WIFE AND ODALISQUE
Since that painful interview Madame Banfy had not seen her husband.
Fate had willed that Banfy should remain away continually; he was
hardly back from the assembly at Karlsburg when he was called to
Somlyo where his troops had taken a stand against the Turks. During
the few hours he had spent in his house in the intervals, his wife had
secluded herself from him and had not admitted any of the retinue to
her presence. She did not leave her room, and received nobody.
One day both husband and wife were invited to be god-parents at
Roppand, in the house of Gabriel Vitez to whom a son had been born,
and who knew nothing of the existing variance. It was impossible to
refuse the invitation. On the appointed day Madame Banfy from
Bonczida, and her husband from Somlyo, to their mutual surprise met at
the house of rejoicing. At first they shrank from meeting each other;
their inclination had long sought such a meeting but pride had
restrained them. So they were both glad and indignant at this accident
but could not express both feelings. In a circle of friends their
conduct must be such that no one should know that this meeting was not
of daily occurrence with them.
Toward the close of the festivity and banquet, which lasted until late
at night, Vitez took care that all his guests should be lodged with
due comfort. The wives were with their husbands, the young girls had
an apartment to themselves and the young men the rooms assigned to the
hunters.
For Banfy and his wife a pavilion in the garden had been fitted up,
which promised to be the quietest spot as it was quite separated from
the noisy court. As an especial mark of attention the master himself
conducted them there. It had been some time since they had slept under
the same roof but in the presence of so many acquaintances they could
not show their feelings and were compelled to accept the provision
made for them. It was not enough to accompany them there himself but
the host indulged in many jests and finally left them alone after many
times wishing them good-night.
The pavilion consisted of two adjoining rooms. They looked very
pleasant; in one of them a merry fire blazed high in the chimney and
the tall clock in the corner ticked familiarly. Behind the parted
brocade curtains of the high bed were seen the snow-white feather-beds
inviting to rest, and two small red-bordered pillows on them. In the
other room partly lighted by the firelight was a sofa covered with a
bear's skin and with one cushion of deerskin. Evidently it had not
been expected that anybody would sleep here.
Banfy looked at his wife sadly. Now for the first time, since he could
no longer come near her he saw what a treasure he had had in this
beautiful and noble woman. Gentle, sorrowful, with eyes downcast, his
wife stood before him. In her heart too many traitorous feelings were
pleading for her husband. Pride and injured wifely dignity, that
inflexible judge, began almost to waver. In a noble heart love does
not give way to hatred but to pain.
Banfy stepped nearer to his wife, took her hand in his and pressed it.
He felt the hand tremble, but there was no return of his pressure. He
kissed her gently on the forehead, cheeks and lips: the lady permitted
this but without return, and yet--had she looked up at her husband she
would have seen in his eyes two tears of most sincere penitence. Banfy
sat down speechless with a sigh, still holding Margaret's hand in his.
It needed only a friendly word from his wife and he would have thrown
himself at her feet and wept like a repentant child. Instead of that
Madame Banfy with a self-denying affectation said:
"Do you wish to stay in this room and shall I go into the other?" Her
frosty tone touched Banfy. He sighed deeply and his eyes looked
sorrowfully at the Paradise closed against him by his wife's joyless
countenance. Sadly he rose from the chair, drew his wife's hand to his
lips, whispered a barely audible "Good-night" and with unsteady steps
entered the next room and closed the door.
Madame Banfy made ready to undress, but sorrow filled her heart and
she threw herself on the bed, buried her face in her hands and
remained lost in grief.
Can there be a greater pain than when the heart struggles with its own
feelings, than when a wife attains to the conviction that the ideal of
her love whom she adored next to God, is only an ordinary man, and
that the man whom she had loved so devotedly is deserving only of her
contempt? yet she is not able to stop loving him. She feels that she
must hate him and separate herself from him; she knows that she cannot
live without him; she would gladly die for him and yet no opportunity
for death offers. Only an unlocked door separated them,--they were
only a few steps apart. How small the distance and yet how great!
