she said in a low voice. And my relations?"
"He will come as soon as possible; and now you must take some food
and rest. Do not think about your relations now; they are all in a
safe place--nobody can hurt them more.
The Decurio brought some refreshment, laid a small prayer-book on
the pillow, and left the orphan by herself.
The poor girl opened the prayer-book, and her tears fell like rain-
drops on the blessed page; but, overcome by the fatigue and terror
she had undergone, her head ere long sank gently back, and she
slept calmly and sweetly the sleep of exhausted innocence.
As evening closed, the Decurio returned, and softly approaching the
bed, looked long and earnestly at the fair sleeper's face, until
two large tears stood unconsciously in his eyes.
The Roumin hastily brushed away the unwonted moisture, and as if
afraid of the feeling which had stolen into his breast, he hastened
from the room, and laid himself upon his woolen rug before the open
door.
The deserted castle still burned on, shedding a ghastly light on
the surrounding landscape, while the deepest silence reigned
around, only broken now and then by an expiring groan, or the
hoarse song of a drunken reveler.
Day was beginning to dawn as a troop of horsemen galloped furiously
towards the castle from the direction of Kolozsvar.
They were Imre and his comrades.
Silently and anxiously they pursued their course, their eyes fixed
upon one point, as they seemed to fly rather than gallop along the
road. "We are too late!" exclaimed one of the party at last,
pointing to a dim red smoke along the horizon. "Your castle is
burning!"
Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a
swifter pace. A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to
their view, its blackened walls still burning, while red smoke rose
high against the side of the hill.
The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly
down the declivity. In less than a quarter of an hour he stood
before the ruined walls.
"Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?" he
shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of
a half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined
portico.
The latter fell to his knees, imploring mercy, and declaring that
it was not he who killed them.
"Then they are dead!" exclaimed the unhappy youth, as, half-choked
by his sobs, he fell forward on his horse's neck.
Meanwhile his companions had ridden up, and immediately sounded the
Wallachian, whom, but for Imre's interference, they would have cut
down.
"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he
continued; "have you not left one alive? Accursed be the sun that
rises after such a night!"
The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of fresh-raised mould.
"They are all there!" he said.
Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down.
His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass
was least red.
They then began to dig twelve graves with their swords. Imre
watched them in silence. He seemed unconscious what they were
about.
When they had finished the graves they proceeded to open the large
pit, but the sight was too horrible, and they carried Imre away by
force. He could not have looked on what was there and still retain
his senses.
In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that
there were only eleven bodies in the grave.
"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of
hope passing over his pale features; "which is it?--speak! Is
there not a young girl with golden locks among them?"
"I know not," stammered his comrade, in great embarrassment.
"You do not know?--go and look again." His friend hesitated.
"Let me go--I must know," said Imre impatiently, as the young man
endeavored to detain him.
"O stay, Imre, you cannot look on them; they are all headless!"
"My God!" exclaimed the young man, covering his face with both
hands, and, bursting into tears he threw himself down with his face
upon the earth.
His comrades questioned the Wallachian closely as to what he knew
about the young girl. First he returned no answer, pretending to
be drunk and not to understand; but on their promising to spare his
life, on the sole condition that he would speak the truth, he
confessed that she had been carried away to the mountains, where
the band were to cast lots for her.
"I must go!" said Imre, starting as if in a trance.
"Whither?" inquired his comrades.
"To seek her! Take off your dress," he continued, turning to the
Wallachian, "you may have mine in exchange," and, hastily putting
on the tunic, he concealed his pistols in the girdle beneath it.
"We will follow you," said his comrades, taking up their arms; "we
will seek her from village to village."
"No, no, I must go alone! I shall find her more easily alone. If
I do not return, avenge this for me," he said, pointing to the
moat; then, turning to the Wallachian, he added sternly: "I have
found beneath your girdle a gold medallion, which my grandmother
wore suspended from her neck, and by which I know you to be one of
her murderers, and, had I not promised to spare your life, you
should now receive the punishment that you deserve. Keep him
here," he said to his comrades, "until I have crossed the hills,
and then let him go."
