When he left the cell of Jantshi the glazier, the curate hastened to

find some trustworthy persons whom he might take to hear and testify to

the Jew's confession. The great county sessions were being held in the

county house, and the curate was aware that some of the justices and

assessors were sure to be assembled in the large hall of the building.

When he entered it he found a numerous meeting, under the presidency of

no less a person than Mr. James Bantornyi.

The gentlemen there and then assembled were members of an association

for the prevention of cruelty to animals. Mr. Bantornyi was the founder

and chairman of this charitable institution. Mr. James was a fit and

proper person to take the chair, for no man could vie with him in racing

and hunting, which pursuits, as every body knows, are prone to create a

loving tenderness for the animal creation in the human mind. When Mr.

James returned from England, his ambition had taken a higher flight. He

was emulous of the laurels which Wilberforce and the Quakers earned in

advocating the interests of the black, and injuring that of the white

population of the British colonies. There are no black people in

Hungary; but there are gipsies who are brown, and Bantornyi's

"Association for the Improvement of the coloured Population of Hungary"

would have enchanted all the Wilberforces and Gurneys of Great Britain.

The landed interest of Takshony was greatly in favour of the plan. The

gentry were indeed but slightly acquainted with Mr. Wilberforce's

emancipation theories; but when Mr. James Bantornyi made his grand

speech, and explained that _gradual_ emancipation was carried out by

apprenticing the slave, and by making him work four days in the week,

the Takshony people became quite enthusiastic for this kind of

philanthropy, which they preferred to their own _Urbarium_,[31] the

compilers of which had been most disgracefully neglectful of the vagrant

population. But, strange to say, the gipsies demurred against the

proposed improvement of their condition. They fled from the hands of the

philanthropists who sought to apprentice them; and Mr. James Bantornyi

saw clearly that Hungary was not ripe for his more subtle projects, and

that his activity must be displayed in another field.

[Footnote 31: See Note III.]

He therefore founded his famous Association for the Prevention of

Cruelty to Animals. There was much opposition, but his perseverance

triumphed over it. It was argued that the ninth chapter of the first

volume of the _Tripartitum_[32] would go for nothing if the privileges

of the Hungarian nobility were extended to dumb animals; and that a

landed proprietor and a member of the Holy Crown would lose his high

position if he were forbidden to whip his horse to his heart's content.

The objection was grave, but Mr. James was fertile in expedients. He

stated that the association would confine itself to the prevention of

cruelty to animals in the case of the _villain_ population of the

county. Again, it was objected that peasants were, in the service of

their landlords, sometimes compelled to beat their horses; and Mr. James

decided that it was by no means cruelty to animals if a nobleman beat a

horse or other cattle, or caused it to be beaten, nor was it cruelty in

a peasant to beat his horse on robot-days, or in winter. So liberal an

extension of protection against the restrictions of the association

silenced even its greatest opponents; and the Association for the

Prevention of Cruelty to Animals held its sittings, and flourished to

the satisfaction of its members, and especially of its paid secretary

and treasurer.

[Footnote 32: See Note IV.]

When Vandory entered the hall, the assembly were in the act of

considering and debating on the case of an ass which had suffered from

the violent temper of its owner. Party feeling ran high; for a strong

body of conservative members argued that, whereas the association was

intended to prevent cruelty to, that is to say, the beating of, animals,

that is to say, of horses: the benefits of its protection could not,

with any degree of propriety, be extended to asses, sheep, and other

creatures of an inferior description. The radical members, on the other

hand, were equally zealous, and far more pathetic, in the cause of

donkey-emancipation; and, excited as they were with the debate and the

various points of thrilling interest which the subject offered, they

remarked with astonishment, not unmixed with disgust, that the curate,

unmindful of the merits of the question, approached Völgyeshy and Louis

Bantornyi, whispered to them, and left the hall in their company.

Everybody was puzzled, and some were eager to know the secret of this

sudden intrusion and mysterious disappearance. Mr. James Bantornyi was

highly incensed against Vandory; for the members declined giving their

attention to the question, and it was found necessary to adjourn the

meeting. But besides Mr. James Bantornyi, there was another person in

the council-house whom Vandory's conduct affected equally powerfully and

still more disagreeably.

Lady Rety sat at the window of her bedroom, of which the view commanded

the yard, when she saw Vandory leaving the glazier's cell, and walking

straightway to the great staircase of the council-house. She was struck

with his manner, though it excited no apprehensions in her mind. But,

after a short time she saw him returning, accompanied by Völgyeshy and

Louis Bantornyi. They entered the prison, and, immediately afterwards,

the nurse whom Vandory had hired to attend the Jew, left the cell. They

had evidently sent her away.

"What can this mean?" thought Lady Rety. "The Jew is delirious: he

cannot recover. What can they want in his cell? This is indeed strange!

Völgyeshy is Tengelyi's advocate; and Vandory--If that Jew were not such

a rascal--I must look deeper into this business. I'm frightened, and I

ought to be calm. The woman who waits upon the Jew is in the yard. I'll

send for her; for she ought to know all about it."

Lady Rety sent her maid for the old woman, who soon after entered the

room, with many curtsies. She was utterly bewildered to have been sent

for by, and to be compelled to talk to, the lady sheriff.

That lady strove hard to conceal her emotion. She told the poor woman

that Jantshi was an old and faithful servant of her house, and (to the

best of her opinion) innocent of the crime laid to his charge. She

added, that she took the greatest interest in the unfortunate man; and,

having praised the nurse for her care and watchfulness, she asked her

how her patient did, and why Mr. Vandory and the two other gentleman had

gone to his cell?

The replies of the woman were not calculated to quiet Lady Rety's

apprehensions. She learnt that the Jew had regained his consciousness;

that he sent for Vandory; and that he said something about a secret. She

was likewise informed of the fact, that the curate had had a long

interview with him; and she trembled to think that Völgyeshy and Louis

Bantornyi had been called in to be witnesses to his confession.

"Did you hear what the Jew said to Mr. Vandory?" asked she, with a

trembling voice.

"His reverence sent me away," said the old woman; "although I cannot,

for the life of me, understand why he should do so; for I've never been

a gossip all the days of my life; and he might have trusted me with a

Jew's secret any day. But, since his reverence sent me away, I know

nothing about it; only, I believe the infidel made confession of his

crimes."

"Why do you think so?" said Lady Rety, with a start which attracted the

old woman's attention.

"I'm sure I did not listen; and, even if I had wished to do it, I could

not have done it, because I'm rather deaf; but I think they talked of

bad things; for I've never, in all my born days, seen his reverence so

violent as he was when he left the cell. God knows; but I think the Jew

has told him of great crimes. When I came back to the cell, the

unbeliever was quiet for some minutes; but I had scarcely sat down, when

he became restless, and asked me whether they would come. 'If they wish

me to confess,' says he, 'they ought to make haste! Why don't they

come?' I told him his reverence had just gone away, and he ought to be

patient; but he tossed about, and groaned. It was a sad thing to see him

plagued by his conscience; and he would not be quiet till his reverence

came back with two other gentlemen. He asked them whether they'd allow

him to confess; and when they said 'Yes,' he seemed quite

comfortable.--But, my lady," cried the old nurse; "your ladyship is so

pale! Is your ladyship sick?"

"No!" said Lady Rety, with a violent effort to appear unconcerned. "Go

to your patient, my good woman. The gentlemen will probably leave him

soon."

"Very well, your ladyship. I'm sure the poor man won't live till

to-morrow morning; and perhaps he'll want me in the night. All I care

for is, that the truth should come to light; for that is the great

thing, after all: is it not, your ladyship?"

"Go! go!" gasped Lady Rety. "I dare say the truth _will_ come to light!"

The old woman kissed her hand, and left the room.

Lady Rety locked her door; and, overwhelmed with despair, she flung

herself on the sofa.

The Jew had made a confession. From Völgyeshy and Vandory she could not

expect forbearance. She could not hope that Tengelyi's friends would

make a secret of what Jantshi had told them; since his disclosures were

evidently in Tengelyi's favour. She knew that she was hated by all, and

that against such accusations she could not rely on the assistance of

her husband.

"What shall I do?" cried she, with a shudder. "Is there no means of

salvation?--There is none! Tengelyi's case is too far advanced to be

suppressed; and even if it were not, to whom could I confide my dreadful

position? Whose advice can I ask? On whose assistance can I rely? My

husband?--am I to truckle to him? Am I to implore his assistance? He

never loved me! He hates me now! He will leave me in my danger! He will

turn against me to prove his own innocence! No! I will do any thing but

bend to him!"

A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She fixed her eyes on the desk

which stood on the dressing-table. She shuddered.

"No! No!" cried she; "it has not come to this pass yet. I cannot do it!"

She went to the window; but before she had opened it, her eyes were, as

if by magic force, again attracted by the desk.

"It makes me mad!" said she. "God help me! That thought haunts me! I

cannot shake it off!"

"But why?" continued she; after a pause--"why should I shudder at the

thought. To die----? After all, death robs us of that only which we

have. And is there anything I have to lose? I have no children. I detest

my husband. My plans are frustrated. Infamy and punishment await me--I

have no choice!"

She opened a secret drawer in the desk, and produced a small bottle

containing a whitish substance. Her hand trembled as she put it on the

table.

"Here's arsenic enough to poison half the county. This is my last, my

only alternative.--But they say it is a painful death. They have told me

of people who died after excruciating torments of many hours, foaming

and cursing with the intensity of the pain. What if this were to be my

case? Horrid! to suffer the agony of hours! to feel the poison eating

into me; to feel my every nerve struggling against destruction! to howl

and to suffer, and to have no one to tend me! to have no one by to wipe

the sweat of agony from my face! Or worse, to be surrounded by those

whose every look tells me that they are waiting for the end, not of my

sufferings, but of my life!"

With a convulsive motion she pushed the poison away.

"But no!" cried she, with a sudden resolution. "I will not live to see

their triumph! I'll take the whole of it! it will shorten my sufferings.

It will kill me in a minute--Oh, but to die! to die! and there's twenty

years' life in me!--Suppose the old woman told me a lie? Suppose what

she said was not true; or that the Jew did not tell Vandory what I fear

he did? Why should he betray me? What good can it do him? I must know

more about this matter before I proceed to extremities," said she, as

she took her cloak, and restored the poison to its place in the desk.

Night had set in. Nobody observed the guilty woman as she crossed the

court-yard and knocked at the cell in which the Jew was confined. The

old nurse opened it. She looked aghast when she saw the sheriff's wife

in that place and at that time.

"How does your patient go on?" asked Lady Rety.

"He's quiet now!" said the old woman. "When the gentlemen left him, he

said he was happy now that the murder was out. He's been asleep since.

Poor fellow! if he could but know that your ladyship's ladyship has

condescended to ask how he is going on!"

"Leave the room!" said Lady Rety, with a trembling voice. "I want to

speak to this man before he dies."

The old woman tarried; nor was it until the lady had repeated her

command, that she left the room, muttering and discontented. When she

was gone. Lady Rety approached the bed and spoke to the Jew.

He made no reply. His breath came thick and irregular. His limbs moved

convulsively. The shadows of death were thickening over him.

Again and again she spoke to him. At length he raised his weary head,

and stared vacantly at the Lady Rety.

"You do not know me," said she. "Look up, man! Tell me, do you know who

I am?"

"Leave me alone," gasped Jantshi. "I've told you all I know. I've

nothing more to say. Let me rest."

"Look up, and see to whom you are speaking. It is I, the Lady Rety!"

"The Lady Rety?" said the Jew, while a ray of returning consciousness

darted over his features.

"Who else would come to you? Who else cares for what becomes of you?"

"Begone!" screamed the dying man. "Begone! What can you want of me? I'm

not strong enough to steal or murder!"

"You are mad!" cried she. "How _can_ you talk in this manner? Suppose

some one were to hear you?"

"I do not care," replied he. "I have no fear of anybody."

"Do not let them impose upon you," said she. "I know they tell you there

is no hope for you. They've told you so to make you confess; but I have

it from the doctor that you are in no danger whatever. You're weak,

that's all. Keep your own counsel, I entreat you! They tell me Mr.

