indeed the last."

"And your family!" cried Völgyeshy. "What is to become of your wife and

children?"

Tengelyi covered his face and wept. At last he said, with a trembling

voice:--

"What is it you wish me to do? Am I to kneel to Skinner? am I to bribe

false witnesses? or have recourse to some equally infamous means? I know

that these things have more effect in our courts than the musty legal

remedies which they taught us at college. We adopt a homoeopathic

treatment to cure wickedness. If you are accused of a crime, you may

save yourself by committing a crime. Our Dustbury magistrates wish to

prove their oriental descent, by extorting presents from the suitors in

their courts. I know it all; but how can you ask me to condescend to sue

and to bribe?"

"My dear friend, you are unreasonable!" said Völgyeshy, seizing the

notary's hand.

"Unreasonable!" cried Tengelyi. "I, of all men, have cause to be so. I

commenced life as an enthusiast, I grant it; but were its lessons lost

upon me? No! All I have latterly wished for was, to be a useful and

humble member of the community, and to end my life in peace. But even

this is denied me. My wife is not likely to survive my misfortune; my

daughter's grief, though less avowed, is not less acute. My son has to

enter life with a dishonoured name: and after all this, I am expected to

abandon my principles! Is it not enough to drive a man mad?"

"No!" replied Völgyeshy; "for no honest man was ever in so distressing a

situation, and without his own fault too. I admit all you complain of;

but what I say is, that there is no humiliation in your asking the

lord-lieutenant and Rety to adjourn the decision in your case."

The notary shook his head, and replied,--

"My asking them to delay the sentence, what is it but a confession that

I doubt the justice of my own cause?"

"By no means. It is a proof that you do not consider the case ripe for

decision. We cannot but admit, as it stands at present, that all the

evidence is against us. Public opinion is in your favour. Nobody doubts

your innocence, though there is no evidence we can adduce in support of

our statement of the case. If you were to be judged by a jury of your

countrymen, I am sure I would not hesitate to appeal to their verdict.

But the judges cannot travel out of the record, and they cannot but

decide against us. Time may do a great deal for us. That Jew is now

dying of typhus fever; who knows but he may recover, and our promises

may induce him to confess the truth? Perhaps we may find out Viola, and

defeat the accusation by producing him; perhaps some circumstance may

turn up----"

Here the advocate's argument was interrupted by Janosh, the hussar, who

had quietly entered the room and listened to the latter part of the

conversation. Yielding to the entreaties of his son, the sheriff had

consented to let Janosh wait upon the notary in prison; a duty which the

old trooper fulfilled with so much alacrity, that even Tengelyi was

moved by the devotion and kindness of his new servant.

"I say, sir," said the hussar, approaching the table at which Völgyeshy

and the notary were seated, "is it a fact that they cannot injure you if

we manage to produce Viola?"

"Certainly!" replied Völgyeshy; "if Viola could be induced to appear and

to confess that it was he who killed the attorney, there can be no doubt

but that the decision would be in our favour."

"Then the great thing is to find him?" said the hussar.

"We have tried it in vain," replied the advocate, with a sigh. "We have

sent orders to all the justices, we have written to all the counties,

but nothing has come of it."

"Well, sir, no wonder he dodged you," said Janosh, shaking his head;

"who the deuce thinks of sending a drummer to catch rats? Viola won't

leave his address at a justice's, I promise you."

"But what are we to do? Do you know of any other way?"

"Of course I do! it's the only way to do the thing. If you hunt after

your watch, some thief will tell you where it was last heard of. If you

wish to find Viola, you had better speak to some of his cronies."

"We have asked the Liptaka, and Peti the gipsy?" replied the lawyer.

"Well, as far as the gipsy is concerned," said the hussar, "I'll be

bound that cunning creature could give us a hint or two, if he thought

proper. But who knows whether he was not a party to the murder of the

attorney? Besides, he is Viola's sworn brother, and thinks, perhaps,

they would hang him, if they had him fast and sure."

"As for the hanging part of the business," said Völgyeshy, "Peti knows

very well that Viola is not to be tried by court-martial. A common court

will not condemn him to capital punishment, since he is not guilty of

any other great crime besides the assassination of Catspaw; and,

especially, since he has once gone through his agonies."[30]

[Footnote 30: See Note II.]