She sank into a deep revery. The fire had entirely burned down and the
room was growing darker and darker. Only the woman's figure with her
head buried in her hands was still lighted by the glowing coals.
Suddenly it seemed to her in the stillness of the night and of her
thoughts, as if she heard whispers and stealthy steps at the door.
Madame Banfy really did hear this but she was in that first sleep when
we hear without noticing what we hear; when we know what passes
without heed. There was a whispering outside the window too, and it
seemed to her that she heard besides a slight noise of swords. Half
asleep, half awake, she thought she had risen and bolted the door but
this was only a dream; the door was not fastened. Then there was the
noise of the latch--she dreamed that her husband came out to her and
entreated her.
"Let us separate, Banfy," she tried to say, but the words died on her
lips. The figure in the dream whispered to her, "I am not Banfy, but
the headsman," and took her by the hand. At this cold touch Madame
Banfy cried out in terror and awoke. Two men stood before her with
daggers drawn. The lady looked at them with a shudder; both were
well-known figures; one was Caspar Kornis, Captain at Maros, and the
other was John Daczo, Captain at Csik, who stood there threatening her
with the points of their bared daggers at her breast.
"No noise, my gracious lady!" said Daczo, sternly. "Where is Banfy?"
The lady, wakened from her first sleep, could scarcely distinguish the
objects about her. Terror robbed her of speech. Suddenly she noticed
through the door that the passage-way was filled with armed men and
with that sight her presence of mind seemed to return at once. She
took in the significance of the moment and when Daczo, gnashing his
teeth once more asked where Banfy was she sprang up, ran to the door
opening to her husband's room, turned the key quickly and shouted with
all her might:
"Banfy, save yourself! They want your life!"
Daczo ran forward to stop the woman's mouth and wrest the key from
her. With rare presence of mind Madame Banfy threw the key into the
coals and cried:
"Flee, Banfy, your enemies are here!"
Daczo tried to get the key out of the coals and burned his hand badly;
still more infuriated he rushed at the lady with his dagger unsheathed
intending to thrust her through, but Kornis held him back.
"Stop, my lord, we have no orders to kill the lady nor would it be
worthy of us. Let us rather break in the door as quickly as possible."
Both men pushed with their shoulders against the door, Daczo cursing
by all the devils, while Madame Banfy on her knees prayed God her
husband might escape.
* * * * *
Banfy had fallen asleep and he too had a distressing dream. He
thought he was in prison, and when Margaret's cry rang out he sprang
in terror from his couch, tore open the window of the pavilion without
stopping to think and with one bound was in the garden. Here he looked
round him quickly. The house was surrounded on all sides by armed
Szeklers and the rear of the garden was bordered by a broad ditch
filled with stagnant rain-water. Among the foot-soldiers was a group
of four or five stable boys standing beside the horses from which the
leaders had just dismounted. There was no time to plan. Under cover of
the darkness Banfy hurried up to one of the servants, struck him a
blow that made the blood flow from nose and mouth, sprang on the horse
he was holding and struck the stirrup into its flank. At the outcry of
the servant thrown down by the horse but still holding to the halter
the Szeklers came running up with wild cries. It suddenly occurred to
Banfy to put his hand in the saddlebags where there were always
pistols, and seizing one he fired two shots into the crowd pressing
about him. In the confusion that resulted he made his horse rear and
fled through the garden. The stable boy still clung to the halter and
was dragged along until his head struck against the trunk of a tree
and he lay there senseless. Banfy galloped to the ditch and crossed it
with a bold leap. His pursuers dared not follow him and had to go
round by the gate, by which Banfy gained on them several hundred
paces, gave rein to the beast, maddened by the noise of pursuit, and
chased away over sticks and stones, hills and valleys, without aim or
direction.
* * * * *
"A curse on the woman!" growled Daczo, when he learned that Banfy had
succeeded in escaping, and he threatened the wife with clenched fist.
"You are to blame that Banfy has escaped us!"
"Thanks to Thee, Almighty God!" said Margaret, with hands upraised to
heaven.
The Szeklers, exasperated at the husband's escape, rushed at the wife
with weapons aimed to kill her.
"Let her die!" "Death on her head!" they roared, with inhuman fury.