Vandory called upon you; did he?"

The Jew groaned and laughed at the same time. He stretched his trembling

arms and seized Lady Rety's hands.

"Ah!" said be, "that's what you come for? You want to know what I have

said of the crimes which we have committed. Set your mind at rest. I've

told them all--all--all! Do you understand me? I've told them every

circumstance, from the first day that the attorney hired me to steal the

papers, to the night you promised me your cursed money if I would kill

the attorney. You said----"

"Silence, miscreant!" cried Lady Rety, striving to disengage her hands

from the grasp of the Jew.

"Miscreant! Ay, indeed, miscreant!" retorted the Jew; "but how will they

call _you_ who bribed me to these enormities?"

"Rascal of a Jew! who will believe you?"

"They are sure to believe me. Viola has said what I say, and nobody can

doubt it!"

"You must revoke all you have said. I'll bring other witnesses to whom

you must say that they bribed you to give false testimony."

"I will not revoke a word of what I have said--not a single word----"

"How dare you, Jew----"

"Don't threaten me! Your promises and threats cannot affect me now. This

very night will remove me from your jurisdiction. But you," added he,

with a convulsive effort--"You who seduced me and abandoned me to my

despair--you, Lady Rety, will find your judge. I've dreamed of it. I see

it now! I see you standing by the side of the executioner. He has a

large glittering sword. Tzifra, too, is there, and Catspaw, and a crowd

of people. They tie you down upon the chair----"

His voice sunk down to an indistinct murmur, and his hand, which still

clasped Lady Rety's fingers, held them with a cold and clammy grasp. She

tore it away, and, rushing past the nurse, she hastened to her

apartments.

She rang for her maid.

"Give me a glass of water!" said she.

Julia, the maid, was astonished and shocked to see her mistress look so

pale.

"Are you ill, my lady?" asked she. "Shall I go for Dr. Letemdy?"

"No! Hold your tongue! Mind your own business!" said Lady Rety. "Give me

a glass of water, and be off!"

Julia obeyed. Lady Rety locked the door after her.

It is easier to defeat the sympathy of mankind than to baffle their

curiosity. Lady's maids in particular are always most eager to mind

other people's business when they are told to go about their own. Julia

had left the room, but she returned to the door and listened.

What she heard served still more to excite her curiosity. Lady Rety

walked up and down. She sat down, arranged her papers and wrote. Again

she got up, and tore some papers. Again she paced the room. She opened a

drawer. Again she sat down, and Julia overheard a deep, deep sigh. Then

again there was a sound as of something being stirred in a glass.

"She is ill!" thought Julia. "She's taking her medicine! I ought to call

the doctor!"

She listened again, and heard the rattling of the glass as it was

violently put down upon the table. This, it struck her, was a sign that

her mistress was fearfully ill-tempered. She thought it more prudent not

to go for the doctor. After a short time she heard deep groans. She

knocked at the door, but she received no answer. This circumstance, and

the moaning inside, which became more violent every moment, caused her

to forget Lady Rety's ill-temper, and to hasten to the sheriff, whom she

found closeted with Vandory.

Julia told them all she had heard when listening at her mistress's door.

"She has done the worst!" cried Vandory. "Let us make haste. Perhaps

there is time to save her!"

They hurried to the room. They tried the lock. It resisted. A low

moaning was heard from within.

"Break it open!" cried Vandory.

As the two men rushed against the door, it gave way. They entered.

It was too late.

The glass,--the poison,--the livid and distorted face of the wretched

woman, showed them that there was no hope.

She looked at her husband, and made a violent effort to speak; but when

he knelt down, and seized her hand, he felt it stiff and cold.

She heaved a long deep sigh.

"May God have mercy upon her soul!" said Vandory. "She is dead!"

CHAP. IX.

Even the humblest among us excites the interest of at least some of his

fellow men, at the very time when he is removed beyond its sphere. The

church bells toll for the poorest man, and, however lonely he may have

been throughout life, people will assemble round his coffin. Whatever

may have been the obstacles that blocked up a man's path when alive,

there are no impediments to the progress of his funeral procession; and

the very beggar, who never had a crust or a rag which he could really

call his own, comes into possession of a small freehold, which is given

to him to hold, and to enjoy, till the day of judgment. A dead body is

an object of interest and of awe. And why? Is it because respect is due

to him who acts sensibly, and because the majority of mankind cannot do

a more sensible thing than to die? Or is it because the dead have passed

through that arduous ordeal in which all of us are equally interested?

Death is indeed a capital teacher. Any one who has his doubts about the

value of earthly things, and who would wish to know whether the objects

he strives for are worth his trouble, can easily set his mind at rest by

watching the death of any of his fellow-citizens. A funeral procession,

a coat of arms, or a name on the coffin, and on the grave or mausoleum a

marble column or a wooden cross; an after-dinner conversation, a score

of mourning letters, a paragraph in the provincial papers, or at best a

column in "The Times" or "La Presse," that is the _gloria mundi_! A

crape hatband, and a suit of mourning; quarrels about the expense of the

funeral, or the "cash he left behind him," is all that reminds us of the

love and devotion of family life. And as for friendship--we all know its

value and its duration!

We do not mean to plead in defence of the cynical views which we have

just expressed. Bitter thoughts _will_ press to the surface of our heart

when we ponder on the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life, and the

utter oblivion to which we fall a prey after our surviving friends have

paid us what they significantly call "the last honours." But still, as

there is an exception to every rule, we must admit that the people of

Dustbury were neither unmindful of Lady Rety's death, nor forgetful of

it; at least not in the first fortnight after the event. The most noble

the Lady Rety was a person of great importance. Her decease would have

attracted attention under any circumstances. That a lady of rank and

property, the head of an excellent table, and the owner of a splendid

wardrobe, should depart this life, is shocking, even if she takes that

step with all due formality, and with the assistance and advice of

half-a-dozen physicians. But Lady Rety's case was far worse. Dr. Letemdy

had indeed been called in, but at a time when his help and co-operation

was quite out of the question; and his professional learning was of no

avail, except in enabling him to protest that the most noble lady might

have been saved, if greater despatch had been employed in soliciting his

presence. Mr. Sherer, who was likewise on the spot, asserted his

conviction that the draught of which Lady Rety died must have been any

thing but sugar water, and that almond milk might have saved her life,

if she had not died before he could offer that miraculous medicine. But

the fact remained unaltered. Lady Rety had taken poison. The medical men

in the county of Takshony had a just title to complain of this

encroachment upon their legal sphere of action, and the people of

Dustbury were equally justified in their laudable and charitable

endeavours to discover the secret causes of this shocking occurrence.

Rety's family and friends would have it that the accident was occasioned

by a mistake. Lady Rety, they said, was in the habit of taking magnesia,

which she kept in a drawer where she had some time previously placed a

bottle of arsenic for the purpose of killing rats. In the twilight of

evening she had taken the poison instead of the drug; and this--the

Retys protested--was the cause of the terrible catastrophe. But

explanations of this kind are by no means palatable to the understanding

of the crowd. The Dustbury gentry would not, and could not, credit any

thing like a simple story. They all and each launched into the boundless

realms of surmise and speculation, and in their praiseworthy endeavours

to make out a substantial and shocking account of Lady Rety's death,

they were eagerly assisted by Julia, who had been all but an eye-witness

of the decease of her mistress. Julia gave so interesting an account of

the sadness and despondency to which her lady had of late been a victim,

and of her extraordinary behaviour on the last day of her life, that all

her hearers relinquished any doubts which they might have entertained,

for the firm and (under the circumstances) comfortable conviction of

Lady Rety's suicide. But as for the cause of that step, it remained a

secret and a mystery to the gossips of the town of Dustbury.

The sheriff made no allusion to the cause of his wife's death. The most

watchful sympathy or curiosity could not trace home to him any word or

action that could have strengthened or confirmed any of the various

surmises and rumours which were afloat on the subject. The cause of Lady

Rety's suicide remained an open question. Perhaps it was attributable to

temporary insanity; perhaps she had been urged to that desperate step by

the conviction of her inability to prevent her son's union with Vilma

Tengelyi, and she preferred death to certain shame; or perhaps the

sheriff had driven his wife to despair (the ladies of Dustbury were very

eloquent on this last hypothesis) by a concentration of matrimonial

brutalities; for what woman is a stranger to martyrdom? Certain it is

that none of Mr. Rety's words or looks could be adduced as an authority

for all or any of the above surmises. Still, those who knew him became

aware of the deep impression which the death of his wife had made on his

mind.

His sorrow was not indeed caused by a return to the old love of days

long gone by. The flowers of love have indeed been known to luxuriate in

the soil of a churchyard, especially in the case of couples whose

matrimonial doings did not present that edifying spectacle of love,

honour, and obedience, which is inculcated by, and which is so rarely to

be met with out of, the catechism. Mr. Rety had had too deep an insight

into his wife's character to lament his loss. His grief was the growth,

not of affection, but of remorse. He accused himself for being the cause

of the misfortunes he saw around him. A letter was found on her table,

which the miserable woman had addressed to him; and in which she

reproached him as the cause of her unfortunate life and wretched end.

And was not this accusation well-founded? Could Rety look back upon the

past without feeling that the events to which his wife fell a victim,

were brought about by his own culpable weakness. If he had candidly told

her of his relationship to Vandory, she would perhaps have refused to

marry him; or if she had, she would have been resigned to the idea that

the curate was her husband's brother, but she never would have thought

of committing the crime to which her evil spirit had urged her. Rety's

weakness and indulgence had made her the woman she was; his dislike and

aversion drove her to that desperate step which she would never have

taken, if she could have hoped for the sympathy and protection of her

husband. Thoughts like these filled Rety's mind with bitter grief, which

not even Vandory's gentle words could assuage.

The Jew's confession, which was the cause of Lady Rety's death, remained

without any of those favourable results which it was expected to have.

It had no influence on Tengelyi's fate. Even before the Jew made his

confession, there were few who doubted of Mr. Catspaw's having been

implicated in the robbery of the documents; but this very fact, when

once established, strengthened the suspicions which were entertained

against Tengelyi. If the documents were in Mr. Catspaw's possession (and

Jantshi's evidence proved that they were), that fact alone was reason

enough to induce Tengelyi to commit the crime of murder. The Jew's

assertion, that it was Viola who killed Mr. Catspaw, was unsupported by

the second witness, and inadmissible as evidence against the numerous

and grave circumstantial evidence which was adduced against the notary.

His only hope of safety lay in the contingency of Viola's capture and

confession of the murder. That hope was a vague one. It was now more

than a fortnight since Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond had left Dustbury

in quest of Viola, and no news of their whereabouts and their chances

of success had reached Vandory. It was scarcely reasonable to suppose

that the old hussar should succeed in an undertaking, which had hitherto

foiled the endeavours of Akosh, Kalman, and Völgyeshy, and, indeed, of

all those who took an interest in Tengelyi's fate.

Peti, the gipsy, was indeed strongly suspected of being privy to the

secret of Viola's retreat; but neither entreaties nor promises could

induce him to answer young Rety's questions. As for the Gulyash of

Kishlak, who was known to have received Viola's family, after the flight

of the latter, into his tanya, and who had afterwards taken them away in

his cart, he, too, gave none but unsatisfactory intelligence. He

protested that he had taken Susi and her children to a Tsharda, at the

distance of about three miles from Kishlak, where he had left her. He

had not the least idea what could have become of her. Curses and

entreaties, threats and promises, were alike in vain; it was evident

that even the rack could not induce him to say more. The old woman,

Liptaka, though devoted to the Tengelyi family, and especially to Vilma,

was inexhaustible in excuses of her ignorance of Viola's whereabouts;

until at last, wearied and perplexed by young Rety's questions, she

protested that she would not betray Viola's confidence, even if she

could; and when Akosh attempted to move her by his entreaties, she

exclaimed:--

"No! no! Master Akosh! You know I'm as fond of you as ever a nurse was

of her own child; but do not--do not compel me to hate you! I'd lay down

my life for Mr. Tengelyi; but I won't be a Judas, no! not even for _his_

sake! He has no end of friends; they'll liberate him, sooner or later;

and even if he were to remain in prison, I know they keep him decently

and comfortably, and his family is well provided for. But Viola can

expect no mercy at the hands of the magistrates! To give him up to his

enemies is to murder him and his family; and even if Susi were not my

near relative, I'd rather tear my tongue out than betray her husband!"

