Chapter 21

Towards noon, the firing ceased, and in the evening, as Vendel was preparing to lie down under the shelter of a ridge of potatoes, a form started from the treacherous wood beside him in pelisse and dolmany, with a red csako, short boots, and a musket in his hand. He looked about him--perhaps he was pursued, perhaps pursuing--he seemed evidently in a dilemma of some kind; as he approached, however, Vendel recognised Matyas Kormas, one of the noble proprietors of the district--but in what a plight! He who had gone out with such zeal, torn and covered with mud; his hair and moustache, wont to be so stiffly waxed, hanging dolefully about his face, and his countenance expressive of anxiety and alarm. Vendel was much relieved, however, to see that there were no marks of blood about him; but his ardour seemed considerably abated, and he by no means now looked as if he could devour his enemies.

"Good evening, Vendel!" he exclaimed in a mild tone, on recognising the brewer; "can you tell me in what direction the village lies?"

Vendel immediately offered to conduct him, thinking he might have a better chance of safety by returning with an armed man, the whole country being now unsafe.

"I only wanted to know in order that I might keep away from it," replied Matyas, "for the enemy occupy it at present; but let us get down into the underwood, Vendel; we can hide there together."

"Then are they really such ferocious people?" asked Vendel anxiously.

"Hiai! my friend, you had better ask no questions--you never saw such things! if we had not retreated, there would not have been a man of us left! they have a peculiar way of holding their muskets, and never miss a shot!"

"Why did you not hold yours the same way?" asked Vendel simply.

"Why, you see, Providence was against us; there is no firing against that! Come, let us make a hole somewhere, and hide these arms; for if they find out that I have come from the camp, I shall be taken prisoner, and brought back again."

The two patriots hastened to gain that underground which stretches from Cs---- to the Danube, in which they concealed themselves for a whole day and a half, enduring all the glories and privations of war, and encouraging one another through all their difficulties and dangers. On the evening of the second day, however, our heroes were as hungry as wolves, and had began to turn their thoughts to the procuring food. Slowly and stealthily they left the wood, and, not far from the outskirts, they descried a waggon lying overturned in one of the cross roads.

Matyas, seeing that nobody was near it, broke a willow sapling from the roadside, and, desiring Vendel to lie down on the ground and shut his eyes, he rushed towards the deserted waggon, and attacked it with great fury.

"Defend yourselves!--surrender! Who dares resist?" he cried, beating the waggon with his wand; while Vendel, who lay with his face buried in the grass, firmly believed that his friend had put to flight at least three hundred Frenchmen! "The day is ours!" exclaimed Matyas at last, returning flushed and triumphant from the strife; "let us seize the spoil!"

If Vendel had hitherto any doubts as to the enemy's capacity for digesting iron, they were entirely removed on his trying to bite the bread taken from the waggon. They were obliged to steep it for two days in the Danube; but they ate it for all that, and Vendel thought he had never eaten anything with so good an appetite before.

At last, Heaven delivered our country from its scourge. When Napoleon had seen the Miskolcz bread, the Debreczen honeycakes, the Vasvar csakany,[75] the Kecskemet kulacs,[76] the Ugocsa horned-owls, and the Comorn figs--without having obtained the chief object of his enterprise in the person of Vendel-gazda--he returned home again with his army; or, in other words, we drove them out of the country--which is sacred truth, although envious historians wish to conceal it.

[Footnote 75: A wind instrument.]

[Footnote 76: A sort of wooden flask.]

When these glad tidings spread through the land, the woods and maize fields began to be depopulated; and every one returned to his ancestral abode, to relate his warlike adventures to his anxious family, who listened with breathless interest as he described how he had defended himself against at least thirty of the enemy, and carried off their ammunition waggons; how a ball had been fired into his breast, while he was only saved by a large silver button, and the letters of nobility which he always carried about him; and finally, how his musket, igniting in the heat of the battle, had burst into a thousand pieces! These, and still more marvellous adventures, our jovial ancestors recited after the war. Heaven bless them! if they had allowed themselves to be shot, where should we have been now? and without us--hm!

Among the rest, Matyas-ur and Vendel-gazda left their place of concealment, and returned to the village; and indeed it was high time, for they were both terribly pulled down, especially the brewer, who was a mere shadow of his former self, and only resembled that respectable personage as a dried pear does a green one. Moreover, such was the tattered and dirty condition to which their wandering life had reduced them, that they might have exhibited themselves with perfect confidence at twentypence per head, _sub titulo_--Finns!