"That's what the sheriff may say; but Peti won't believe it. A gallows

is an ugly concern to joke with. But there are others--"

"Who?" asked Völgyeshy.

"Why, sir, any of the robbers that are now in gaol. An honest man does

not know his fellow, but a robber does. For instance, there is Gatzi,

sir, the Vagabond; give him leave of absence for two or three weeks. I

will put on a peasant's dress and go with him, and I'll promise you

I'll keep him safe. Now, I tell you, if he and I don't bring Viola to

this place! you may call me a liar, even when I tell you that we beat

the French at Aspern."

Völgyeshy, who was aware of the uninterrupted correspondence in which

the captive robbers in Hungary stand with their comrades out of doors,

volunteered at once to solicit the dismissal from custody of Gatzi the

Vagabond, and he proposed that the two men should start early the next

morning.

"We had better go this very night," said the hussar. "If any of the

robbers see me leave this place with the Vagabond, I'll warrant you

there's not a robber in the county but will know of it before

to-morrow's sunset. They'll mistake him for a spy, and if they do, we

may go whistling after Viola."

Völgyeshy was struck with the truth of this remark.

"And besides, sir!" continued Janosh, confusedly. "I beg you a thousand

pardons; and I'm sure I'll do any thing I can for Mr. Tengelyi--any

thing I'll do to get him out of this confounded place; but Viola is

after all a fellow-creature, and his wife is the best woman I ever set

my eyes on, and his children are so pretty,--they've called me Batshi,

and plucked my moustache! You see, sir, it wouldn't be decent in me to

twist a rope to hang their father with. Punish him as you please, sir;

but as for death--you see it's a very queer thing!"

Völgyeshy repeated his former statements and promises; and the old

soldier, who was well pleased with them, stroked his moustache, saying,

"Well, if that's the case, sir; and why shouldn't it be? especially

since the sheriff has said so, and after all he is the man to say who is

to be hanged; since that's the case, I'll be a rascal if I don't bring

Viola along with me. It's much better for him, poor fellow, to get his

punishment, and have done with it; and as for his wife and children,

I'll be bound Mr. Tengelyi will do what is right by them. Let Gatzi go

with me, and you'll see what we'll do. It's not the first time I've left

my quarters with a queerish order; still no one can say but that I've

always come back with credit to myself. The worst thing a man can do is

to despair!"

CHAP. VII.

The month of March is notoriously fatal to the inmates of the Hungarian

prisons. The typhus fever increases in that month to a fearful violence.

It is but natural that the year of Tengelyi's captivity should have

exhibited the average amount of disease and mortality in the Dustbury

county gaol. Nothing, indeed, appeared more natural to the Dustbury

people. They looked upon the sufferings of their fellow-creatures with

so much indifference that a stoic might have envied them; and as for the

prison coffin, which was put in requisition more than once a day, it was

to them a matter of light and fanciful conversation.

The medical inspector of the county of Takshony--and here our readers

must pardon us a short digression on the merits of the Hungarian

medicinal police, for the man who filled that important office, and whom

we shall take the liberty of most particularly introducing to the

public, had devoted his whole life to the elucidation and

exemplification of that great official problem, how far it is safe, and

even profitable, to neglect and disobey the orders of superior boards

and committees?

It is now some years since a terrible disease prevailed among the cattle

throughout the country. Pursuant to an order of the High Court, all

communication was interdicted between the counties; the county of

Takshony too was placed in a state of unenviable isolation, and a

rigorous prohibition was published against the importation of foreign

(that is to say, not Takshony) cattle.

And what was the consequence? One of the justices having bought some

cattle in a neighbouring county, insisted on taking them to his estate.

The sanitary commissioner and the border guards protested; and the

justice, who was accustomed to have his oxen and sheep in the fields of

his neighbours, was now precluded from taking them to his own fields.