What could Akosh do? Viola's friends were resolved to keep the secret;

and, after a search of two weeks, old Janosh was still as much as ever

in the dark as to the direction which the fugitive had taken.

Both Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond were convinced that Viola was not

hidden in any of the neighbouring counties. It was not indeed likely

that he had left the kingdom of Hungary, as Gatzi was fond of asserting;

but even this reflection was but cold comfort to the two adventurers. In

which of the fifty-two counties of Hungary were they to seek him? was

indeed a question which sadly puzzled the tactics and the military

experience of old Janosh.

"Viola is a devil of a fellow!" said he to his comrade. "He has

retreated, and so cunningly too, that Satan's self would be at a loss to

find him. Ej! what a general he would have been!"

"What does '_to retreat_' mean?" asked Gatzi, who listened to the tales

of his companion with the greatest interest.

"Did I ever!" cried the hussar. "Do you mean to say you don't know what

it is to retreat? But, after all, it's but natural," added he, after a

few moments' consideration. "You have not been in the wars, where they

would have taught you. Now, mark me! to retreat is when they order you

to fall back."

"Ah! I understand! It's when the enemy drives you."

"You're a fool!" said Janosh, angrily. "A good soldier won't run away,

nor will he be driven. I have never been in a battle in which we did

not beat the enemy, and yet we retreated!"

The old hussar, like many soldiers in the Austrian army, was firmly

convinced that the Emperor's troops had never been defeated.

"To retreat," added he, "means to fall back, after you've given your

enemy a drubbing. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes! I understand!" replied Gatzi; "but I can't make out why you

should fall back after a victory."

"Donkey!" said Janosh, with a compassionate smile; "you retreat because

you're ordered to fall back; and a soldier who doesn't obey orders is

shot. That's all!"

"But why do they order you back?"

"Why, indeed? That's not our business!" replied the old trooper,

angrily; for it was the very question which had puzzled him all his

life. "Why, indeed? A good soldier obeys his officers, and the rest

doesn't concern him. Why they order you back? A stupid question that!

Perhaps it is to make you advance, for if you fall back you've got room

to go forward. Perhaps they do it to give the enemy time to rally their

men, and to prepare for another battle. I say, Gatzi, if you were a

soldier, and if you were to ask such questions, they'd shoot you on the

spot!"

Such conversations were instructive to the Vagabond Gatzi, and

entertaining for Janosh, who gloried in the reminiscences of his

campaigns; but they did not promote the ends of the two travellers. The

Gulyash of Kishlak was as little communicative to Janosh as he was to

his young master, nor was the hussar more lucky in his inquiries in

other quarters.

"It strikes me they've agreed upon it!" murmured he. "They have but one

answer to all my questions, and that answer is the worst they can give.

Every one says, 'I don't know; you'd better inquire somewhere else!' and

so we go from one tanya to another, without being any the wiser for it!"

They had, indeed, by this time, made the round of three counties; and

though Gatzi became gradually accustomed to their roving life, and

though Janosh, riding, as he did, through forests and over moors, felt

almost happy to live again the life of a trooper, they came at length to

be fairly tired of their fruitless search. The season, too, was by no

means favourable. The month of April has a general reputation for

changeableness; but in the year in which Janosh and Gatzi rode in search

of Viola, that month was by no means changeable. On the contrary, it

rained from the first day to the last. Janosh had seen a deal of

hardship in the course of his long and eventful life; but still his

temper was not proof against the provoking sameness of this

extraordinary April weather. At length he fairly lost his patience.

They were just traversing the third county, at a distance of about

eighty miles from Dustbury. They had been on horseback from an early

hour in the morning, and now the sun was setting, when Gatzi confessed

to his older comrade that he could not find the tanya to which he had

promised to conduct him. The old man had hitherto borne all

disappointments with great fortitude, still hoping to get news of Viola;

for Gatzi had told him that the Gulyash to whom they were going knew all

the herdsmen of the district. What was to be done? They were in the

heart of the forest; they had lost their way; and, although Janosh swore

that it was a shame for an old man to follow at the heels of a mere boy

like Gatzi, he could not but wrap himself up in his bunda, and follow

his companion, who was looking for marks on the trees, and for cross

branches on the road, these being the signs by which men of doubtful

honesty are in the habit of marking their track for the benefit of

their comrades. It was quite dark when the two wanderers were at length

attracted by the glare of a fire. They struck from the path which they

had hitherto pursued, and reached the tanya which they sought. The

pleasure which Janosh felt as he stretched his limbs by the fire could

not be greater than the rapture of the Gulyash when he recognised Gatzi.

The old herdsman, it seems, had been Gatzi's partner in more than one

affair of which they did not care to inform the county magistrates.

When the old Gulyash had had his chat with his young companion, Janosh

stepped in and asked for Viola. The first answer which he received was a

profession of utter ignorance on the part of the Gulyash; when Gatzi too

showed his desire for information, the herdsman told them to stay the

night.

"To-morrow morning," said he, "I'll conduct you to somebody who is

likely to answer your questions. There is a Gulyash in this

neighbourhood who came last autumn from your part of the country. He is

a good-for-nothing fellow, who does not associate with any one. He

doesn't sell cattle, and there is no talking to him. But, after all, it

is very likely that he can give you the information you require."

"Who can he be?" said Gatzi, astonished. "I don't know of any herdsman

from our parts who has gone to this county."

"It's the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak," replied the old man. "His

brother is a trump of a fellow; but this chap is a blockhead. He won't

speak to a body."

"It can't be the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak. Old Ishtvan had but

one brother, who died last autumn."

"Nonsense! I tell you, man, I have seen him. He is a handsome fellow,

and darkish. He brought his wife and two children. Don't tell me he's

dead."

"I say, the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak is dead, though the man,

whom you take to be his brother, may be alive, for all I know: but I am

sure he is no relation to Ishtvan the herdsman!"

"But I tell you he is! Don't teach me to know Ishtvan the herdsman! It's

true I haven't seen him for many years: but formerly we were much

together; and last year, when he brought his brother's family to this

place, they all slept in my hut. One of the children is not at all

likely to live; but the other boy is a fine fellow. I am sure he'll be a

better sort of a man than his father. There! now don't you believe that

I am going to take you to the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak?"

In the course of this conversation, Gatzi cast significant looks at the

old hussar; and when their host had retired for the night, he said,

"I'll lose my head if the fellow he speaks of isn't Viola!"

"I am sure it's he," whispered Janosh. "Let us keep our own counsel,

lest he refuse to show us to the place."

"How he'll stare, when he hears that his neighbour, of whom he thinks so

little, is no other than Viola, the great robber! What a treat!" said

Gatzi, as he lay down by the fire. "But I'm as sleepy as a dog! Good

night!"

"Good night!" responded Janosh, turning round, and arranging his bunda

for the night. The day had been one of extraordinary fatigue. His lair

in the hut was comfortable, and the fire burnt bright and cheerful at

his side; but still the old hussar could not sleep. He turned and tossed

about, a prey to restlessness and harassing thought. Now that Viola was

all but found, Janosh began to doubt whether he was justified in

disturbing the poor man's quiet life, and whether it was not better to

leave him where he was.

"He's come to be an honest man," thought he; "why should I remind him of

his former misfortune? I dare say they won't hang Mr. Tengelyi; but as

for Viola, I'm not at all sure whether they'll stick to their word when

they have him in their power. His wife will despair, and his children

come to be little vagabonds; and who will be the cause of all this

misery but I, who am now trying to entrap him, for all the world like

one of those d--d spies whom we used to hang in France!"

Old Janosh had but one comfort amidst these distressing reflections. He

might indeed find Viola; but there was no necessity which forced him to

give him up to the county magistrates: and, after all, was it not

possible, in conversing with Viola, that they might find out a means of

liberating the notary without any prejudice to the late robber's life

and liberty?

"For," said Janosh, "God knows he has suffered enough! and his children,

bless them! they are such fine creatures, and so loving. I wouldn't harm

them; no, not for the world!"

As for the object of old Janosh's search, it was he who, under the

assumed name of a brother to Ishtvan, the herdsman of Kishlak, inhabited

the tanya to which Gatzi's friend had promised to conduct the two

adventurers. The outlaw's place of refuge was not quite so large and

commodious as his farm-house at Tissaret; but it was as favourable a

specimen of a tanya as a man of Viola's character and habits might wish

to see. The roof was made of reeds, and afforded a shelter against the

rain; the walls were newly washed, and shone hospitably over the dun and

desolate heath. The tanya was built on a slope of the mountains, which,

forest-crowned, extended in the rear; and in front lay the immense

plain, dotted with flocks and herds of cattle and horses, with here and

there a steeple rising on the far horizon. Near the house was a stable

and some haystacks; and close to the threshold lay a couple of large

fierce wolf-hounds, basking in the rays of the sun.

Viola might have been happy. He had found a place of refuge: he was

removed from all social intercourse; and this is, in itself, a blessing

for the persecuted and maligned. He might have been happy, if our

happiness or misery were not at least quite as much depending on the

past as it is on the present. Viola's recollections were most gloomy.

His mind was saddened by the thought that he was compelled to leave the

scenes of his former life. An exile from the place of his birth, he

languished and grieved quite as much as men of better education do, when

fate compels them to fly from their own country. The lower classes

cling, not only to their country, but also to the place of their birth.

Their lives lie within a narrower circle; and, however great his

patriotism, a peasant's love for his _home_ is still greater. With some

it is a predominant feeling; with others it is a madness. His real

country, his real fatherland, is the village in which he saw the

light,--the narrow spot of earth on which he passed his earliest years.

If you remove him from that place, he finds little consolation in the

thought that his new abode is still on Hungarian soil, that his

country's language is still spoken around him. He sighs for his

birth-place, for the humble roof of his parents, for the fields in which

he used to work, for the trees in the shade of which he took his rest.

His reminiscences are not national, but local; his sphere of interest

and action is limited to the confines of his parish. And even if this

were not the case, is not our life a totality? Can we separate the past

from the present, or the present from the future? Are not our joys bound

up in remembrance and hope? And what was there in Viola's past, what was

there in his future, to cheer him up, and to nerve him amidst the

sorrows of life?

Could he ever forget the injustice and cruelty of mankind? Could he

forget that they had hunted him like a beast of the forest? And, worse

than all, could he forget his own deeds? the blood he had shed,--the

blood which still clung to his trembling hands? How could he hope for

happiness? The future lowered over him like a pall. His name was,

indeed, unknown in that part of the country. His master, and the people

with whom he had dealings, took him for a brother of the Gulyash of

Kishlak; but what guarantee had he for his safety? The arrival of any of

his former associates, the discovery of his having come to the county

with a false passport, was sure to divulge his real name, and deliver

him into the hands of justice. Every stranger who approached the tanya

made him tremble. He trembled to think that his own boy might betray the

secret of his father's guilt. But still, he could have borne all this.

He might have inured his heart to sorrow and anxiety if his wife had

been happy, if the love of his children had withdrawn his mind from the

remorse and fear in which it lay shrouded.

Fate willed it otherwise!

Susi wanted but little for happiness. To love, was her vocation. She had

no wish but to live with her husband and her children, to devote herself

to them, to care, labour, and pray for them. Her heart was made to

resist the blows of fate, if they failed to strike at that one tender

point. When she knew of her husband's liberation,--when she took her

children to their new home, she felt as if there was nothing to wish

for, or to hope; and all her past sufferings were lost in the feeling of

happiness which pervaded her mind. To live far away from mankind,

removed from the scene of her former sufferings,--to live a new life,

lonely and unknown,--had been her wish for many years; and that wish was

now realised. She knelt down at the threshold of her new tanya, and wept

and prayed with a grateful heart. She had nothing to ask for, nothing to

desire!