"Kill me. I shall be glad to die," said Margaret, kneeling before
them. "I had only that one wish left, to be able to die for him. I am
in God's hand."
"Get away from here!" cried out Kornis; struck down the Szeklers'
weapons with his sword and covered the kneeling woman with his long
cloak.
"Are you not ashamed of yourselves! Would you kill a woman, you mob
more pagan than Tartar! Since you have let Banfy escape, go after
him!"
"We will kill her!" "We will put an end to her!" roared the Szeklers,
and tried to pull Kornis away.
"You cursed beasts! who is in command here? am I not your captain?"
"Not ours," replied a stiff-necked Szekler. "Our captain is Nicholas
Bethlen and he is not here!"
"Go find him. But first one word; if a man stays in this room I'll
crush him to pulp!"
This did not humble the Szeklers, however, until some one cried: "Let
us go to Bonczida!" The others took up the cry "To Bonczida!" and went
off with loud curses and in great disorder.
Caspar Kornis took Madame Banfy at once to a carriage and had her
driven to Bethlen castle, which was at that time Beldi's property,
hoping that if Banfy knew his wife were imprisoned he would be more
manageable.
* * * * *
After Dionysius Banfy had freed himself from the snare set and the
sound of the pursuit grew faint, he began to take his bearings in the
starry night, and chose his way so successfully through forests and
over stubble fields that by daybreak the towers of Klausenburg were in
sight. Rage now took the place of fear. At first he thought that the
night attack had been only an attempt of his personal enemies, planned
without the knowledge of the Prince by those who knew well that it
was easier to get approval for a deed done than for one to be done.
But the attempt had not succeeded and the lion escaped from the toils
of his foes had still strength enough and the will necessary to turn
on his pursuers and impress them with respect for the law.
In the open field outside the town Banfy's troops were going through
their manoeuvres in the early morning, when their leader rode up to
them with haggard face, head bare, without his caftan and without his
weapons. His chief men hurried to him in terror and met him with a
questioning look.
"I have just escaped from a murderous attack," said Banfy, with husky
voice and breathing hard. "My enemies fell upon me; I have escaped but
my wife is in their hands. By their voices I recognized Kornis and
Daczo among my pursuers."
"In fact Daczo's name is worked on the trappings of this horse," said
Michael Angyal, who came up just then.
Banfy's face was perturbed as if he could get no clear idea of either
past or present.
"I cannot understand the whole affair. If the attack followed a
command of the Prince then there must have been a suit, a summons or
certainly a sentence. If it was only private revenge then my hand is
more than a match for both these good Szeklers. In that case stay here
outside the city ready for an attack, while I hurry back to my
castle. In a few hours I shall know what course we must take."
Banfy rode into town accompanied by Michael Angyal. As he turned the
corner of his palace he had to pass the place where Madame
Szent-Pali's house had stood. Only a corner stone was left, and as
Banfy chanced to look that way he saw sitting on this one stone the
former mistress of the house, who was waiting there for the lord with
her face lighted with fiendish joy, and as he turned his head aside
greeted him mockingly.
"Good-morning, my gracious lord."
But Banfy galloped on defiantly. At the castle gate his steward from
Bonczida was already waiting for him. After the Szeklers had forced
their way into Bonczida he had escaped; but not willing to make a
sensation with his Job's message had told nobody, and now only
whispered briefly to his lord that everything in the castle from top
to bottom was upturned and that the Szeklers had entertained
themselves after their own heart. Banfy answered not a word. He called
for his armor and his war-horse and made his preparations quietly.
"My gracious lord would perhaps do well to make haste," urged the
steward. "The Szeklers are already in the house."
"It is well," answered Banfy, pacing up and down with folded arms.
"No, my gracious lord, it is not well. They have destroyed everything
in the rooms, cut the carpets, divided up the valuables, let the wine
in the cellar run out and finally stolen the horses."
"It is no matter," answered the magnate, gloomily. What did he care at
that moment for all the valuables, wine or riding horses?
"They have done even more, my lord. They have forced their way into
your wife's sleeping-room, used the portrait of the gracious lady as a
target and disfigured it horribly."