But a state of things which involved so gross a violation of the laws of

property, could not possibly last. For the medical commissioner of the

county remarked with great fairness, that the order of the High Court

stated expressly that no _foreign_ cattle should be allowed to enter the

county, but that it was perfectly ridiculous to suppose that any oxen

belonging to a county magistrate could be _foreign_ cattle. Some few

months after this lucid decision, which, strange to say, did _not_

obtain the unqualified approval of the High Court, this meritorious

servant of the public proposed to an assembly of magistrates to prohibit

the transit of cattle for the term of one month, since it was proved by

the experience of years that the disease among the cattle had always

broken out in this particular month, just about the time of the Dustbury

cattle market. There was not at the time any disease among the cattle in

the neighbouring counties; but one thing is certain, viz., that the

landed proprietors of Takshony realised enormous sums by the sale of

their oxen. A variety of other measures might be adduced to prove that

the medical commissioner was fully deserving of the high degree of

popularity which he enjoyed. It now remains to be told how it happened

that this deserving patriot was elected to the important post of a

county commissioner of public health.

When his predecessor, the late commissioner, died,--the worthy man was

notorious for killing pheasants and larks with the same sized shot, and

drugging all his patients with the same modicum of pills,--the

lord-lieutenant and the Estates of Takshony had a tussle on the

appointment of a medical officer. The lord-lieutenant promised the place

to a distinguished young man of excellent conservative principles. He

was a Roman Catholic; he had a diploma; he had been tutor to a magnate,

and he had written several poems and charades. But the Estates of the

county of Takshony laughed at his Excellency's recommendation, and,

insisting on their right of election, they chose another man, and one of

whose abilities the county was utterly ignorant. But it was said of him

that he knew French, English, and the breeding of silkworms, that he was

an honorary member of sundry foreign agricultural societies, that he had

studied medicine and law at the university of Sharosh-Patak, and that he

was a Calvinist. But the election was annulled; the county was divided

into two hostile camps, and the contest lasted above a twelvemonth, when

the rival candidates were forced to withdraw from the field, and the

hostile factions united in favour of a third party; the reigning medical

commissioner of the county. He was a Lutheran, and as such he was

agreeable to his Excellency, who hated the Calvinists, and to the

Estates, who bore an equal hate to the Romanists. The successful

candidate was not of the conservative nor indeed of any other party; he

had never been a tutor; he was ignorant of foreign languages, and of the

breeding of silkworms; he was not a member of any learned society either

at home or abroad; and he was therefore agreeable to all parties, and

(as Kriver said) a born angel of peace for the county of Takshony.

Dr. Letemdy, the medical commissioner, was a great man. He treated every

one of his patients according to the very system which that individual

patient preferred to all others. This accommodating temper of his was,

like virtue, its own reward. If the patients had the worst of it, the

fault was their own; and besides, Dr. Letemdy had a number of champions

on his side. The homoeopathists said it served the patient right, for the

fool insisted on being treated allopathically; and when the patient

refused to be bled, the allopathists raved about the fatal theories of

the homoeopathists. Add to this that he advised the old bachelors to

marry and the young ladies to dance; that he sent the married ladies to

the watering-places, and that he indulged his male patients with

tobacco, gulyashus, tarhonya, and wine; and it is but natural that Dr.

Letemdy was held in great veneration, not only in his own county, but

also in the districts and "demesnes that there adjacent lay."

An epidemic disease is the touchstone of a physician. It is here he has

to prove not only his skill, but also his courage, his devotion, his

philanthropy. The typhus fever which raged in the Dustbury gaol gave

Dr. Letemdy a favourable opportunity to display his brilliant qualities;

and candour compels us to state that he did display them to a most

dazzling extent; for, considering that the great duty of a medical

commissioner consists in preventing the extension of an infectious

disease, and considering that he was in daily communication with the

first families of Dustbury: he made an heroic sacrifice of his feelings,

as a physician and a man of science, by never once crossing the

threshold of the infected place. The prisoners were thus left to their

fate and to Nature; the druggist's bill was remarkably moderate, and Dr.

Letemdy could not, in justice, be accused of having adopted a false

treatment in the case of any of the many deaths which were daily

reported to him, and which he, excellent man! entered, though with a

bleeding heart, on the register.

The majority of the Dustbury prisoners were not generally discontented

with their involuntary place of residence. Cheerful society, wine,

brandy, gambling, singing and laughing, indemnified them, especially in

winter, for the pleasures of liberty; and, indeed, there were some of

the noble and ignoble inmates of the place who strove hard in autumn,

and would not be satisfied till they were safely housed in what they

considered their winter quarters.