But her happiness was of short duration. Her younger child was weak and

sickly. Its little face had that expression of sadness which, in

children, is a sure sign of suffering and disease.

"How could it be otherwise?" said Susi; "sorrow was its first food. My

tears have effaced its smiles, and ever since it opened its soft blue

eyes it has seen nothing but grief and sorrow. The poor child cannot

help being sad!"

The unsettled life which Susi had latterly been compelled to lead, and

which the infant had shared with her; the cold autumnal air to which it

was exposed; and last, not least, the fatigue and exposure of the

journey to their place of refuge, had a fatal effect upon the tender

health of the child. So long as the excitement continued, and while she

had to tremble for the safety of her husband, Susi took no heed of its

altered appearance; but a few days after their meeting in the tanya, she

became alive to the danger which threatened the infant's life. To see

and despair of all hope was one and the same thing. After some days of

maddening anxiety, the child died, and a little grave near the tanya was

all that remained of so much sorrow and so much love.

The child's death struck a deeper blow to Susi's heart, from the

circumstance of its occurring in the very first week of her new-found

repose; but when she remarked her husband's sadness, who, still

depressed by the late events, considered the death of his youngest born

as a harbinger of the approach of avenging fate, she felt that Viola

wanted to be cheered and comforted, and her love for him conquered the

grief of her mother's heart.

"Who knows," said she, "whether the child is not all the better off for

leaving this world of sorrow; and perhaps this misfortune has been sent

to us, to prevent our becoming too presumptuous in our happiness? And,

after all, have we not Pishta, and does he not grow up to be a fine

bold fellow, like his father?"

But in January little Pishta was seized with the fever. His mother's

anxiety, her watchfulness, her care, the smiles of comfort from her

breaking heart, and her secret tears and wailings,--all,--all could not

prevail against the stern decree of fate; and after three long weeks,

Pishta was buried by the side of his little brother, and Susi felt that

there was nothing in the world that could make her happy.

She complained not; she spoke not of her misfortune; she strove to hide

her grief from her husband: but the forced smile on her pale face, the

rebellious sigh which _would_ break forth, the trembling of her voice,

when an accident, when

"The wind, a flower, a tone of music"

reminded her of her children, and her turning away to hide the tears

which _would_ bedew her cheeks, spoke more plainly than any wailing and

mourning by which the wretched woman might have given vent to her grief.

Viola loved his wife too warmly to be deceived by her seeming calmness;

his keen eye found the traces of secret tears upon her face; he

understood her wordless woe, and his heart was a prey to the bitterness

of sorrow. To love, to see the loved one suffering, and to feel that we

cannot do any thing to lessen her grief, is a bitter feeling indeed; and

Viola felt as if fate had saved his life, only for him to drain the cup

of misfortune to the very dregs.

"Wretched man that I am!" cried he, as he stood alone on the heath;

"after all my sufferings, must I live to see this day? If I had suffered

for my crimes, God would perhaps have pitied my children; but now His

hand strikes me in them! There is blood on my hands,--but is it Susi's

fault? Are my little ones guilty? Father in heaven! what have they done,

that Thy wrath should pursue them?"

Thus lost in the bitterness of his grief, he sat on the hill near his

house, when his attention was attracted by the violent barking of his

dogs, and as he looked in the direction of the tanya, he beheld a

stranger approaching him. Viola lived in solitude; the Gulyash of

Kishlak had only called on him once since he dwelled in the tanya, and

the herdsmen and outlaws of the county were by no means inclined to

cultivate the acquaintance of their new neighbour, for a few

unsuccessful attempts had convinced them of his reluctance to join them

in their illicit doings. No wonder, then, that the approach of a

stranger attracted Viola's attention. But his astonishment passed all

bounds when he recognised the sheriff's hussar, and when the latter

called him by his real name, a name which he had not heard for many

months.

At some distance from the tanya, Janosh had thanked his guide for his

trouble, and sent him and Gatzi back, for he wished to speak to Viola

freely and without being interrupted. The latter could hardly trust his

own eyes, when he saw the old soldier, who used to be a pattern of

neatness, attired in a peasant's dress, travel-stained, and with his

hair and beard neglected.

"Is it you, Janosh?" said he, addressing the new comer. "What does this

dress mean?"

"It's strange, isn't it? We are naked when we are born, and naked do we

go to the grave, or at best they give us a gatya to sleep in. A soldier

was a peasant at one time, and to a peasant's estate he returns; that's

how the world goes. After all, my present dress is none of the worst,

only I felt queer in it at first, accustomed as I am, you know, to be

buttoned up in a tight hussar jacket. For some days I fancied I was not

dressed at all!"

"But where did you come from, and what has brought you all this way from

home?"

The old soldier, who had some secret misgivings about the honesty of his

errand, felt uncomfortable at this question.

"Why," said he, scratching his head, "I wanted to call on you,--that is

to say, I wanted to find you. I've some important matters to talk to you

about. But don't be frightened, man!" added he, on seeing Viola's

astonishment; "I have indeed promised to find you, but I have not

promised to tell them where you are. I'll have my palaver with you,

that's all, and you may afterwards do as you please. As for the

worshipful magistrates, they shall never get any thing out of me; no!

not even if they'd skin me alive! I'm not the man to blow upon a

deserter! Bless you! I never did that sort of a thing!"

Viola's curiosity was heightened by the words and the manner of Janosh;

and his desire for an account of the sudden and mysterious appearance of

the latter was at length gratified by a circumstantial statement of all

the events which had taken place at Dustbury and Tissaret, since the

assassination of Mr. Catspaw. The impression which this news produced

upon Viola was fearful.

When Janosh told him of Tengelyi's situation, he cast a despairing look

to heaven, and cried:--

"I am a cursed being! I am born to destroy all who come near me, no

matter whether they are my friends or my foes!"

And covering his eyes with his hands, he gave himself up to a transport

of grief.

His distress moved the old hussar, who endeavoured to comfort him in his

own rough manner.

"Don't you think," said Janosh, "that Mr. Tengelyi is very badly off!

Nonsense, man! he isn't even in gaol."

"But where is he?"

"Why he is not exactly in gaol; but he's in a room of his own in the

prison. He has plenty to eat and to drink, for it's I who wait upon him;

and you might have known that I am not a man who would give Master

Akosh's father-in-law cause to complain. He's all right and comfortable,

and there's no reason why he should not walk away, if they had not got

that accursed criminal process (for that's the name they give it, I

believe,) against him. But there's the rub! Unless his innocence is

proved, they'll sentence him--Heaven knows to what! And you see----"

"Did I not wish to serve him?" cried Viola, in a violent burst of grief.

"I'm in gratitude bound to serve him! He gave shelter to my wife and

children. I would have given my life to make him happy. I killed the

attorney because I thought to do him good, and what has come of all my

gratitude?"

"Well?"

"Why, this has come of it! He's the honestest man on the face of the

earth, and they accuse him of _my_ crime! and it's I who have got him

into prison,--oh! and if you had not come and told me all, they would

execute him in my place!"

"Viola! my boy," said the hussar, "you're wrong. The case is not half so

bad as you make it out, I assure you."

"Oh, Janosh! why, when I was sentenced at Tissaret, did you come to my

assistance? Why did you save my life? You see what I have come to! I'm

ready to bless the day of my death. When a mad dog feels the distemper,

he will run away from the house of his master, in order not to harm his

benefactor! That's what a mad dog does,--but I, I am worse than a dog,

for I am dangerous to those whom I love best!"

Janosh, who was deeply moved by Viola's remorse, endeavoured to comfort

him, by protesting he was sure there must be some means of extricating

the notary from his present dangerous position.

His words, rude and awkward as they were, had their effect upon Viola.

He became more composed, and said--

"As for the notary, he is safe. It will take us three days to go to

Dustbury. The papers which I took from the attorney are in my hands;

they are covered with blood, and when I tell them how the thing was

brought about, they cannot possibly suspect Tengelyi."

The old hussar shook his head.

"I don't think," said he, "you can do it in that way. You're not in a

fit state to take a resolution. You are in despair, and what you intend

to do ought to be well considered. Nothing is more easy than to go to

Dustbury. 'Here I am! I'm Viola! I've killed that rascal, Catspaw!' Why

it's mere child's-play to say the words. But the worst is behind. When

they've once got you into gaol, I don't see how you can get out of it."

"I don't care!"

"But you ought to care! Why, man! it's the very first thing you ought to

think of! They have indeed promised not to take your life, and even the

sheriff has pledged his word for your safety! But who can tell? I

wouldn't advise you to rely on the promises of the gentry, and it's far

more prudent to manage the business otherwise."

"Have you any idea how it can be done?" said Viola, sullenly.

"Of course I have! Give me the papers! I'll take them to Dustbury, and

tell the gentlemen that I have spoken to you, that you gave me the

papers, and that you made no denial of your having murdered the

attorney."

"They'll never believe you!"

"If they don't, I'll call in another witness--Gatzi the Vagabond, who is

a good fellow. He's come along with me, and he's now at your

neighbour's, the Gulyash. Two honest witnesses can prove any thing; but

as Gatzi is not, perhaps, quite honest, because he's in the habit of

stealing now and then, we'll have the Gulyash as a third witness. While

we are telling our story at Dustbury, you and your wife and children

leave this place, and when they come to arrest you they'll find an empty

house. That's _my_ plan!"

"I have no children!" said Viola, with a deep sigh; "our last--our

little Pishta--was buried two months ago!"

"Pishta!" cried Janosh; "my little Pishta! Why, that's a dreadful

misfortune!"

"The two little ones are dead! I am childless! My poor Susi is not

likely to survive her sweet children long. She is sinking fast; poor

woman, she won't see the next snow!"

The two men sat in silence. Viola was lost in gloomy thought, and old

Janosh's eyes were full of tears. At length he said,--

"Truly, God alone knows why fate deals harshly with some people! They

tell me we're all going to the same place in the end, and that God, who

is a great general, commands us to march straight through this world

into another. But I must say, the men of the rear-guard have the worst

of it. The advanced guard have it all to themselves--grub, and glory,

and all; and those that remain behind are in for short commons and

kicks. I've known that sort of thing, my boy! When an army retreats, the

best men are ordered to the rear; and in the wars I've been dealt with

as you are on this earth. 'Devil take the hindmost!' is a true proverb.

Bless me! you can't fancy what hard blows we got, and how we were

starved! but, after all, it was then I learnt that a man ought never to

despair. For when you've come to the camp, a good general is sure to

praise and reward the last man of the regiment; and I'm sure our Father

in Heaven will do the same when you march into quarters. And besides,

who knows but the tide will turn? Susi is left you, and that's a great

blessing. Why shouldn't she have half a dozen children? You won't have

another Pishta, I'm afraid; for there is not another such a child on

the earth, nor will there ever be; but you'll have plenty of children.

And, I say, no one knows what a deal of good luck such a child may bring

you; and all I say to you is, you're a fool if you put your neck into

the keeping of the Dustbury gentry. Bless you, man, it's the worst you

can do! and there's time enough for the worst, I should hope!"

Viola listened to the old hussar's advice, without showing his dissent

either by words or gestures; but when Janosh ceased speaking, and looked

at him, waiting for a reply, he shook his head sadly, hopelessly, and

said,--

"You would not advise me as you do if you could but know what I have

suffered. You warn me not to surrender to my judges and you counsel me

to fly from punishment. But do you really think, my poor Janosh, that my

present and past sufferings are not a hundred times more painful than

any punishment which they can award to me? You say they will sentence me

to death. It's no more than what I deserve. And what is even the most

painful death, compared to the unceasing fear which has weighed upon my

heart ever since I came to this place? I am eighty miles from home; but

what, after all, are eighty miles? _You_ have found me, and others

may!"

"There you are out! It's not every man has been in the wars, and----"

"You found me by accident! Oh, I tell you, I've played the coward! I've

crouched among the ferns and the brushwood, when I saw a stranger

approaching my house! When my master asked me about my former pursuits,

I felt the hot blood rush into my face, and I trembled for all the world

as if I stood before my Judge. No, Janosh! my life is a hell! it's not

the life of a human being, and the sooner I've got rid of it the better

for me, for Susi, for all!"