"What! the portrait of my wife!" cried Banfy, laying his hand on his
sword. "The portrait of my wife did you say?" he repeated, with
flashing eyes. "Ah," he cried, tearing his sword from its sheath and
turning his face upward with an expression never before seen on it. He
was like an exasperated tiger in chains, with bloodshot eyes, thick
swollen veins in his brow and bloodthirsty lips.
"May God have mercy on them!" he cried out in a fearful voice, and
throwing himself on his horse rode out to his troops.
"My friends," he cried, before he reached the ranks, "a swarm of
hornets has fallen on my castle and plundered it. They have destroyed
everything in my rooms, cleared my stables, robbed my family
treasures; but I care not for that, let them gorge their fill, let
them have what they never knew before, let them steal me even, I
should still be master and even after this robbery, with one hand
could pay off all these beggarly Szekler princes. But they have abused
the portrait of my wife--of my wife! And I will have my revenge for
it--a frightful revenge! Follow me. The trees in the garden at
Bonczida have not borne any fruit for some time now but they shall
bear some."
The general battle-cry of the troops showed that the army was ready to
follow Banfy. The leaders drew up their men in ranks and the trumpet
had sounded the second time when a company of twelve horsemen came in
sight of Banfy's army. In the central figure they recognized the
herald of the Prince, a broad-shouldered man of giant size who rode up
to Banfy and the officers around him, and said:
"Halt!"
"We are halting. If you have eyes you can see," said Michael Angyal.
"In the name of his Excellency the Prince I summon you, Dionysius
Banfy, to appear in three days before the court in Karlsburg to defend
yourself in legal form against the indictment found against you. Until
that time your wife remains in custody, as hostage for your deeds."
"We will come," replied Michael Angyal. "You can see for yourself that
we were on the point of starting out only we did not know until now
which way to go."
"Still, my lord captain!" said Banfy. "One should not use mockery with
a messenger from the Prince." The messenger turned then to the
officers:
"This summons does not concern you. For you I have another message to
give in the name of the Prince."
"You may keep it to yourself or I will say something to you that will
make your ears tingle," sneered the captain, aiming his pistol at the
herald.
"Down with your pistol!" Banfy called out to him. "Let him give the
Prince's message. Give him opportunity to speak freely."
The herald straightened himself in his saddle and surveying the
soldiers said in a loud voice:
"The Prince forbids you to give further obedience to Banfy; any man
that takes up weapons for him is a traitor to his country."
"That's what you are yourself," growled Michael Angyal.
The next moment the disorganized troops had turned with rage and
threats toward the herald: a hundred swords flashed at the same time
above his head.
"Stop!" said Banfy, in a thundering voice and at the same time
standing before the herald. "The life of this man is sacred and
inviolable. Keep your places. Let no man put his hand to his sword. I
order you--I, your leader."
"Three cheers!" shouted the brigades, and at the word of command
formed in ranks and stood like a wall.
"You will not bear me ill-will," said Banfy to the herald who had
turned pale, "that these men have this once more obeyed me. Go back to
your Prince and tell him that I will appear before him within three
days."
"We will be there too," shouted the captain. The herald and his
retinue moved away. Banfy dropped his head in deep thought. The
trumpet sounded, for the banners were unfurled, but Banfy still stared
into space, speechless, heavy-hearted and gloomy.
"Draw your sword, my lord," Angyal said to him. "Put yourself at our
head and let us start, first for Bonczida, and then for Karlsburg."
"What is that you say?" said Banfy. "What do you mean?"
"Why, that since the law has expressed itself by the sword, the sword
shall be our defence."
"Such a case at law would be called civil war."
"We did not start it: neither shall we add fuel to the flame."
"It is no longer a war against my personal enemies but against the
Prince, and he is the head of our country."
"And you are his right hand. If they are going to light the torch of
war in the country it shall not be extinguished in your blood."
"And why should my blood flow for that? have I committed a capital
crime? can anybody accuse me of such?"
"You are powerful and that is reason enough to kill you."