And taking leave of his friends, he cast one glance at the eleven
heaps, and at the burning castle of his ancestors, and hastened
toward the mountains.
The hoary autumn nights had dyed the leaves of the forest. The
whole country looked as if it had been washed in blood.
Deep amidst the wildest forest the path suddenly descends into a
narrow valley, surrounded by steep rocks at the foot of which lies
a little village half concealed among the trees.
It seemed as if the settlers there had only cleared sufficient
ground to build their dwellings, leaving all the rest a dense
forest. Apart from the rest, on the top of a rock, stood a
cottage, which, unlike others, was constructed entirely of large
blocks of stone, and only approachable by a small path cut in the
rock.
A young man ascended this path. He was attired in a peasant's garb
and although he evidently had traveled far, his step was light and
fleet. When he had ascended about halfway, he was suddenly stopped
by an armed Wallachian, who had been kneeling before a shrine in
the rock, and seeing the stranger, rose and stood in his path.
The latter pronounced the Decurio's name, and produced his pazsura.
The Wallachian examined it on every side, and then stepped back to
let the stranger pass, after which he once more laid down his
scythe and cap, and knelt before the shrine.
The stranger knocked at the Decurio's door, which was locked, and
an armed Wallachian appeared from behind the rocks, and informed
him that the Decurio was not at home, only his wife.
"His wife?" exclaimed the stranger in surprise.
"Yes, that pale girl who fell to him by lot."
"And she is his wife."
"He told us so himself, and swore that if any of us dared so much
as lift his eye upon her, he would send him to St. Nicholas in
paradise."
"Can I not see her?"
"I would not advise you; for if the Decurio hears of it, he will
make halves of you; but you may go around to the window if you
like--only let me get out of the way first, that the Decurio may
not find me here."
The stranger hastened to the window, and looking in, he saw the
young girl seated on an armchair made of rough birch boughs, with a
little prayer-book on her knee; her fair arm supporting her head,
while a mass of golden ringlets half veiled her face, which was as
pale as an alabaster statue; the extreme sadness of its expression
rendering her beauty still more touching.
"Jolanka!" exclaimed the stranger passionately.
She started at the well-known voice, and, uttering a cry of joy,
rushed to the window.
"Oh, Imre!" she murmured, "are you come at last!"
"Can I not enter? can I not speak with you?"
The young girl hastened to unbar the door, which was locked on the
inside, and as Imre entered she threw herself into his arms, while
he pressed her fondly to his heart.
The Wallachian, who had stolen to the window, stood aghast with
terror and, soon as the Decurio arrived, he ran to meet him, and
related, with vehement gesticulations, how the girl had thrown
herself into the peasant's arms.
"And how did you know that?" asked Numa coldly.
"I saw them through the window."
"And dared you look through my window? Did I not forbid you? Down
on your knees, and pray!"
The Wallachian fell on his knees, and clasped his hands. "Rebel!
you deserve your punishment of death for having disobeyed my
commands; and if you ever dare to open your lips on the subject,
depend upon it, you shall not escape!" And with these words he
strode away, leaving the astonished informer on his knees, in which
posture he remained for some time afterwards, not daring to raise
his head until the Decurio's steps had died away.
As Numa entered the house, the lovers hastened to meet him. For an
instant or two he stood at the threshold, regarding the young man
with a look of silent reproach. "Why did you come so late?" he
asked.
Imre held out his hand, but the Decurio did not accept it. "The
blood of your family is on my hand," he whispered. "You have let
dishonor come on me, and mourning on yourself."
The young man's head sunk on his breast in silent anguish.
"Take his hand," said Jolanka, in her low, sweet accents; and then
turning to Imre, "He saved your life--he saved us both, and he will
rescue our family, too."
Imre looked at her in astonishment.
The Decurio seized his arms and drew him aside. "She does not know
that they are dead," he whispered; "she was not with them, and
knows nothing of their fate; and I have consoled her with the idea
that they are all prisoners, she must never know the horrors of
that fearful night."
"But sooner or later she will hear it."
"Never! you must leave the place and the kingdom. You must go to
Turkey."
"My way lies towards Hungary."