But in the month of March of the year 18-- the Dustbury gaol was a place

of howling and gnashing of teeth.

There was a sick ward in the prison. The Estates of the county, obedient

to superior orders, had one room and six beds prepared for the sick

among the prisoners. And although there were only five hundred people in

the gaol, it so happened that the sick ward was always full; nor was it

possible, during the prevalence of the epidemic, to separate the

infected from those who were in health; each remained on the spot where

the hand of disease struck him. The upper rooms had from thirty to

eighty prisoners, and from two to three corpses daily. Many of the

vaults were absolutely emptied by the death of their inhabitants.

The prisoners were moody and desponding. Even the boldest shrunk from

the sight of death in its ghastliest form; and the very haiduks who did

the service of the prison, spoke of the scenes which they witnessed with

pity and even with tears. The cells which once resounded with riotous

laughter and wild songs, were now silent as the grave; but when night

came on, the slow measure and the lugubrious sound of hymns was heard

to rise from the loopholes which led to the streets. The sound was like

the groaning of a vast multitude. And at night, too, the sentinel on his

lonely post listened to the prayers of the prisoners, to the confused

and earnest murmur which rose on the air and was hushed in silence. The

prisoners conversed but little, and always in whispers. When the haiduks

entered the gaol in the morning, to take them to their usual exercise in

the yard, they found the wretches clinging to the iron railings of their

cells, each crying out and entreating them to open his cell first, that

he might not lose any of the precious moments of air and sunshine. Some

who were struggling with the disease, and who could not stand or walk,

crept up the steps and lay on the pavement of the yard, happy to breathe

the fresh air of the morning and to see the bright sun before they died.

Among the prisoners in the cell next to the steps were two brothers.

They were herdsmen, and the sons of honest parents. An hour of youthful

frolic had brought them into the hands of the justice, and from thence

to gaol. The younger of the two, a mere child, was the first to fall

ill, and his brother tended him as a mother would her infant. It was he

who had persuaded his younger brother to do the deed for which they were

imprisoned; and was he to see that brother die? He implored the haiduks

to send for a doctor, or to procure his brother's release. He said he

would willingly suffer the punishment for both. "Let them keep me here

two years instead of one! let them keep me here for ever, but let that

poor boy go! He is innocent! I told him to do it!" cried he, wringing

his hands, and entreating the corporal of the haiduks. Even the eyes of

that hardened man filled with tears as he replied, that the entreaties

of the prisoner were of no avail, the county having resolved to confine

all the inmates of the prison to its precincts to prevent the disease

from spreading. As the days wore on, and when there was no hope of the

lad's recovery, the unfortunate young man spoke to no one. At the hour

of recreation he seized his brother's wasted form, took him to the yard,

sat down by his side, and taking the poor boy's head in his arms,

remained quietly sitting there during the short half-hour which they

were allowed to stay out. One day a haiduk said to him: "Why do you drag

him about with you? Don't you see he is dead?" The prisoner shuddered.

He looked at the body which lay by his side. He kissed it--but there was

no breath! He put his hand to its heart: it had ceased to beat! He

stared into its eyes, they were fixed and glazed! its limbs were stiff

and cold. "He is dead!" cried the prisoner, with a broken voice, as he

reeled and fell. They took him back to the cell, but he never regained

his consciousness. He, too, fell a victim to the epidemic.

In a cell adjoining his there was a man who moved even his

fellow-prisoners to compassion. He had passed ten years in gaol: his

hair was turning grey; his body had lost its former strength; but the

term of his punishment was all but over. Only a few weeks were wanting

to the day to which he looked for his return to the world, broken in

health, but rid of his chains. Nobody expected him. Nobody was to

receive him and greet him; but he was to be free! That one thought made

up for all he had suffered. When the fever broke out in the gaol, he

grew anxious and restless: he asked his fellow-prisoners how they did?

he asked the haiduks whether there were any deaths? For the first time

in his life, he was afraid of death; for the first time in his life, he

had an earnest hope. Two days before his liberation he was taken ill.