"It is all the same to me. I will go and what is more, alone. My wife
is in their hands. They have it in their power to make me suffer their
vengeance. If there were no other reason for my appearing, to set her
free is my duty as a knight."
"With weapons you can set her free more easily, and also yourself."
"I have nothing to fear. I have never done anything for which I need
blush in the sight of the law. Even if they should intrigue against
me, still stay here, summon my troops at Somlyo and throw yourself
into the breach there when injustice is practiced against me."
"Oh, my lord, the army is worth nothing when its leader has
surrendered himself. To-day it would still go through fire for you and
be ready to hail you as Prince; but to-morrow if it should learn that
you had obeyed the summons it would disband and deny you."
"You must not tell any one of my intention. I will take a carriage at
once and drive to Karlsburg; you tell the troops that I have gone to
Somlyo to collect the rest of my army; keep them together under good
discipline, till news of me comes."
With that Banfy rode off to Klausenburg, while Michael Angyal sullenly
sheathed his sword and proclaimed to the troops that they might go to
rest in case they were tired.
* * * * *
An hour later we see Banfy in a carriage drawn by five horses, rolling
along the way to Torda. A servant on horse led by the bridle a
saddle-horse. The farther Banfy separated himself from the seat of his
power the greater his anxiety became; his soul was irresolute and he
began to see spectres brought nearer by every step forward. Pride
alone kept him from changing his purpose. Everything seemed to him
different from what it had formerly been. He thought he read the
feelings toward him of those whom he met, in their faces and forms of
greeting; if anybody smiled he thought it was from pity, if the
greeting was sullen he saw hatred. Now he stopped and questioned all
those with whom he had even the slightest acquaintance; people whom he
formerly deemed unworthy of a glance or else looked down upon.
Misfortune recalls to the memory of men the faces of acquaintances,
and a man who once would have even repelled the hand-shake of a friend
now extends his hand to a foe while yet afar off.
Suddenly he saw that an open carriage was coming toward him from
Torda, and that the one seat was occupied by a man wrapped in a grey
duster, in whom Banfy as he rode past recognized Martin Koncz, the
Bishop of the Unitarians. He called to him to stop a moment. The
Bishop on account of the noise of the wheels did not hear him, took
off his hat and drove on. Banfy considered this an intentional
avoidance and looked upon it as a bad omen. The man who once had borne
all perils so lightly now shrank back before every fancy of his brain.
He ordered his carriage to stop, mounted his horse and told his
coachman to drive on to Torda and wait for him there. Then he galloped
after the Bishop's carriage. When the Bishop saw him riding up he had
his carriage stopped, while Banfy breathlessly shouted from a
distance:
"So then you will not enter into conversation with me?"
"At your good pleasure, my lord; I did not know that you wished to
speak with me."
"You know already what has happened to me, I suppose. What do you say
to it? what ought I to do?"
"In such a case my lord, it is as difficult to give advice as it is to
receive it."
"I have determined to obey the summons."
"As you say, my lord."
"I certainly have nothing to fear. I feel the justice of my cause."
"It is possible that you are in the right my lord, but you will
hardly receive justice for that reason. In the world of to-day
everything is possible."
Banfy caught the allusion. He had once used the same words to the
bishop and now he had not sufficient strength of soul to withdraw
proudly, but allowed himself to continue the discussion.
"It is true the Prince is my enemy, but the Princess has always
defended me and I can put confidence in her character."
"The relations between the Prince and his wife are at present
strained. It is said that he has even forbidden her to enter his
apartment."
This news seemed to stun Banfy, but one consoling thought was left to
him.
"I do not suppose they will venture to do me an injustice for they
know that I have troops in Somlyo and Klausenburg ready for action,
who may call them to account."
"My lord, it is difficult to lead an army when one is in prison; and
remember that a live dog is a more powerful beast than a dead lion."
These words caused a change in Banfy's decision. For some time he rode
along beside Koncz's carriage, still considering; after a long time he
replied gloomily:--"You are right," gave spurs to his horse and rode
back to Klausenburg, resolved not to be enticed away from the centre
of his troops.