"You must not think of it. Evil days await that country; your
prophets do not see them, but I know, and see them clearly. Go to
Turkey; I will give you letters by which you may pass in security
through Wallachia and Moldavia; and here is a purse of gold--do not
scruple to accept it, for it is your own, it belonged to THEM.
Promise me, for her sake," he continued earnestly, pointing to
Jolanka, "that you will not go to Hungary."
Imre hesitated. "I cannot promise what I am not sure I shall
fulfill; but I shall remember your advice."
Numa took the hands of the two lovers, and, gazing long and
earnestly on their faces, he said, in a voice of deep feeling, "You
love one another?"
They pressed his hand in silence.
"You will be happy--you will forget your misfortunes. God bless
and guide you on your way! Take these letters, and keep the direct
road to Brasso,* by the Saxon-land.** You will find free passage
everywhere, and never look behind until the last pinnacles of the
snowy mountains are beyond your sight. Go! we will not take leave,
not a word, let us forget each other!"
* Brasso, or Kyonstadt, a town in the southeast of Transylvania, on
the frontier of Wallachia.
** A district inhabited by a colony of Saxons.
The Decurio watched the lovers until they were out of sight; and
called to them, even when they could hear him no longer: "Do not go
towards Hungary."
He then entered his house. The prayer-book lay open as the young
girl had left it; the page was still damp with her tears. Numa's
hand trembled, as he kissed the volume fervently and placed it in
his bosom.
When night came on, the Roumin lay down on his wolf-skin couch,
where the golden-haired maiden, and her lover before her, had
slept, but it seemed as if they had stolen his rest--he could not
close his eyes there, so he rose and went out on the porch, where
he spread his rug before the open door; but it was long ere he
could sleep--there was an unwonted feeling at his heart, something
like happiness, yet inexpressibly sad; and, buried in deep reverie,
he lay with his eyes fixed on the dark blue starry vault above him
till past midnight. Suddenly he thought he heard the report of
some fire-arms at a great distance, and at the same moment two
stars sank beneath the horizon. Numa thought of the travelers, and
a voice seemed to whisper, "They are now happy!"
The moon had risen high in the heavens, when the Decurio was roused
from his sleep by heavy footsteps, and five or six Wallachians,
among whom was Lupey, stood before him.
"We have brought two enemies' heads," said the latter, with a dark
look at the Decurio; "pay us their worth!" and taking two heads
from his pouch he laid them on Numa's mat.
The Wallachians watched their leader's countenance with sharp,
suspicious glances.
Numa recognized the two heads by the light of the moon. They were
those of Imre and Jolanka, but his features did not betray the
slightest emotion.
"You will know them probably," continued Lupey. "The young
magnate, who escaped us at the pass, came for the girl in your
absence, and at the same time stole your money, and, what is more,
we found your pazsura upon him also."
"Who killed them?" asked the Decurio, in his usual calm voice.
"None of us," replied the Wallachian; "as we rushed upon them, the
young magnate drew two pistols from his girdle, and shot the girl
through the head first, and himself afterwards."
"Were you all there?"
"And more of us besides."
"Go back and bring the rest. I will divide the money you have
found on them among you. Make haste; and should one of you remain
behind, his share will be divided among the rest."
The Wallachians hastened to seek their comrades with cries of joy.
The Decurio then locked the door, and, throwing himself upon the
ground beside the two heads, he kissed them a hundred times, and
sobbed like a child.
"I warned you not to go toward Hungary!" he said bitterly. "Why
did you not hear me, unhappy children? why did you not take my
word?" and he wept over his enemies' heads as if he had been their
father.
He then rose, his eyes darting fire, and, shaking his terrible
fist, he cried, in a voice hoarse with rage: "Czine mintye!"*
* Czine mintye!--A Wallachian term signifying revenge.
In a few hours, the Wallachians had assembled before the Decurio's
house. They were about fifty or sixty, all wild, fearful-looking
men.
Numa covered the two heads with a cloth, and laid them on the bed,
after which he opened the door.
Lupey entered last.
"Lock the door," said Numa, when they were all in; we must not be
interrupted;" and, making them stand in a circle, he looked around
at them all, one by one.