The danger once over, it was an easy matter for Matyas-ur. He had only to go home to be recognised and welcomed at once; but with Vendel the case was otherwise. As he reached his home, the sound of music and dancing struck painfully on his ear. "Hm!" he thought, "they do not seem to be mourning much for me!" He listened again, and heard the noise of gay laughter and loud talking. At last he opened the door. The large guest-room was full of gaily-dressed people, who were crowded in every corner; while the space in the middle was occupied by the dancers. With some difficulty, Vendel squeezed through the crowd, and there, in the midst of all, was his beloved wife, with her cap on one side, dancing with Andras-gazda, whose skin shone twice as much as it was wont. Hanzli's subdued-looking face also appeared among the crowd; but the youth was evidently out of spirits, and sat moody and silent amidst the gay revellers. Meanwhile the beer and wine flowed copiously, and the beneficent odour of all species of eatables tantalized the nose of the hungry wanderer.

"Oh! unhappy man!" cried Vendel, clapping his hands together; that was all he said--but how much was expressed in the words!--for a few moments he gazed round him in silence. "Stop!" he roared at last, stamping on the ground; on which his little dog came out from below the table, and began barking at his sorely-tried master. _His own poodle barked at him!_ "Who is this man?" exclaimed several of the guests. "Where do you come from, countryman?" asked Andras-gazda. "Give the poor wretch a glass of wine; he must be some beggar!" said Mistress Vicza, adjusting her cap.

This was more than the exemplary patience of the Bohemian could bear. "Hear, all of you!" he roared; "I am myself, and nobody else!"

One and all shook their heads. The voice was Vendel's, but the face, the figure, none recognised.

"Not even you, Hanzli?" cried Vendel in despair; "not even you remember me?"

Hanzli looked at him gravely, then grinned, then again stared vacantly, without the slightest recognition.

"Ah, this is indeed desperate!" groaned the unfortunate man, as, seizing one of the four-quart bottles of beer which stood on the table, he emptied it at one draught; and this was his redemption. By this means he was recognised at once; and "Vendel-batya!" "Vendel-gazda!" "Nagyuram!" "Kisuram!" "Edes uram!"[77] resounded on every side; while they all fell upon him, embraced, kissed him, and led him out to dance. He was very well received indeed, and a little explanation set everything to rights.

[Footnote 77: Great master, Little master, Dear master; these being titles carefully distinguished from each other by the peasants.]

The cause of the feasting and merriment was Andras's wedding with Panna, the little girl for whom he had fought with the hussar; which solemnity was celebrated jointly with the retreat of the French; and now that there was Vendel-gazda's miraculous return to rejoice at besides, the festivities were kept up till late next morning.

Thus ended the trials and adventures of the brewer of B----; and from this day forward, Heaven showered her blessings upon him; sons and daughters grew up around him, some fair, and some dark, but all fat, and each one finer and prettier than the other.

THE SZEKELY[78] MOTHER.

[Footnote 78: Szekely (Szekler in German), the inhabitants of the border districts in Transylvania, said to be one of the most ancient tribes of the Magyar race, who came over still earlier than Attila.]

The cannons were silent, the battle was over--the brave had fallen.

The field, which so lately had been the scene of wild and desperate contention, was now silent as the grave; only the thunder of heaven and the moaning of the breeze were to be heard, while the lurid lightning gleamed across the plain, as if the spirits of the dead had begun a new and inexorable strife on high, to guard the gates of heaven, as, an hour before, they had defended the frontiers of their country against their foes.

In the churchyard, before the gates of Kezdi-Vasarhely, the Szekely women anxiously awaited, not the return of the beloved, but the news of the victory.

They sat in groups on the gravestones and green mounds, listening all day to the cannon, and trying to distinguish the distant sounds.

"That is ours--that is Gabor Aron[79]--and that the enemy--and now the thunder of heaven."

[Footnote 79: A common rustic, who, at the beginning of the late war, astonished his countrymen by his skill in founding cannons, and in the art of gunnery.]

And, when the cannon had ceased, they waited with beating hearts to hear of defeat or victory.

And all--mothers, young girls, brides, wives, breathed the same fervent wish--that if the beloved should return, it might be with glory; but that if the day were lost which was to decide the fate of their country, none might return to tell it!

On the threshold of the chapel, by the crypt-door, sat an old man: he was past eighty--his eyes were dim and lustreless, and his voice faint and trembling: he, too, had come out to the churchyard to wait the issue of the battle, for he could not rest at home; beside him sat a cripple, who had one leg shrunk up, but although the body was weak and sickly, every thought of his heart was in the battle-field, and he frequently exclaimed, in bitterness of spirit, "Why cannot I too be there?"

The cripple knelt beside the old man, and read to him out of the Bible. The passage was in Samuel, about the battles of Israel--the holy war, in which thirty thousand had fallen guarding the ark of God.