When he reached the spot where barely six hours before the troops had
shouted their huzzas in his honor, to his great astonishment he came
upon a group of gypsies who seemed to be hunting for something on the
ground.
"What are you doing here?" he said, when he was in their midst. At
this question their chief came forward and recognizing Banfy, took off
his cap humbly.
"My gracious lord, the gypsies have come out to gather up the
cartridges which my lords the nobles had scattered here."
"Where are the noble lords now?"
"Oh, my gracious lord, some have gone in one way and some in another."
"What do you mean? Where have they gone?"
"When they found that your Grace had left Klausenburg, they scattered
to the four winds."
Banfy turned pale.
"And Michael Angyal?"
"He was the first to hurry away."
Banfy felt a dizziness seize him; tears stood in his eyes. Thus to be
deserted by all, by man, by fate and even by his own consciousness!
What was left to him of all his power! whither should he turn? what
should he plan? every way was closed to him. He could neither use the
sword nor fight with the arm of the law, nor flee. Mechanically he
allowed his horse to carry him on. With gloomy face he sat in his
saddle, staring vacantly at the ground and at the clouds. In heaven,
on earth even as in his own heart, all was desolate. Nowhere did he
find a place of refuge. The one passion of his soul, which had
entirely filled it, was pride. Now that this was gone the world was
empty. He rode on and on wherever his horse took him. Before him
stretched out great forests. He thought: "What lies beyond these
forests? high mountains; and what beyond those? still higher peaks;
and what further? summits of snow--and not a house to offer me
refuge." So at the first stroke did everybody turn from him? was the
man who the day before had ruled half Transylvania and had castles at
his disposal not to find a hut to shelter him that night? was he to be
an object of ridicule to his foes and not have the satisfaction of
being able to laugh in the hour of death? was he to die ingloriously
like a hunted beast? He considered how he could arrange it so that
since he must die at least he should not be derided after death.
Gradually an idea began to develop in his mind. With this thought the
color came back to his cheeks, and as if strengthening him to a
decision he heard an inner voice saying:
"Yes, thither, thither."
He turned the bridle of his horse toward the forest before him and
disappeared among the trees.
* * * * *
The storm raged, the trees creaked in the wind, the rain fell and the
swollen streams roared. The horizon was surrounded by steep rocks and
at their feet in a pathless valley a rider stumbled along, who from
the heights above looked like a mere ant. May God be gracious to him
in this storm, at night, in such a place! It is Gregyina-Drakuluj.
* * * * *
Before our eyes is a splendid Oriental apartment, hundreds of wax
candles are lighted, but the ceiling is too high for their gleam to
reach; two rows of columns support the heavy architrave, slender
columns with the heads of animals for capitals, such as are found in
Persian temples. The space between the columns is hung with bright
draperies, the walls are covered with arabesques. This was the hidden
apartment of the Devil's Garden, and the one who dwelt here, woman,
fairy or demon, was Azraele. Here she shaped the future, made endless
plans, dreamed of power and battles, and new countries in which she
should be queen, of new stars in which she should be the sun.
Suddenly she heard a sound as if some one had ridden over the vaulted
ceiling: steps were heard in the passage adjoining and there were
three knocks at the door. She sprang hurriedly from her couch, drew
the heavy bolts and pulled open the door. There stood Dionysius Banfy,
sad, silent and dispirited, with no greeting for this beautiful woman.
A shiver passed over him. It is true he wore a tiger-skin over his
usual clothing, but the heavy rain had penetrated it.
"You are wet through," said Azraele. "Warm yourself quickly. Come here
and rest."
With these words she drew Banfy to a sofa, took off his cloak and
covered him with her own lined with fur, and placed a cushion under
his feet. But Banfy was cold and silent. His misfortune seemed written
on his face even to a less keen eye and to a mind more free from
suspicion than Azraele's. It could not be concealed that his proud
features no longer bore the stamp of the lord in power but of a fallen
king, whose fall had been the lower since his height was great; who
had not come because he wished to leave all that was dear to him but
because he was left by everybody. Not for all the world would Azraele
have shown that she noticed the change in Banfy's face. She tripped
off like a doe and came back bearing a great silver tray of gold
drinking cups.