"They won't hang you!" said Janosh. "The sheriff has come to quarrel

with his wife, and he has been an altered man ever since. He has

promised to spare your life, and I'm sure he'll stick to his word, that

is to say, if he _can_; for, after all, who knows but the other

gentleman may get the better of him? and it's always my opinion one

ought never----"

"Stop!" cried Viola. "I'm sure you mean well; but I've made up my mind.

Believe me, ever since my children died I've often thought whether to

surrender is not the best thing I can do. Even if you had not come and

told me of the notary's danger, I think I should have given myself up to

the police, to rid myself of the torments which now prey upon my mind.

A few days before my poor Pishta died, the child was so thin and worn

out you would not have known him if you had seen him at the time.

Nothing was left of him but his sweet soft voice; methinks I hear it

now; and he----What were we saying?" continued Viola, wiping his eyes;

"to think of him makes me forget all and everything. What was it,

Janosh?"

"You spoke of Pishta's death. Don't go on, pray!"

"I must! I must tell you, that shortly before he died, and, indeed, all

the time he was ill, he entreated me not to go on being a robber: 'Won't

you, father, dear! you won't be a robber any more?' were the last words

I ever heard him say. Now, tell me, is it in my power to obey my dying

child's request if I remain here? Let the meanest thief come to this

house who has seen me in former times; is he not my master, because he

has my secret? Can he not force me to join him in any crime he may

choose to perpetrate? I'm lost! My very honesty depends upon an

accident; and chance alone can protect me from falling back into my old

ways."

Janosh sighed; for he felt the truth of Viola's remarks.

"There's blood on my hands, and I must die! It's but common justice!

I've thought the matter over, and I see no other way to get out of it.

And, after all, there is neither peace nor comfort in this world after

such a deed! When they have pronounced my sentence, my conscience will

cease from accusing me. I have not, indeed, ever had the _intention_ of

killing any body! Accident has made me what I am--a murderer! and fate

has decreed that I am to suffer for my crime. What man can prevail

against his destiny?"

"This is all very well; but what's to become of Susi, I'd like to know?"

said Janosh, with a deep sigh.

Viola made no reply. His features were violently contracted; his hands

clung with a tremulous grasp to the staff which lay by his side; his

chest heaved as if it were bursting. At length he said, with a trembling

voice,--

"What is to become of Susi when I am dead? Why, it's this which unnerves

me! But what am I to do? Poor woman! If I could do aught to remove her

sorrow, if her misery were not so great that nothing can add to it, I

would suffer all! all! all! I would not care for the pangs of my

conscience! I would not mind my fears and my sorrows, neither here, nor

even in the world to come, if I could hope that my life would serve to

comfort Susi. But her heart is brimful of anguish. There is no room for

fresh griefs, no room for comfort of any kind; nay, more, my presence

compels her to forego the only relief she has--that of taking her fill

of weeping! No! no!" continued he, passionately, "I cannot bear it any

longer. I'll do it, since it _must_ be done, and I'll do it at once. God

will perhaps have mercy on her when I'm dead and gone! He'll take her

away from this world, in which there is no place of rest--no! none at

all for those that love Viola; and even if she does not die, she will be

safe, and perhaps some charitable hearts will pity her case and provide

for her. Come, Janosh! bind my hands and take me to Dustbury. Be quick!"

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, convinced Janosh of

the firmness of Viola's resolution, which he did not attempt to oppose,

because he felt the weight of the arguments which the repentant robber

had advanced in support of it.

"After all, you're not far from right," said he, after a short pause.

"I'll be bound for it they won't hang you; and perhaps it's better for

you to have your punishment over, and have done with it. It makes you a

free man; and prevents you being brought back to your old ways. But as

for the binding part of the business, it's sheer stuff and nonsense, I

tell you. If you come of your own accord, they'll put it down on the

bill as a special point in your favour, and strike off a few years from

the time of your captivity. But, hang me if I take you to Dustbury! It

would be a disgrace to me to the end of my life, if people could say, it

was old Janosh who arrested Viola!"

"Very well!" said Viola, "if you won't take me, you may go to Dustbury

at once, and tell Mr. Tengelyi to be of good cheer, I'll be at Dustbury

on the fourth day from this. My Bojtar[33] will soon come back to take

charge of the cattle. I must talk to Susi lest she should be shocked by

my sudden departure. Poor woman! it will be a hard thing to take leave

of her."

[Footnote 33: Bojtar, _i.e._ helpmate.]

"Why," said old Janosh, "if you've made up your mind to go, you had

better not mention your plans to Susi. After you've come to Dustbury,

I'll go to fetch your wife; and when the sheriff tells her that your

life is not in danger, I'm sure she'll get reconciled to the

arrangement. Be of good cheer!" added the old soldier, shaking Viola's

hand; "all's well that ends well! They'll lock you up for a few years,

and after that time you'll go back to Tissaret as an honest man. But I

must be off now. It would frighten Susi to death to find me here, and in

this dress too!"

Saying which, the hussar turned to leave the spot; but after walking a

few yards he came back, and said:

"I forgot to mention, that you need not come if you should repent of

your resolution. I'll take my oath nobody shall ever learn from me where

your tanya is; and all they can say is, that I'm a greater donkey than

they thought I was, because I couldn't manage to find you. But, believe

me, I don't care what they say. God bless you, my boy!"

Janosh did not wait for an answer. He hurried away; and after a few

minutes, Viola heard the quick trotting of a horse. It was Janosh on his

way back from the tanya.

"After all, my life will be good for something," muttered Viola. "I

wanted to prove my gratitude to my benefactor, and all I did was to

bring another misfortune upon him. At present I have it in my power to

save his life by the sacrifice of my own! But what is to become of

Susi?"

He sat lost in gloomy thoughts, with his head leaning on his hand, when

his wife returned to the tanya. Her voice awoke him from his dreams. It

struck her that he looked as if he had wept. But for the poor woman, who

came from the grave of her children, there was nothing extraordinary in

his tears.

CHAP. X.

Viola had many difficulties to encounter before he could carry his

project into execution. His resolution was irrevocable; but what was his

most plausible pretence for leaving the tanya without alarming the fears

of his wife? Ever since their change of abode, Susi showed the greatest

anxiety whenever her husband left her, though but for a few hours; and

this anxiety, so natural to a woman in her position, had risen to a

formidable height ever since the death of her children. Her husband was

her all--her only treasure,--her sole comfort on this earth. And was he

not always in danger of a discovery of his former character and

pursuits? Her anxious care was, in the present instance, almost

maddening to Viola. In the course of that day he attempted a hundred

times at least to tell his wife that he must leave her for a few days;

and a hundred times he felt that he wanted the strength to break the

matter to her. At one time it struck him that Susi was more cheerful

than usual, and he was loth to distress her at such a moment; another

time he thought she looked sadder than she generally did, and he

considered that frame of mind unfavourable to the reception of his

communication. Indeed there is no saying how he could have executed his

project if Susi had not been struck with his embarrassed manner, and the

preparations he made for the journey. She questioned him, and he told

her that his master had sent in the morning ordering him to fetch some

cattle from a neighbouring county. Susi trembled; but there was no help

for it. Viola was bound to obey his master's orders: he could not

possibly refuse obedience by stating the reasons of his aversion to the

journey; and the poor woman was reduced to snatch at the straws of

comfort which lay in her husband's assurance that the place to which he

was sent lay at a greater distance from the county of Takshony than

their present abode did.

"Don't be afraid. Nobody can know me at that place; no Tissaret people

come there!" said Viola; and Susi did her best to appear quiet and

unconcerned.

Viola was conscious of the fate which awaited him. Whenever he looked at

his wife he shuddered to think what her anguish would be when the true

nature of his errand was revealed to her; and all his strength of mind

could scarcely suppress his tears. He struggled hard to keep them down;

and in the evening, when, after pressing Susi to his heart for the last

time, he mounted his horse, she could not, by any outward signs, get a

clue to the deep despair which ate into his heart. When his voice came

to her with the last "God bless you!" she had no idea of the truth. It

never struck her that she heard his voice for the last time.

Viola was inured to suffering. His grave aspect hid the anguish which

convulsed his mind: but when his horse had borne him onwards to the deep

forest, his grief leapt forth like a giant; and, shaking off the bonds

of restraint, he bent his head low down on his horse's neck, and his

powerful frame trembled with the convulsions of deep, hopeless,

unmitigated grief.

It was late in the afternoon when he left the tanya; the faint rays of

the setting sun shone from the west, and the crescent, shedding her

silver light through a few feathery clouds, shone upon the solemn

silence of the earth below. The beauty of Nature cannot prevail against

the existence of care; but it can lessen its intensity: grief, with its

bitter and passionate expression, yields to solemn sadness. Nature seems

to share our woe: each star looks feelingly down from its sphere; and

the boundless horizon brings our own littleness, and the trivial

character of our sorrows, home to us.

The peaceful silence which surrounded Viola gave peace to his weary

heart. He dried his tears as he looked up to the stars, that send forth

their rays of hope from their spheres of silence and mystery.

He came to the hill whence, but a few short months ago, he had cast the

first glance at his new tanya. He stopped his horse and looked back. The

dim light of the moon showed him but a whitish speck, and a herdsman's

fire near it. He thought of the hopes which bloomed in his heart when he

came to the place; he thought of the events which destroyed those hopes

in their first and fairest bloom. He thought of his children, who lay

buried at the foot of the hill, and of their wretched mother, and of the

cruel blow which was about to descend on her devoted head. Again the big

tears gushed forth from his eyes; but when this sudden burst of sorrow

was over, he regained all his former firmness.

"Who can help it?" said he, with a deep sigh, as he turned his horse's

head away from the place which contained all he loved best. "What man

can run away from his fate? I was born for misery!"

Viola intended to go to Tissaret and to surrender to Akosh Rety, or, if

he did not find him, at least to send the Liptaka to tend and comfort

his wife. The distance from the tanya to Tissaret was full eighty miles;

and Viola, to avoid being seen by any one, especially in the county of

Takshony, shunned the roads and beaten paths, and journeyed mostly at

night. He had therefore time enough to think of his situation and

prospects. But his thoughts would still return to Susi.

"I would not care," said he to himself, "if I could but be comforted on

her account. She'll despair when they tell her that I have surrendered

to the county magistrates. She will think me cruel! But what was I to

do? They would have found me out at last. Old Janosh found me sure

enough, and others might follow in his track any day. They would have

pounced upon me and arrested me. But now that I surrender of my own free

will, I can at least prevent them from taking Mr. Tengelyi's papers. I

can get him out of his troubles, and who knows? perhaps they'll give me

a pardon, Janosh said they would!"

This last reflection was a great comfort. If ever a man expected the

approach of death calmly and with firmness, that man was Viola. But

death by the hands of the executioner is terrible even to the most

courageous; and Viola, who thought of Susi, was prepared to suffer all

and everything, except this one last infamy, which he felt convinced his

wife could never survive.

"Perhaps they will lock me up for ten years--let them! they may torture

me, they may do their worst, I won't care for it. It will give Susi

strength to know that I am alive, and that she can be of use to me; and

I, too, I'm sure I'll bear any thing if I can see her at times; and

after all there must be an end even to the worst punishment, as Janosh

told me, and I shall be able to live as an honest man to the end of my

life!"

Such is human nature. In the worst plights we cast the anchor of our

hope amidst the shoals of lesser evils; but without hope we could not

live for a day.

Viola's reflections on his position tended greatly to calm and comfort

his mind. He was a two-fold murderer: but there were a variety of

extenuating circumstances in both the cases; and, with the exception of

his two great crimes, of all his breaches of the law, there was not one

which exposed him to capital punishment; the circumstance that he had

already undergone what the Hungarian law calls "_the agony_,"[34]

namely, the mortal anxiety of a culprit under sentence of death, and in

the present instance his voluntary surrender to the criminal justice of

his country would stand in the way of a capital sentence. And if he

succeeded in liberating the notary from his present painful position,

could he not rely on the protection of Akosh Rety and his friends?