His despair was fearful to behold. He told the bystanders that he

expected to be a free man in forty-eight hours: he talked of his native

village and of his plans for the future, and that he intended to live an

honest life, if, indeed, his life were spared. He prayed and wept. He

cursed the hour of his birth; he hurled his maledictions against God,

who had kept him alive all these long years to deprive him of the fruits

of his hopes and his patience. He doted on life; after ten years'

absence, the world seemed a paradise to him; there was a deep yearning

in his soul for the fresh green meadow, the glassy expanse of the river,

and the wide and boundless view over the Puszta. He had dreamed of these

things during the long weary nights of his captivity; and now, when

there was but the space of one single step between him and this

longed-for bliss, now, now he was to die! Now, even before he was free!

even before the chains were off his hands! There was the glow of fever

in his brain, turning, whirling, and distorting the things of this earth

before his burning eyes: but that one thought was uppermost even in the

wild ravings of fever; and his wailing voice was heard to lament the

fate which robbed him of liberty.

At length death set him free! And many were there in that prison who

gasped for freedom, and found it in the grave.

And, after all, if they had been but guilty! If there had not been men,

aye, and women, too, who died in that prison by no fault of theirs! For

the law of Hungary, that nobody can be punished until he has been

sentenced by a competent judge, is a privilege of the nobility; and thus

it would be difficult to point out any prison in which there are not a

great many people, in consequence of an information against them,--and

that but too often unfounded,--who for years suffer as much and more

than the greatest criminals. This was the case in the Dustbury prison.

Among a variety of people who were arrested at the suit of some unknown

informer, there was one man who was perfectly innocent, and who, after

an incarceration of five months, had not yet been able to find out how,

why, and wherefore he was in gaol. The poor man, whom his

fellow-prisoners despised for his very honesty, sat apart from the rest

in a corner of his cell. His young wife had done and sacrificed her all

to obtain her husband's liberation. Three times daily did she come to

the windows of the prison and looked in, and he, shaking off his

despondency, came up to the window and told her that he was well, asking

for his father and mother and his children; and when he felt that his

voice trembled with inward weeping, he entreated her to go away,

because he would not have her know how much he suffered. Völgyeshy's

mediation availed the poor woman at length to prove her husband's

innocence. Early in the morning, when the prison was opened, she went

down to the cell; but her husband lay senseless on the straw. He was

discharged, and a few days afterwards death set his seal to the warrant

of his deliverance.

There were but two men who strove to soften the sufferings of these poor

creatures. One of them was Vandory; the other was the Catholic priest of

Dustbury. Religious questions ran at that time very high in the county,

and the adherents of the two sects were engaged in a violent controversy

about the most legitimate method of solemnising marriages between

Protestants and Catholics. Vandory and the Catholic priest thought

proper (in spite of the general displeasure which their proceedings

excited) rather to _act_ than to _talk_ religion. The church militant

was sufficiently represented in the county of Takshony; perhaps it was

not amiss that there were at least two men who opined that the Church

had some other duties besides fighting its own battles; and that amidst

the violence of the contending parties there were two men who devoted

themselves to peace-making, to instructing and comforting the

quarrelsome, ignorant, and distressed. Whenever Vandory could manage to

leave Tissaret for Dustbury, he passed the greatest part of his time in

the prison. The priest followed his example; and the words of bliss and

comfort of the two curates gave new hope to many a wretched heart. Some

indeed there were who scorned the messengers of peace, but even they

came at length round, and listened to them; for what man, especially in

a season of distress, can do without the comforts of religion?

The effect of Vandory's words upon the prisoners was truly miraculous.