"Not the gold ones, they do not break when you throw them at the wall.
Let us have our wine in Venetian crystal." He seized the first glass
and said in bitter scorn, "This glass to my friends!" He drank it off
and hurled it in contempt to the wall where it was shattered to
pieces.
At once he seized a second. "This second glass to my enemies!" and
emptying the glass he hurled it with mad laughter into the air. It
went almost to the ceiling and when it fell dropped on a cushion, and
did not break.
"See, it mocks me still and is unbroken!" said Banfy, with blazing
eyes.
Azraele sprang up, caught up the glass and crushed it under her feet.
Then Banfy took the third glass.
"This glass for Transylvania!" And he emptied it, but when he had
taken it from his lips the smile died from his face and instead of
hurling it at the wall he set it on the table. A cold shudder ran
through his whole frame at the meaning of his own words, "This glass
for Transylvania!" He did not take his hand from the glass but
timorously attempted to raise it from the table, when the glass
without visible cause cracked and fell into fragments in his hand. The
diamond ring on his finger had scratched the glass and like all badly
cooled crystal, it went to pieces at the slightest scratch. Banfy
sprang back in terror as if he had seen an omen.
The girl took up his glass and with lips quivering with passion cried
out, "And this glass for love!"
The words recalled Banfy from his bewilderment to the present
surroundings.
"For me there is no love!"
"Your heart has been full of lofty plans. Fate had determined you to
be the ruler of a country and perhaps the hero of half a world,--a man
who should fill a page of history with his name."
"All that is past," said Banfy, "I am nobody and nothing!"
"Ah!" cried Azraele. "Have your enemies triumphed over you?"
"A curse upon their heads! I had sympathy and I fell."
"Is Csaki among them?"
"Yes, he pursues me most bitterly."
"And have all your faithful friends left you?"
"The fallen has no faithful friends."
"You could hire mercenaries and begin the fight. You certainly are
rich enough for that."
"My wealth has gone!"
"You might get help from a foreign country."
"I have fallen, and know what is before me--I must die! Yet my enemies
shall not have the triumph of making my death a festival and of
laughing when I am pale with death. I will die alone!"
"I will show you something!" and with these words she drew aside the
rug, lifted a trap-door and there was a low room, with thick short
columns among which casks were ranged.
"True," said Banfy, "that is the powder I hid there after John
Kemény's fall."
"See this long fuse," said Azraele, drawing forth a thick woolen cord
connected with the casks; "while all is still here below and above is
the roaring of the storm and your enemies, there shall come an
earth-shaking thunder which shall send the rocks crashing against one
another and carry word to heaven and hell that nobody need seek you
here on earth!"
"Azraele, you are a demon!"
An hour later the hall was dark; no light was visible except a glow as
of a fiery-eyed monster piercing the smoke, and a slowly creeping
snake of fire which ran along the length of the room. Banfy slept for
a long time then suddenly awakened. All was dark about him. His
bewildered brain required some time to recall who he was and why he
was there. He felt a cold breath of wind through the room and
presently he discovered that the door was open and the outer air was
pouring in. Gradually he recalled it all, and taking some coals from
the fire lighted a wax candle. This single light was not sufficient to
let him see through the entire room, but the first thing he saw was
the fuse cut in two. Pierced through with the cold air he drew his
cloak about him. A paper fell at his feet and taking it up he read
the following words:
"My lord, you read hearts poorly. You have forfeited your power and
when all had forsaken you you thought me alone faithful, who loved in
you only your power. The man who rises I adore: I hate the falling.
You should have taken Corsar Bey's fate for warning." . . . Banfy
could not read it through. His face was darkened with shame to be so
degraded.
"It is cowardice and disgrace for a man who has lived as I have to be
willing to die this way; for a man who has always faced his enemy to
hide himself away now in his last moments--shame on him! That I could
forget the wife who freed me from my enemy's hands by the sacrifice of
herself! It is not too late. I cannot save my life now but I can my
pride. No one hereafter shall boast that he betrayed me. My enemies
shall not say that I tried to hide from them and they found me. I will
go boldly into their presence as I should have done at first."