[Footnote 34: See Note II.]

The third night of his journey found him at a few miles' distance from

Tissaret. Here he was under serious apprehensions lest he should fall

into the hands of Mr. Skinner's Pandurs, before he could surrender or

manage to deliver the papers to Akosh Rety. Viola had no idea of the

real cause of the importance of the papers, but when he remembered that

they were taken from him at the time of his capture in the St. Vilmosh

forest, and that Mr. Skinner had attempted to deny their existence, he

was justified in his fear that the justice would annihilate the

documents if they were to fall into his hands. He resolved therefore to

defend them to the last, and to prefer death to captivity, unless he

could place the notary's papers in the hands of a trustworthy person.

At break of day he reached the St. Vilmosh forest. He had been on

horseback ever since sunset, and his horse was fatigued. It was a good

two hours' ride to Tissaret from the place where he stood, and he

pitied the horse, which had done many a good service in by-gone days. He

knew the danger to which he exposed himself by approaching the village

by daylight, for nothing was more likely than that he would be seized

and dragged to the justice's before he could meet young Rety. But what

was he to do? The forest had been cleared in the course of the winter;

the trees were still stripped of their foliage, and there was no place

in which he could have remained till sunset. He had no other alternative

but to proceed.

"And after all," thought he, "on the plain I can keep a good look out,

and get out of the way, if need be. _Hollo_, my boy!" added he, patting

his horse's neck, "don't fail me to-day, old comrade! I'll give you into

good hands. Perhaps Master Akosh will take you to his stable. He'll use

you for hare-hunting, for you've had a good schooling in racing. They've

hunted us many a time; but never mind! Your time has come at last,

Hollo, my boy, for this is the last time you and I are on the heath

together!"

He continued his way in deep thought; and the horse, too, as if

conscious of his master's grief, walked dejectedly amidst the trees on

the outskirts of the forest.

Viola's train of gloomy reflections was interrupted by the sound of

hoofs. He looked up, and beheld three Pandurs, who were travelling on

the other side of the clearing. He turned his horse's head to steal

away; but they had seen him, and rode up to him.

There was but one means of safety. He knew it at once, and, putting

spurs to his horse, he rushed forward.

"Stand, or die!" shouted his pursuers; but, though fatigued, Hollo was

still a match for the jaded hacks[35] of the county police, and the

reports of the pistols which were fired behind him only heightened his

speed. He rode on in the direction of Tissaret, and the Pandurs, who

still kept their eyes upon him, followed, though at a distance.

[Footnote 35: Note V.]

Akosh was at that time in Tissaret. Ever since his wife's death, the

sheriff felt an aversion to return to his family seat. He left the

management of the property to his son, who lived in old Vandory's house;

for he too had an aversion to the Castle and the reminiscences connected

with it.

The morning on which Viola approached his native village, Vandory arose

early, according to his habits, and seeing that the sky was clear and

unclouded, he could not resist his desire to visit the Turk's Hill, to

see the sunrise from its summit. He roused Akosh, and induced him to

accompany him to the hill, on which we found the curate and Tengelyi at

the commencement of this history.

There are few people in the world who like to be disturbed in their

sleep; and though Akosh Rety yielded to his uncle's entreaties, his

temper was none of the sweetest, as he accompanied the enthusiastic old

man, who, in the course of their walk, held forth on the beauties of the

rising sun, while he delighted in the anticipation of the glorious

spectacle which awaited them. To the shame of Akosh Rety be it spoken,

that not all the glories of that gorgeous phenomenon, and much less his

uncle's arguments, could convince him that it was worth while to wake

him from his sweet dreams, merely for the purpose of seeing a few pink

clouds and breathing the moist and chilly air of an April morning. But

though the beauties of Nature failed to engage his interest, his

attention was soon directed to and attracted by another spectacle.

Akosh had not been on the Turk's Hill ever since the autumn, when he met

Vandory and the notary after the hunt. It was but natural that he should

think of all the events that had occurred since that time. His heart was

full, and he turned to the curate, saying,--

"I remember, for all the world as if it had happened yesterday, that

poor Tengelyi stood where we now stand. Our horses were at the bottom of

the hill. To the right stood Paul Skinner, the great fool. I think even

now I hear his curses when he looked to the forest of St. Vilmosh, and

saw that the Pandurs were escorting a prisoner. You remember it, don't

you? I protested that it was not Viola whom they had with them!"

As he said these words, Akosh turned in the direction of the St. Vilmosh

forest, and his quick eye discovered the horsemen, who at that moment

broke from the forest and spurred over the plain.

"What does this mean?" cried he, as he directed Vandory's attention to

the chase.

"What is it?"

"Look! look! they are going at a fearful rate. One man in front, and

three after him as if they were pursuing him!"

The curate sighed.

"Heaven forbid!" said he. "I have seen one of my fellow-creatures hunted

down from this very spot. I hope and trust----"

"It's a chase!" cried Akosh. "It's the foremost man they are after. How

he cuts away! straight through the meadows and over the fields!"

"God help him!" said the curate, folding his hands.

"He can't escape! they are driving him up to the village, and his beast

is done up. They have been gaining upon him ever since we first saw

him!"

"Let us hope the man is not a robber!" said Vandory, who watched the

proceedings of the horseman with painful attention. "I am sure he is a

robber, or at least his pursuers take him for one," added he, after a

short pause.

"I see the carbines of the Pandurs!" cried Akosh. "The poor beast is

done up! One of the rascals is close at his heels--there! he's come down

horse and all! On! on! my fine fellow! you're safe for a few minutes!

you've got a start now! Goodness knows!" added the young man, "I'd do

any thing to give him a fresh horse!"

Viola's position--for we need not say that it was he whom Akosh and

Vandory beheld from the Turk's Hill--was improved by the fall of one of

his pursuers; for when the second Pandur came up to the place where his

comrade struggled under the weight of his horse, he stopped and

dismounted to assist him. As for the third officer, he was far in the

rear; and as it was Viola's greatest desire to reach the village, and to

give the papers into the hands of a trustworthy person, he could for a

moment hope to succeed in his endeavours.

"Hollo! my good horse, don't fail me in this last extremity!" gasped he,

as he spurred his steed. "On! on! Hajra! Hajra! Hollo!"

But Hollo's last strength was spent. The poor beast came from a long and

fatiguing journey, and for the last half-hour the race had been over

broken ground, fields and ditches. From a gallop he fell into a broken

trot; and Viola, who was close to the Turk's Hill, and who saw his

pursuers coming nearer and nearer, tried all he could do, with voice,

whip, and spur, to urge the exhausted animal onward. The horse was

covered with white foam, the perspiration ran down his long black mane,

he trembled on his legs--but despair made Viola blind to the sufferings

of his faithful companion, and again and again he buried his spurs in

his bleeding sides. Hollo made another rush forward.

"Stand and surrender!" cried a voice behind him.

Viola turned round.

The Pandur was at the distance of but a few yards from him; another

minute would have brought him to his side.

The outlaw seized the pistol at his saddle-bow, and turned it upon his

pursuer. But the Pandur had his carbine in readiness.

He raised it, and fired.

Viola uttered a loud shriek! He flung back his hands and fell on his

horse's neck. The frightened animal leaped, plunged, and rolled on the

ground!

Akosh Rety, who had left his position on the hill for the purpose of

interfering, if possible, in behalf of the pursued, came just in time to

prevent the Pandur from ill-treating the wounded man.

The latter had dismounted, and would have struck Viola with a fokosh,

had not young Rety prevented him.

"You're a dead man, if you dare to hurt him!" cried Akosh, endeavouring

to extricate the robber from the weight of his horse. "Scoundrel! don't

you see you've killed him?"

"Killed him, indeed! So much the better!" said Tzifra, (for it was he,

whom the patronage of Paul Skinner had established among the county

police). He would have resisted, but on consideration he thought it best

to avoid a quarrel with the sheriff's son.

"I don't care, sir, whether I've killed him or not," said he; "I'm sure

it does not matter. Don't you see, sir, it's Viola; and I'm entitled to

the reward of five hundred florins, which the county has promised to

the man who captures or kills him. I hope he'll die before my comrades

come. Confound them, they'd be after claiming part of the money!"

Akosh paid no attention to the Pandur's brutal expressions, and with

Vandory's assistance he succeeded in removing the horse from the body of

the wounded man.

"He is dead!" said Akosh, as they laid him on the turf. "Life is

extinct, and with it all hope of proving Tengelyi's innocence!"

The curate knelt down and examined the wound.

"No!" said he. "He is alive, but the ball has pierced his breast. He is

not likely to live; still I think he will linger on for a few hours. I

say!" added he, addressing the Pandur, "mount and ride to the village!

Tell them to send a stretcher and call in a surgeon!"

"I'd rather----" replied Tzifra. "Don't you think me such a fool as all

that. I'm entitled to a reward of five hundred florins, and if I go, my

comrades will come and claim the money. And, after all, your worships

are my witnesses that it was I who shot him!"

"If you don't go this very moment, I'll blow your brains out!" shouted

Akosh, taking up a pistol which had fallen from Viola's hands. "Be off!

I'll give the blood-money if no one else will!"

His threats and promises induced Tzifra to hasten away. Young Rety and

the curate remained with Viola, and when the two Pandurs came up they

were at once despatched for some water; but neither the water, nor the

words of comfort and consolation spoken by Vandory, availed to break

through the deep slumber of death which lay on the wounded man.

Half an hour passed thus, and already did the people from the village

flock to the spot, when Viola gave some signs of returning life.

He moved his limbs, opened his eyes, and looked around.

"Do you know me?" said Akosh, leaning over him, and taking his hand.

"Pray look at me, Viola!"

"I know you!" replied the outlaw, with a broken voice. "It's well you

are here, for it's you I wanted to see."

He raised his hand, and made a vain attempt to open his dress.

"Open my coat for me!" said he. "Take the papers away. They are Mr.

Tengelyi's papers, which Jantshi the Jew and Catspaw the attorney stole.

I came to restore them to their owner."

Akosh took the papers in his hand.

"They are covered with blood!" groaned the outlaw. "There's some fresh

blood on them; but it's no matter,--it's my own blood. Mr. Tengelyi

deserved well of me,--we are quits now. Tell him I kiss his hands, and

don't let him say that Viola was a reprobate who returned evil for

good!"

While he spoke, the people of the village came in crowds and stood round

him.

Vandory advanced, and said,--

"My friend, perhaps you are not aware of the fearful suspicion which

rests on Mr. Tengelyi, on account of these very papers?"

"I know all about it!" replied Viola. "Janosh told me everything; and it

was for the purpose of clearing him from suspicion that I came to

deliver myself to the magistrates."

With a violent effort he raised himself on his arm, and exclaimed:

"Men of Tissaret, listen to me! Whoever says that it was Mr. Tengelyi

who killed the attorney, that man tells an untruth, no matter who he be!

_I_ am the murderer. I intended to take the papers which the attorney

and the Jew stole from the notary. He threatened to shoot me, and I slew

him. The notary is not guilty of the murder, so help me God!"

He fell back, and lay motionless. The villagers were deeply moved by his

words. They stood silent, and many of them wept.

"Poor fellow!" said an old peasant at length, "why has fate dealt with

you in this manner? You were a good neighbour, and I thought you would

close my eyes after my death, as I closed your father's eyes before

you."

Viola turned his glance upon the speaker.

"Old man," said he, "when you pass my house, and see it desolate or

inhabited by strangers, you will not forget Viola, your neighbour, who

owned it in former times. God sees my soul! it was not by my own fault

that I came to be what I am. May God have mercy upon me, and upon those

who made me a robber!"

"Clear the way! let me pass! for mercy's sake, let me come to him!"

cried a female voice at a distance; and as the people fell back on each

side, old Mother Liptaka came running up to her dying kinsman.

"Take him up!" cried she. "Why don't you take him to the village?

There's life, and hope, and help! Come along, some of you, and carry him

to my house!"

"Leave me alone, coz!" said Viola, drawing his breath with great

difficulty; "leave me alone! Nothing can do me good. It's over with me,

and it serves me right. There's blood on my hands, and I pay for it with

my own blood. Heaven is just, coz! But since die I must, let me die here

in the free air of heaven, and in the warm rays of the sun."