"Are you all here?" he asked at last.
"Not one is absent."
"Do you consider yourselves all equally deserving of sharing THE
BOOTY?"
"All of us."
"It was you," he continued to Lupey, "who struck down the old man?"
"It was."
"And you who pierced the magnate with a spike?"
"You are right, leader."
"And you really killed all the women in the castle?" turning to a
third.
"With my own hand."
"And one and all of you can boast of having massacred, and
plundered, and set on fire?"
"All! all!" they cried, striking their breasts.
"Do not lie before Heaven. See! your wives are listening at the
window to what you say, and will betray you if you do not speak the
truth."
"We speak the truth!"
"It is well!" said the leader, as he calmly approached the bed;
and, seating himself on it, uncovered the two heads and placed them
on his knee. "Where did you put their bodies?" he asked.
"We cut them in pieces and strewed them on the highroad."
There was a short silence. Numa's breathing became more and more
oppressed, and his large chest heaved convulsively. "Have you
prayed yet?" he asked in an altered voice.
"Not yet, leader. What should we pray for?" said Lupey.
"Fall down on your knees and pray, for this is the last morning
which will dawn on any of you again."
"Are you in your senses, leader? What are you going to do?"
"I am going to purge the Roumin nation of a set of ruthless
murderers and brigands. Miserable wretches; instead of glory, you
have brought dishonor and disgrace upon our arms wherever you have
appeared. While the brave fought on the field of battle, you
slaughtered their wives and children; while they risked their lives
before the cannon's mouth you attacked the house of the sleepers
and robbed and massacred the helpless and the innocent. Fall down
on your knees and pray for your souls, for the angel of death
stands over you, to blot out your memory from among the Roumin
people!"
The last words were pronounced in a fearful tone. Numa was no
longer the cold unmoved statue he had hitherto appeared, he was
like a fiery genius of wrath, whose very breath was destruction.
The Wallachians fell upon their knees in silent awe, while the
women who had been standing outside, rushed shrieking down the
rocks.
The Decurio drew a pistol from his breast, and approached the cask
of gunpowder.
With a fearful howl, they rushed upon him; the shriek of despair
was heard for an instant, then the terrible explosion which caused
the rocks to tremble, while the flames rose with a momentary flash
amidst clouds of dust and smoke, scaring the beasts of the forest,
and scattering stones and beams, and hundreds of dismembered limbs,
far through the valley, and over the houses of the terrified
inhabitants!
When the smoke had dissipated, a heap of ruins stood in the place
of Numa's dwelling.
The sun rose and smiled upon the earth, which was strewed with the
last leaves of autumn, but where were those who had assembled at
the spring-time of the year?
The evening breezes whispered mournfully through the ruined walls,
and strewed the faded leaves upon eleven grassy mounds.
The pen trembles in my hand--my heart sickens at the recital of
such misery.
Would that I could believe it an imagination--the ghostly horror of
a fevered brain!
Would that I could bid my gentle readers check the falling tear or
tell them: "Start not with horror; it is but romance--the creation
of some fearful dream--let us awake, and see it no more!"
Etienne Barsony
The Dancing Bear
Fife and drum were heard from the big market-place. People went
running towards it. In a village the slightest unusual bustle
makes a riot. Everybody is curious to know the cause of the alarm,
and whether the wheels of the world are running out of their orbit.
In the middle of the great dusty market-place some stunted locust
trees were hanging their faint, dried foliage, and from far off one
could already see that underneath these miserable trees a tall,
handsome, young man and a huge, plump dark-brown, growling bear
were hugging each other.
Joco, the bear-leader, was giving a performance. His voice rang
like a bugle-horn, and, singing his melancholy songs, he from time
to time interrupted himself and hurrahed, whereupon the bear began
to spring and roar angrily. The two stamped their feet, holding
close together, like two tipsy comrades. But the iron-weighted
stick in the young man's hand made it evident that the gigantic
beast was quite capable of causing trouble, and was only restrained
from doing so because it had learnt from experience that the least
outbreak never failed to bring down vengeance upon its back. The
bear was a very powerful specimen from Bosnia, with thick brown fur
and a head as broad as a bull's. When he lifted himself up on his
hind legs he was half a head taller than Joco, his master.