With this decision Banfy went out into the hidden court where he had
left his horse. To his surprise he found that it was not there; the
odalisque had taken it. At that he could but smile.
"I should regret it very much if she had not stolen me too at the same
time."
He went back into the hall, lighted again the fuse, came out again,
closed the iron door and made his way along the bank of the Szamos.
Toward noon he sat down on the bank to rest and had sat there hardly a
quarter of an hour when he heard the sound of horses' hoofs
approaching and looked up. The thicket concealed him and at the head
of an armed band of men he saw Ladislaus Csaki and Azraele riding on
one horse. The girl seemed to be pointing out something to him in the
direction of the cliffs, at which the man was evidently delighted.
Banfy smiled scornfully:--Poor Tartar! As soon as the band had passed
Banfy continued on his way. Soon he met in the forest a poor peasant
cutting wood.
"Do you know in which direction those armed men have gone?" he asked
him.
"Yes, my lord, they have gone to seize Dionysius Banfy. A great price
is set on his head."
"How much?"
"If a nobleman takes him, he is to receive an estate; if a peasant,
two hundred ducats."
"That is not much though I suppose it will be enough for you. I am
Dionysius Banfy."
The peasant took off his cap.
"Is there any place you wish me to guide you to, my lord?"
"Guide me to the place where they will pay you the two hundred
ducats."
* * * * *
In another quarter of an hour a frightful explosion reëchoed in the
mountains and made the earth quake for half a mile around. The
enchanted hollow of Gregyina-Drakuluj was in inaccessible confusion.
Fortunately for Csaki he had delayed a little, otherwise he with his
followers would have all been destroyed there. When he came back Banfy
had already been arrested and he robbed of the glory of having
captured his foe. He hurried at once to meet him and by way of
exquisite revenge took with him the odalisque who looked at Banfy as
coldly as if she had never seen him before. However, since Banfy had
voluntarily surrendered himself, he had quite regained his former
strength of spirit and looking down at Csaki, he said,
"So then, your Grace intends to wear my cast-off clothing from now
on."
Azraele hissed like a snake whose tail had been stepped on, when she
heard these words of biting scorn; while Csaki colored to his ears and
forced a smile.
"Does your Excellency wish any favor from me?" asked Csaki, with
insulting kindness.
"You have none to give and I have need of none. What I demand is that
since I have appeared,--yes, even under arrest without knowing why,
you shall now let my wife go free."
"So then at last you will go whimpering back to your wife?"
"That is not what I meant. I do not intend to go back to my wife; on
the contrary I wish that as soon as I am led into prison she shall be
set free from the same."
"It shall be as you wish, most gracious lord," replied Csaki, with
ironical friendliness.
Banfy gave him an unutterably contemptuous glance, turned to one of
the jailers present and began a conversation with him without giving
any further heed to the grandee.
* * * * *
When Teleki learned of Banfy's arrest he ordered him brought to
Bethlen castle at once. In Bethlen castle the provost of Klausenburg,
Stephen Pataki, received him, at sight of whom Banfy jestingly asked:
"So you have been appointed my confessor, have you?"
Pataki wept, while Banfy smiled lightly. The Provost conducted Banfy
up the steps, showing him the greatest respect. Deeply affected he
remained standing at the threshold. In the room was a lady in mourning
who at sight of him turned pale as death and leaned against the table
unable to move. Banfy felt all the blood rushing to his heart. The
next moment he rushed passionately to her and cried,
"My wife! Margaret!"
The lady, speechless, threw herself in her husband's arms and sobbed
violently.
"They did not set you free?" asked Banfy, turning pale.
"Of my own accord I did not go," replied Margaret. "I could not leave
you in the prison."
Tears gushed from Banfy's eyes. He sank down at her feet and covered
her hands with kisses.
"So long as the world believed us happy we could avoid each other,"
said Margaret, with stifled voice. "Misfortune has brought us together
again." . . .
She bent over to kiss her husband's brow; Banfy was completely
overpowered; his feelings were all at once so mightily overcome that
even his strong heart could bear no more.