His voice grew fainter and fainter.

He moved his hand.

The Liptaka, obedient to his wish, knelt down by his side.

"Go to Susi, coz!" said he; "tell her I implore her pardon for having

deceived her when I left my home. Tell her I could not help it. I could

not abandon my benefactor in his distress; and if I had told her what I

was going to do----"

The words died on his pale lips. Once more did he open his eyes on the

clear blue sky, on the distant village, and the people around him. He

closed them again. A strange smile passed over his face, and with his

last breath he whispered,--

"_Susi!_"

"May God have mercy on every sinner!" said the old peasant. "He has much

to answer for!"

"His sufferings were great!" said Vandory. "May the earth be light to

him, after the struggles of this life!"

CONCLUSION.

It is scarcely necessary to detail the results of Viola's last

confession. Tengelyi's liberation and the alliance of his house with the

Retys, and of the Retys with the Kishlakis, by means of Kalman and

Etelka, were its first fruits. The happy consummation of the wishes of

the young people, and the heartfelt contentment which expressed itself

in the faces of all around him, sufficed to rouse Mr. Rety from the

gloomy lethargy into which the events detailed in this history, and

especially the death of his wife, had sunk him. He did not, indeed, feel

at ease in his official position, which he resigned, under the pretence

of ill health; nor at Tissaret, for the place reminded him of many

things which he wished to forget; but he sought and found all his heart

longed for in his dignified retirement at Dustbury. He was respected by

all factions, for he never opposed any, and he was the favourite of the

ruling party, whatever it might be, for his political opinions were

always exactly those of the majority. Some people believed that he

intended to remove to Pesth. They were mistaken. Rety was the first man

in Dustbury: he did not care to follow, since he might lead. Besides,

he became, in course of time, sincerely attached to old Kishlaki, who

disliked Pesth, and who preferred Dustbury, his pipe, and the frequency

of his intercourse with his son, Kalman, and his daughter-in-law,

Etelka, to all the capitals of Europe. It need hardly be said, that Mr.

Kishlaki was not any longer, nor did he ever intend to act again as,

president of a court-martial.

The notary was moody and depressed for many months. Misfortunes are apt

to spoil the most facile temper, and Mr. Tengelyi's temper was _not_

facile. His wife's entreaties could never induce him to inhabit the

Castle of Tissaret, and to join the family circle of Akosh and Vilma

Rety. But the happiness which surrounded him, the beneficial influence

which he, the father-in-law of the lord of the manor, exercised over the

condition of the inhabitants of Tissaret, and the conversation of his

friends, Völgyeshy and Vandory, conquered his habitual ill-humour, and

made him, in course of time, an agreeable and even indulgent member of

the circle in which he moved.

As for Mr. Paul Skinner, his fate was simple in the extreme. An

unfortunate mistake which he committed, by compelling the peasants of

Garatsh to repair his house instead of the roads, caused the High Court

to deprive him of his office, and, with it, of all the means he

possessed to attract attention or merit public reproof. If he is still a

tyrant--for nothing is known of his present doings--he must confine his

oppression to his family circle, where it is but too likely that he will

at length meet with opposition.

Susi was anxiously waiting for her husband's return when the news of his

death reached her. It came upon her like lightning: she fell, and lay in

a death-like swoon. When she returned to consciousness, she arose and

went to the graves of her children, which were for the first time

covered with the fresh verdure of spring. She knelt down and took her

leave of all that remained of her loved ones; and, having done this, she

consented to accompany the Mother Liptaka to Tissaret. She asked, as a

favour, that she might be allowed to live in the house which she and her

husband formerly inhabited. Akosh Rety had the house repaired, and

everything arranged as it was when Viola was an honest and thriving

peasant. It was there Susi lived, lonely and solitary, speaking to no

one, and never leaving her room except by night. After sunset she would

go to the Turk's Hill, where she remained till morning dawned on the far

plain.

Some months passed in this manner. Akosh and Vilma (now his loving wife)

were walking on a fine evening in June to the Turk's Hill, when they

were startled by a female voice, singing the words of the psalm:--

"Oh that to me the wings were given,

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

That I might cleave the vaults of heaven,

And flee away, and be at rest!"

Vilma knew the singer.

Early next morning, when the peasants went to their work in the fields,

they found a woman lying on her face, close to the Turk's Hill, on the

spot where Viola had breathed his last.

They tried to wake her, but they could not. Susi slept, never to wake

again!

* * * * *

My work is done; and nothing now remains but to say adieu to my readers.

But before I close this book, let me turn to the boundless plain of my

country, and to the scene of the joys and sorrows of my youth, to the

banks of the yellow Theiss! There is a beauty in the mountains; there is

a charm in the broad waters of the Danube: but to me there is a rapture

in the thought of the pride of Hungary,--her _green plain_! It extends,

boundless as the ocean; it has nothing to fetter our view but the deep

blue canopy of Heaven. No brown chain of mountains surrounds it; no

ice-covered peaks are gilded by the rays of the rising sun!

Plain of Hungary! Thy luxuriant vegetation withers where it stands; thy

rivers flow in silence among their reed-covered banks: Nature has denied

thee the grandeur of mountain scenery, the soft beauty of the valley,

and the majestic shade of the forest, and the wayfaring man who

traverses thee will not, in later years, think of one _single_ beauty

which reminds him of thee; but he will never forget the awe he felt when

he stood admiring thy vastness; when the rising sun poured his golden

light on thee; or when, in the sultry hours of noon, the _Fata Morgana_

covered thy shadeless expanse with flowery lakes of fresh swelling

waters, like the scorched-up land's dream of the sea which covered it,

before the waters of the Danube had forced their way through the rocks

of the _Iron Gate_; or at night, when darkness was spread over the

silent heath, when the stars were bright in the sky, and the herdsmen's

fires shone over the plain, and when all was so still that the breeze of

the evening came to the wanderer's ears, sighing amidst the high grass.

And what was the feeling which filled his breast in such moments? It

was perhaps less distinct than the sensations which the wonders of

Alpine scenery caused in him; but it was grander still, for thou, too,

boundless Plain of my country, thou, too, art more grand than the

mountains of this earth. A peer art thou of the unmeasured ocean,

deep-coloured and boundless like the sea, imparting a freer pulsation to

the heart, extending onward, and far as the eye can reach!

Vast Plain, thou art the image of my people. Hopeful, but solitary; thou

art made to bless generations by the profuseness of thy wealth. The

energies which God gave thee are still slumbering; and the centuries

which have passed over thee have departed without seeing the day of thy

gladness! But thy genius, though hidden, is mighty within thee! Thy very

weeds, in their profusion, proclaim thy fertility; and there is a boding

voice in my heart which tells me that the great time is at hand. Plain

of my country, mayst thou flourish! and may the people flourish which

inhabit thee! Happy he who sees the day of thy glory; and happy those

whose present affliction is lightened by the consciousness that they are

devoting their energies to prepare the way for that better time which is

sure to come!

NOTES TO VOL. III.

NOTE I.

KITCHEN-PRISONER.

In all matters of internal management, the Hungarian prisons have always

been arranged on the self-supporting system. While the service of the

house, the feeding and airing, and the discipline, were in the hands of

the haiduks, who acted as turnkeys, the meaner work was done by the

prisoners. A few of them were always chosen to clean the wards and

cellars, to sweep the yard, to cook the prisoners' dinners, and (not

unfrequently) to assist the servants of those among the magistrates who

occupied chambers in the county-house. The men who were used for this

kind of work were called "_kitchen-prisoners_;" and as the occupation

was not only a distinction but also a means of making them comfortable,

the post was eagerly competed for. So accustomed were the magistrates to

see certain functions discharged by prisoners instead of by free men,

that once upon a time, when not a single evil-doer was confined in the

county gaol of Wieselburg, and when the haiduks refused to sweep, char,

and cook, such occupations being "_infra dig._," the worshipful

magistrates assembled, and, for the purpose of putting an end to so

disgraceful a state of things, resolved to _hire a prisoner_, meaning

thereby the engaging of a person who, for a certain pecuniary

consideration, would condescend to act as servant to the turnkeys. This

resolution was carried out, and the man whom they engaged was ever

afterwards designated by the name of "_The hired kitchen-prisoner_."

NOTE II.

AGONY.

The Hungarian criminal law held that the moral sufferings of a culprit

on the eve of execution are quite as severe a punishment as death

itself. Hence, if a culprit was hanged, and the rope broke, he was

usually released. A free pardon was also granted to those whom the

headsman failed to kill in three blows. If a culprit escaped, the

circumstance that he had been ordered to be executed, and that he had

suffered "_the agonies_," was a great point in his favour whenever he

was recaptured and brought to trial.

NOTE III.

URBARIUM.

Whatever travellers and politicians may have asserted to the contrary,

Hungary has not, for many years back, known any privileges of race. Her

social and legislative distinctions were founded on _class privileges_.

In the very first year of her history we find, indeed, a distinction

between a governing and a governed race. When Arpad invaded the country,

his companions and the aborigines who joined him were free. But the

majority of the Slowaks, who opposed him, were defeated and reduced to

servitude. The number of the serfs was increased by the frequent

predatory excursions into Southern Germany, Greece, and Upper Italy, in

which the followers of Arpad indulged, and from which they returned with

treasures, cattle, and captives. The latter remained as bondsmen on

Hungarian soil.

When St. Stephen, king of Hungary, induced his people to embrace the

Christian faith (in the year 1000), all Christians, even the serfs, and

all converts to Christianity, became free men; but all heathens were

reduced to, and remained in, servitude. Hence many nationalities were

emancipated, while part of the original Magyars became serfs. This is

the origin of the Hungarian _peasantry_.

In the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, the Hungarian

peasant had ceased to be a serf. He was merely "_glebæ adscriptus_," and

bound to a _robot_; that is to say, he was compelled to work for two

days each week for the benefit of the lord of the soil. In return, a

certain portion of land (from thirty to forty acres) was ceded to him,

and he was compelled to pay tithes to the church. The landlord had no

right to remove him from his _cession_.

In the fourteenth century, the _robot_, or labour rent, was increased,

and the peasantry were moreover obliged to give one ninth of their

harvests to the landlord, but, on the other hand, they were freed from

military service. The noblemen, or, more justly speaking, the franklins,

alone defended the country against foreign invasions. At a later period,

when the Turkish wars commenced, the attacks of that hardy, numerous,

and warlike race, placed Hungary in great jeopardy, and the franklins,

awed and terrified beyond measure, summoned the peasants to defend the

country. A law was passed compelling twenty _cessions_ to produce,

equip, and maintain in the field _one_ soldier; and the men who were

thus raised were called _hussars_, from _hus_, which means twenty. The

derivation of the name was of course speedily forgotten; and in later

years the Hungarian cavalry used to boast that they were called

_hussars_ because each man of them was a match for twenty.[36]

[Footnote 36: The nickname of the Hungarian infantry was Cherepai, or

double dealers, because it was asserted that in the exchange of

prisoners, two Turks were given for one Hungarian foot-soldier.]

In the year 1512, Cardinal Bakatsh, the archbishop of Gran, thought

proper to preach a crusade against the Turks, and to exhort the

peasantry to rally round the standard of the cross. They obeyed the call

with great readiness, but once assembled and in arms, they advanced some

new and dangerous doctrines. Property, they said, ought to be equally

divided. No one was entitled to one inch more of ground than his

neighbour. They protested that they saw no necessity for lords and

magnates, and as for the king, they put him down as a luxury. Their cry

was that Hungary was large enough for all to live in plenty, if the land

were equally divided. For the furtherance of their doctrine, and for the

purpose of giving a practical proof of their thesis, "that there was

room and plenty for all," they attacked and slaughtered, not the Turks,

but their landlords, and all other opponents of their fraternal

democracy. Some priests who joined them directed their destructive

fanaticism against the church, and, under the cry of religious and

political liberty, all ecclesiastical and secular government was

declared to be vicious and damnable.