When he entered the gaol, when they heard his voice, and even his step,

their faces were radiant with joy. The inmates of the wards which he

entered assembled round him in respectful silence, and the kind and

loving manner with which he addressed them softened the hearts even of

the most hardened. But most powerful was his influence on the Jewish

glazier, on the man who was suspected of being an accessory to the

assassination of Mr. Catspaw. The circumstance of his having been found

in the attorney's chimney made his evidence of the greatest importance

in the Tengelyi process; and Völgyeshy, the notary's counsel, insisted

on the Jew being confined in a separate cell. The sheriff seconded this

demand. A room, which was originally destined for the keeping of

firewood, was prepared for the reception of the prisoner, who was at

once consigned to it, to the unbounded delight of Mr. James Bantornyi,

who considered this mode of disposing of the Jew as a glorious victory

of the principles of solitary confinement. Lady Rety, indeed, objected

to what she called an unnecessary harshness, in the case of a man of

whose innocence she protested she was convinced. So strong was her

feeling on this head, that she even condescended to visit the prisoner

once or twice; and though she with genuine humility insisted on the

turnkey keeping the secret of these visits, that generous man was

equally eager to proclaim to the world this fresh instance of the

condescension and charity of the excellent Lady Rety. Indeed, that

charity was the more meritorious, inasmuch as no one else pitied the

Jew. Nobody spoke to him. The very haiduk who brought him his scanty

allowance of bread and greens treated him with contempt, and the

prisoner was abandoned to all the torments of solitude. He had no hopes

of the future, no gladdening reminiscences of the past.

Gladdening reminiscences! He was a Jew; that one word tells his whole

history. Born to be a sharer of the distress of his family, brought up

to suffer from the injustice of the masses, cast loose upon the world,

to be not free but abandoned; struggling for his daily bread, not by

honest labour, for that is forbidden to a Jew, but by trickery and

cunning; crawling on the earth like a worm which anybody may tread upon

and crush; hated, hunted, persecuted, scouted: such was his past. Such

are the sufferings common to the Jews in Hungary; but Jantshi had a

heavier burden to bear than the generality of Jews. His disgusting

ugliness made him suspected even before he was guilty; and now that his

features were still more distorted by fear, he was the very picture of

misery and wretchedness. But nobody pitied him; and it seemed that he

himself doubted whether any one could pity him. Vandory found him moody

and uncommunicative; the curate saw that the Jew considered him as a

spy. He strove hard to gain the prisoner's confidence; but in vain!

Jantshi received him with the deepest humility. He replied to every

question, and he seemed to have no objection to become a convert; but

everything he said showed that he considered the curate's visits as a

kind of examination.

This state of things changed suddenly when the prisoner was taken ill.

He, too, was seized with the epidemic. His case was hopeless. He lay

alone in his room; there was no one by to cool his parched lips with a

draught of water. It seemed as if the people out of doors reckoned him

as one of the dead; for even Lady Rety was quite comfortable in her mind

when she understood that there was no hope of the patient's recovery,

and that his delirious ravings were incoherent. Vandory alone showed his

kindness of heart, by doing all he could for the poor man. When in

Dustbury he called upon him twice a-day, and hired a woman to sit up

with him. Awaking from his delirious dreams, the Jew saw Vandory sitting

at his bedside; when he started up at night, moaning for water to slake

his burning thirst, the nurse came and gave him to drink; and when he

asked who it was that sent her, she told him it was Vandory. The curate

was to him a providence, a guardian angel; in his wildest dreams he

called for him, imploring his help; and as the days passed by, as he

grew weaker and weaker, when the tide of the fever turned back, leaving

his mind clear and unoppressed for the last time, he called out for

Vandory; "For," said he to the nurse, "I cannot die unless I speak to

the curate, and thank him for all he has done for me. Besides, there is

a secret,--something which Mr. Vandory cares to know, and which I ought

to tell him. I entreat you, my dear good woman, go and see whether he

has come from Tissaret!"

The old woman left the cell, and shortly afterwards the curate entered

it. On seeing him Jantshi broke out into a paroxysm of tears.

"Be comforted, my friend!" said Vandory, with deep emotion. "God is

merciful, and His mercy will not forsake you!"

The prisoner seized Vandory's hand. His tears drowned his voice: he was

silent.

"You are much better now," said the curate, sitting down by the bed.

"You will recover, I am sure; and I trust you will be a useful member of

society."

"Oh, dear, reverend sir!" said the Jew, with a firm voice; "it's all

over with me! I feel that I must die; but it is not for that I weep. I

have not had so much joy in the world that I should regret to leave it.

I never knew my father and mother; and a poor Jew's life is very little

worth. When I'm once underground, they will perhaps cease from troubling

me. But, reverend sir, when I think of all you have done for me--for

_me_, whom people treat like a dog; and when I think that you, who did

this, are a Christian, and that it is you, sir, whom I----" Here the

prisoner's voice was lost in tears. He covered his face with his hands,

and sobbed.