The villagers stood round them with anxious delight, and animated
the bear with shouts of "Jump, Ibrahim! Hop, Ibrahim!" but nobody
ventured to go near. Joco was no stranger to these people. After
every harvest he visited the rich villages of Banat with his bear.
They knew that he was a native of the frontier of Slavonia, and
they were not particularly keen to know anything else about him. A
man who leads such a vagrant life does not stay long in any one
place, and has neither friends nor foes anywhere. They supposed
that he spent part of the year in Bosnia, perhaps the winter,
visiting, one after the other, the Servian monasteries. Now, in
midsummer, when he was least to be expected, they suddenly hear his
fife and drum.
Ibrahim, the big old bear, roused the whole village in less than a
quarter of an hour with his far-reaching growls. The dogs crouched
horror-struck, their hair standing on end, barking at him in fear
and trembling.
When Joco stopped at some street corner, or in the market-place,
and began to beat his rattling drum, the bear lifted himself with
heavy groans on his hind legs, and then the great play began, the
cruel amusement, the uncanny, fearful embracings which one could
never be sure would not end fatally. For Joco is not satisfied to
let Ibrahim jump and dance, but, whistling and singing, grasps the
wild beast's skin, and squeezes his paws; and so the two dance
together, the one roaring and groaning, the other singing with
monotonous voice a melancholy song.
The company of soldiers stationed in the village was just returning
from drill, and Captain Winter, Ritter von Wallishausen, turned in
curiosity his horse's head towards the crowd, and made a sign to
Lieutenant Vig to lead the men on. His fiery half-blood Graditz
horse snuffed the disgusting odor of the wild beast, and would go
no nearer.
The Captain called a hussar from the last line that passed him, and
confided the stubborn horse to his charge. Then he bent his steps
towards the swaying crowd. The villagers opened out a way for him,
and soon the Captain stood close behind the bear-leader. But
before he could fix his eyes on Ibrahim they were taken captive by
something else.
A few steps away from Joco a young girl sat upon the ground, gently
stroking a light-colored little bear. They were both so huddled up
together that the villagers scarcely noticed them, and the Captain
was therefore all the better able to observe the young woman, who
appeared to be withdrawing herself as much as possible from public
gaze. And really she seemed to be an admirable young creature.
She was slight of build, perhaps not yet fully developed, with the
early ripeness of the Eastern beauty expressed in face and figure--
a black cherry, at sight of which the mouth of such a gourmand as
the Ritter von Wallishausen would naturally water! Her fine face
seemed meant only to be the setting of her two black eyes. She
wore a shirt of coarse linen, a frock of many-colored material, and
a belt around her waist. Her beautifully formed bosoms covered
only by the shirt, rose and fell in goddesslike shamelessness. A
string of glass beads hung round her neck, and two long earrings
tapped her cheeks at every movement. She made no effort to hide
her bare feet, but now and then put back her untidy but beautiful
black hair from her forehead and eyes; for it was so thick that if
she did not do so she could not see.
The girl felt that the Captain's fiery gaze was meant for her and
not for the little bear. She became embarrassed, and instinctively
turned her head away. Just at this moment Joco turned round with
Ibrahim. The tall Servian peasant let the whistle fall from his
hand, and the wild dance came to an end. Ibrahim understood that
the performance was over, and, putting down his front paws on the
ground, licked, as he panted, the strong iron bars of his muzzle.
The Captain and Joco looked at each other. The powerful young
bear-leader was as pale as death. He trembled as if something
terrible had befallen him. Captain Winter looked at him
searchingly. Where, he asked himself, had he met this man?
The villagers did not understand what was going on, and began to
shout, "Zorka! Now, Zorka, it is your turn with Mariska." The
cries of the villagers brought Joco to himself, and with a motion
worthy of a player he roused the little bear to its feet. Then he
made signs to the girl. Being too excited to blow his whistle, he
started singing and beating the drum; but his voice trembled so
much that by and by he left off singing and let the girl go through
her performance alone.