This insurrection was at its height, when the franklins and magnates of

Hungary assembled under John Zapolya (afterwards King John), the

Voyewode of Transylvania. A war of extermination commenced, and the

forces of the fraternal democrats were eventually routed in a fierce

battle, which was fought near Szegedin. Their leader, George Dozsa, fell

into the hands of John Zapolya, who ordered him to be placed on a

red-hot iron throne, while his temples were scorched by an iron crown.

The other leaders of the insurrection were hanged, broken on the wheel,

and quartered. The Diet, which assembled immediately afterwards,

declared that the peasants had forfeited all their rights. They were

degraded to the state of serfs, _ad perpetuam rusticitatem_; that is to

say, they could never purchase their emancipation, and rise to the

estate of citizens or franklins.

Fifty years later, we find some laws which prove that this cruel decree

was "more honoured in the breach than the observance." The peasants have

returned to their robot of two days each week; but nevertheless their

condition is extremely precarious, for the law of the land is still

against them, and whatever privileges they enjoy, they hold them, not by

right, but by indulgence.

In 1715 occurs the first introduction of a standing army and of war

taxes. The landowners refused to pay these taxes, because they

protested that, as they were the proprietors of the land, and as every

burden on the peasant was a burden on his landlord, it followed that all

that the peasants paid was in reality paid by them, and that to tax

peasant and landlord meant no more than taxing the latter twice. The war

taxes were consequently paid by the peasantry. But as these taxes rested

and depended on the tenure of the peasants, the government considered

itself entitled to protect them against the encroachments of the

landowners, and to establish them irrevocably in their _cessions_.

In 1764, the Empress Maria Theresa proposed a law to the Diet regulating

and determining the duties and rights of the peasantry. The Diet found

fault with the details of the bill, and rejected it. The Empress

convoked no other Diet, but, deviating from the course of the law, she

decreed that the bill should be enforced throughout Hungary by means of

Royal Commissioners. The Estates of Hungary demurred against this

decree, not only because the clauses of the bill were utterly

impracticable, but also because the interference of Royal Commissioners

was a source of great annoyance to the Hungarian magistrates and landed

proprietors. The Hungarian Chancery and the Home Office supported the

Diet in the question of details, because it was impossible to make one

rule suffice for the whole country. One councillor only, M. Izdenczy,

declared that the thing could be done, and he volunteered to prepare the

code, if the Empress consented to let him have an unlimited quantity of

Tokay from her cellars. His wish was complied with, and he undertook and

finished his gigantic task in the year 1771. His code was that very

year introduced throughout Hungary under the name of _Urbarium_.

Izdenczy's work has a strong resemblance to the Doomsday Book. Every

village within the Hungarian countries and crownlands has its own

Urbarium put down in it, stating the number of cessions, and describing

the various tenures, burdens, and local rights (right of wood and

turf-cutting, of pasturage, &c.) of the peasants.

The next Diet met in 1790, and memorialised the Crown about the _manner_

in which the law had been introduced; but no complaints were made of the

law itself, which obtained a provisional ratification under the

condition of a future revision. But the French wars compelled the Diet

to devote all its energies to matters of greater urgency, viz. to the

defence and preservation of the House of Hapsburg. At a later period the

subject would have been resumed but for the necessity under which the

Hungarians were to struggle for their constitution against the attacks

of the Emperor Francis; but still the revision of the Urbarium, though

long delayed, was at length finished in 1836 and 1839. The revised work

was far more liberal than the Urbarium of Maria Theresa: it tended to

equalise the rights and duties of the peasants; and its leading

principle was, that in no single case the condition of the peasantry

should be harder than it was in the most favoured localities in the

times of Maria Theresa. Exceptional rights were thus made general;

emancipation was henceforth possible, and attainable even by common

energy and industry. But the act of the free and unfettered emancipation

was voted by the Diet of 1848, on the motion and by the influence of M.

Kossuth, who, while he abolished the Urbarium, induced the Diet likewise

to provide for the indemnification of the landowners. The present

emperor of Austria has revoked all the laws of 1848; but he did not

venture to repeal the Emancipation Bill. Nothing has, indeed, transpired

as to what the Austrian government proposes to do respecting the

indemnification of the landed proprietors.

NOTE IV.

TRIPARTITUM.

Hungary had at no time a systematic code of civil laws, although several

jurists attempted to codify the Hungarian common law and the cases in

which it was modified by statutes. Their zeal was great, for, from the

earliest times, the Hungarian lawyers found it necessary to protect

their institutions against the encroachments of the royal prerogative,

which were the more frequent and formidable as several of the kings were

not only princes in Hungary, but also sovereigns of other countries.

Sigismund, for instance, was emperor of Germany, and king of Bohemia and

Hungary. Uladislaw I. ruled over Poland and Hungary; while Ladislaw

Posthumus, Uladislaw II., and Louis II., united the two crowns of

Bohemia and Hungary. At length Uladislaw II., who was a weak prince, and

who was nicknamed _Doborze_, from his habit of saying "Well! well!" to

everything which happened, consented to the urgent entreaties of the

Diet that the common law should be codified; and _Verbötzi_, the leader

of the opposition and a good lawyer, was instructed to compile a code

of laws. He published his work under the title of "_Opus Tripartitum

juris Hungarici_."

Verbötzi was afterwards appointed to the post of Palatine; but he was

overthrown by a junta of magnates, because they considered him as a

radical and a friend to the _bourgeoisie_. They protested that his work

was injurious to their privileges. Before the Tripartitum could be

submitted to the Diet, King Louis II. (Uladislaw's successor) died in

the battle of Mohatsh (1526). His death was the cause of a war of

succession between King John Zapolya, Prince of Grosswarasdin, and King

Ferdinand of Hapsburg. Verbötzi, who exerted himself on King John's

behalf, and who was banished by King Ferdinand, took refuge with the

Turks, who appointed him to the post of Cadi for the Christian

inhabitants of the district of Buda, where he eventually died. After his

death, the work of the exiled outlaw became the highest authority of

Hungarian jurisprudence and the standard of common law. It was never

formally enacted by the Diets; but as the kings of Austrian extraction

considered the Tripartitum as injurious to the privileges of the Crown,

they compiled another code of laws, which they published under the name

of "_Quadripartitum_" and in which they set forth and enlarged upon the

royal prerogatives. But the Quadripartitum was rejected by the Diet, who

thus acknowledged the authority of Verbötzi's Tripartitum, which since

that time has not only been considered as law, but as an integral part

of the constitution; and in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries we

meet with various statutes of the Diet, interpreting or repealing

certain paragraphs of the Tripartitum.

The most important parts of the Tripartitum are those treating of the

rights of the nobility (Trip. part i. ch. 4-9.); part ii. chap. 3., "Qui

possint condere leges et statuta;" and part iii. chap. 2. "Utrum

quilibet populus vel comitatus possit per se condere statuta."

The theory of voting in Verbötzi's work is extraordinary in its way. He

has a maxim that the votes are to be weighed and not counted ("non

numeranda sed ponderanda"), and consequently he speaks of a "pars

sanior" of the community, and defends his doctrine by the following

reasoning:--

"Verum si populus (_i. e._ nobilitas, part ii. ch. 4.) in duas

divideretur partes, tunc constitutio _sanioris_ et potioris partis

valet. Sanior et potior pars autem ilia dicitur, in qua _dignitate_ et

_scientiâ_ fuerint _præstantiores_ atque _notabiliores_"--Verbötzi,

Trip. part iii. ch. 8. s. 2.

Among the numerous peculiarities of the work, we find "capital

punishment with a vengeance" (poena mortis cum exasperatione) pronounced

against those who maliciously kill any member of the Diet in the course

of the session.

"Præmissorum nihilominus malitiosi sub Diæta occisores aut occidi

procurantes præviâ tamen citatione _poenâ mortis cum exasperatione_

condemnentur."

Another obsolete punishment is that of making a man an "Aukarius." It is

provided by law that the slanderers of magistrates shall be condemned to

the "poena infamiæ;" and, in explanation of this punishment, we learn

that the culprit shall be made "ut omni humanitate exuatur." He is

struck with what the Code Napoleon would term "mort civile," and, in

token of his condemnation, a _rope_ is tied round the culprit's body

(the rope being the mark of infamy, which monks wear to show that they

have resigned the pomps and vanities of this wicked world), and as the

sentence is being publicly read to him, a _goose_ is placed into his

hands. The Hungarian word for goose is _oeke_, and from thence the Latin

name of the person so treated is _Aukarius_.

NOTE V.

HAIDUKS ON HORSEBACK.

The hussars are the Hungarian cavalry, while the haiduks or pandurs are

foot-soldiers. Both hussars and pandurs act as county police. Whenever

the _statarium_ was proclaimed in any county, the _persecutor_, or chief

of the county police, was instructed to provide horses for a reasonable

number of haiduks, and to send them in quest of robbers.

END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

LONDON:

SPOTTISWOODES and SHAW,

New-street-Square.

Transcriber's Note: This novel was originally published in three

volumes, without a table of contents. The title pages for the second and

third volumes have been omitted, and a table of contents has been

created for this electronic edition. Also, the following typographical

errors present in the original edition have been corrected.

In the Preface, "attempted to pourtray" was changed to "attempted to

portray".

In Volume I, Chapter IV, "Had it not been for the younker Akosh" was

changed to "Had it not been for the younger Akosh".

In Volume I, Chapter V, a period was added after "know him as I know

him", "gave Mr. Kislaki to understand" was changed to "gave Mr. Kishlaki

to understand", and "Baron Shoskuti; and Mr. Kriver, the recorder" was

changed to "Baron Shoskuty; and Mr. Kriver, the recorder".

In Volume I, Chapter VI, a quotation mark was added after "the same as

they were before".

In Volume I, Chapter VII, a period was added after "afraid for their

money".

In Volume I, Chapter VIII, "an argument on Vetsöshi's abilities" was

changed to "an argument on Vetshösy's abilities".

In Volume I, Chapter X, "Dont stand losing your time" was changed to

"Don't stand losing your time".

In Volume I, Chapter XI, "his wife---- can" was changed to "his

wife----can", and a quotation mark was added before "I didn't think I

could be happier".

In Volume II, Chapter II, a quotation mark was added before "Od's

wounds!".

In Volume II, Chapter III, "its not a gentleman's carriage" was changed

to "it's not a gentleman's carriage", "an iron gripe" was changed to "an

iron grip", and "Even Messrs Skinner and Catspaw" was changed to "Even

Messrs. Skinner and Catspaw".

In Volume II, Chapter V, "if Mr. Skinner's likes it better" was changed

to "if Mr. Skinner likes it better", "be took another parcel" was

changed to "he took another parcel", a period was added after "still

smiling", "as Skoskuty called it" was changed to "as Shoskuty called

it", "a resolulution to that effect" was changed to "a resolution to

that effect", and "sighed Kisklaki" was changed to "sighed Kishlaki".

In Volume II, Chapter VIII, "to keep them sober" was changed to "To keep

them sober".

In Volume II, Chapter X, "knew to be an accessary" was changed to "knew

to be an accessory".

In Volume III, Chapter I, "Do not distress youselves" was changed to "Do

not distress yourselves".

In Volume III, Chapter II, a quotation mark was added after "nothing can

be easier to Mr. Tengelyi".

In Volume III, Chapter III, "the keeper of Dustbury goal allowed each

prisoner" was changed to "the keeper of Dustbury gaol allowed each

prisoner", "hade made the cold" was changed to "had made the cold", and

"utterly digusted with this resolution" was changed to "utterly

disgusted with this resolution".

In Volume III, Chapter V, a period was added after "retorted Rety", and

"not allowed to, abandon her" was changed to "not allowed to abandon

her".

In Volume III, Chapter VI, "said Jonash, shaking his head" was changed

to "said Janosh, shaking his head".

In Volume III, Chapter VIII, a quotation mark was added before "Is there

no means of salvation?".

In Volume III, Chapter IX, "It's true I havn't seen him" was changed to

"It's true I haven't seen him", and "dotted with flocks and herds of

cattle and and horses" was changed to "dotted with flocks and herds of

cattle and horses".