It struck Vandory that this was the time to impress upon Jantshi the

necessity of his conversion to a purer faith. He therefore told him that

God was indeed merciful, and willing to receive the homage, of the

humblest heart; and that Christ----

But the Jew shook his head. "No, reverend sir," said he, with a sigh;

"do not ask me to do it. I will never abandon the faith of my fathers.

How utterly lost a wretch I must be if, after having clung to that faith

all my life (it was my only virtue, sir), I were now to abjure it. There

is nothing in the world I would not do for you, sir; but do not ask me

to do this!"

"My son," said Vandory, "do not think I wish for your conversion for

_my_ sake. It would be a grievous sin if I were to ask you to consult

any thing but your own conviction in this, the most important step in

life. But I urge the matter for your own sake--for the sake of your

soul's welfare. The religion of Christ is the religion of love----"

"The religion of love!" cried the Jew, with something like a sneer.

"Sir, go and ask the Jews, my brothers, what they know of that love? If

all Christians were like yourself, sir," added he, in a softer tone, "I

might possibly have left my faith, and accepted theirs. I, for my part,

have found but few good men among the Jews. As it is, I wish to die in

my father's faith. But there is a secret on my soul which I must

communicate to you before--I am fast going, I fear!"

Vandory moved his chair close to the bed, and the Jew detailed to him

the circumstances of the robbery of the documents, and the share which

the Lady Rety and the attorney had in the perpetration of that crime.

"But who killed the attorney?" asked Vandory. "You ought to know. The

place where you were found allowed you to hear all that happened in the

room."

"I heard it all. It was Viola who did the deed. He spoke to the

attorney, and I know his voice."

"Wretched man! Why did you not state this in your examination?" sighed

Vandory. "You know that another man, an innocent man, is accused of the

crime, and you know that your confession alone can save his honour and

his life!"

"You ask me why I did not state it?" replied Jantshi, staring at the

curate. "The lady, who is as great a lawyer as any in the county, told

me that the suspicion would lie with me if I were to speak in

Tengelyi's favour."

"But what business had you in the place where they found you?"

The Jew shook his head.

"I implore you," said Vandory. "I entreat you----"

"Why shouldn't I say it!" cried Jantshi. "I've sworn to keep the secret;

but this woman has abandoned me in my distress, why then should I spare

her? Listen! I will tell you. The day before the murder, the Lady Rety

and the attorney had a quarrel. He refused to give her the papers which

he had taken from Viola. The lady sent for me, and promised me two

thousand florins, if I would----"

The curate clasped his hands in astonishment and horror.

"If Viola had not anticipated me," whispered the Jew, "I would have

killed the attorney!"

He fell back upon his pillow. Vandory sat silent and lost in thought.

Jantshi's tale had filled him with horror, but with hope too, for it

held out a chance for Tengelyi. Rising from his seat, he said,

"My friend, thank God that He has given you strength and time to repent

and atone for your sins. What you have told me suffices to clear the

notary from suspicion; but to make your testimony effectual, you must

repeat it in the presence of two witnesses."

"Am I to repeat what I shudder to think of?" said the Jew, mournfully.

"It is your duty. How can you expect God to show you mercy, if you

refuse to atone for your sin?"

"I will do it!" said Jantshi, after a pause. "The notary is your friend.

I will do it for your sake!"

"If you are too weak," said Vandory, deeply moved by these words and the

way in which they were uttered; "if you are weak now, you had better

take rest. In a few hours----"

"No! sir, no! Now or never! In a few hours I shall have ceased to speak.

Come back at once, reverend sir! Tell anybody to come. I'll tell them

all, for I am a dying man. I care not for the sheriff's displeasure. He

cannot harm me now!"

"You need not say any thing to excite Lady Rety's displeasure," said

Vandory. "Your transactions were chiefly with the attorney, you need not

tell them any thing about your intentions----"

"But I _will_ tell them!" cried the Jew, with a savage exultation. "I

will have my revenge. That woman was my evil genius! She led me on to

crime, and abandoned me in my distress!"

"And is this the moment to think of revenge?" said the curate.

The Jew was silent. At length he replied, "Let it be done as you wish

it. I will do anything to please you. But," added he, "go at once. My

time is very short, sir."

Vandory called the nurse, and hastened away.

CHAP. VIII.