"Why cannot I be there?" sighed the unhappy youth, and read:

"'And the ark of God was taken; and the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were slain.

"'And there ran a man of Benjamin out of the army, and came to Shiloh the same day, with his clothes rent, and with earth upon his head.

"'And when he came, lo, Eli sat upon a seat by the wayside watching: for his heart trembled for the ark of God. And when the man came into the city, and told it, all the city cried out.

"'And when Eli heard the noise of the crying, he said, What meaneth the noise of this tumult? And the man came in hastily, and told Eli.

"'Now Eli was ninety and eight years old; and his eyes were dim, that he could not see.'"

The cripple could read no more; he looked at the old man, his heart sickened, and his eyes filled with tears.

"Why do you not continue?" asked the old man.

"It is dark; I cannot see the words."

"That is false; I feel the last rays of the sun on my face; why do you not read on?"

The cripple wiped the tears from his eyes, and again began to read:--

"'And the man said unto Eli, I am he that came out of the army, and I fled to-day out of the army. And he said, What is there done, my son?

"'And the messenger answered and said, Israel is fled before the Philistines, and there hath been also a great slaughter among the people, and thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas, are dead, and the ark of God is taken.'"

But here he could no longer contain himself, and, sobbing bitterly, he leant his head on the old man's knee, and hid his face in his hands.

The latter did not insist on his reading any more; but repeated, in a low voice, the well-known verse:

"'And it came to pass, when he made mention of the ark of God, that he fell from off the seat backward by the side of the gate, and his neck brake, and he died.'"

* * * * *

Beneath an acacia tree, at a little distance from the rest, stood two females.

The eldest might have been six-and-thirty; her features, though stern and severe, were still beautiful, and her dark lustrous eyes glowed with the fire of enthusiasm. She was very pale, and the lightning which glimmered around her gave a still more livid hue to her features.

Judith--for so she was called--was a true type of the Szekely women; one of those unfading forms who retain to an advanced age the keen expression of countenance, the brilliancy of the large dark eye, the thrilling and musical tones, and slender but vigorous form; while the mind, instead of decaying, grows stronger with years.

Round her majestic figure, a slight girl of sixteen twined her arms, clinging to her like the gentle convolvulus to the stately pine.

Aranka was a lovely blue-eyed maiden, with bright golden locks, and a form so fragile, that it seemed to bend like the lily to the breeze.

She was betrothed to the son of that proud matron to whom she clung, and the eyes of the mother and the bride sought the beloved, as they gazed eagerly through the dim apace.

"Do you not see a form approaching there?" asked Judith, pointing towards the plain.

Aranka drew still closer, that she might see the object pointed out; her head rested on Judith's shoulder, but she could not discern anything, for the starry beam of the blue eye cannot pierce the distance, like the more fiery ray of the black eye.

In a few minutes the form became more distinct, and the timid blush of love flitted over the young girl's cheek, while a deep flush of anger mantled on the mother's.

"It is he, my beloved!" murmured Aranka, pressing her small hand on her heart, as if to still the little flutterer.

"He has no arms!" cried Judith with horror, as she turned away her head, and covered her eyes with her hand; for, though still indistinct to others, the gentle girl recognised her lover, and the mother had seen her son's disgrace.

With slow and uncertain steps the figure approached; his head hung dejectedly on his breast, and he appeared to move with pain.

On seeing the women assembled in the churchyard, he bent his steps thither.

They all now recognised Judith's son, and surrounded the mother as he approached.

The churchyard moat lay between the mother and her son. Unable to cross it, the young man sank on the ground before it. His clothes were torn and covered with blood, and his hand endeavoured to conceal a wound in his breast.

"Where have you left your arms?" cried his mother in a stern voice, advancing from among the crowd.

He would have replied, that he had left it in his enemy's heart; but he had not strength to speak, and the words died on his mouth.

"Speak! is the battle lost?"

The youth made a sign of the affirmative.

"And why did you not fall with the rest? Why did you leave the field for the sun to rise on your disgrace? Why have you come hither?"

The youth was silent.

"Wherefore should you desire to outlive your country? And, if you have come to be buried here, better far to have sought a grave where it had been glory to have died--on the battle-field. Away! This churchyard has no place for you--you can have no part among our dead--leave us, and deny that you were born here! Live or die, but forget us."

The youth looked in his mother's face with an imploring expression, and then at the women who surrounded her; but he encountered no glance--no trace of sympathy--his eyes sought his bride, his heart's brightest hopes, the blue-eyed maiden; but she had fallen on her knees at his mother's feet, hiding her face in Judith's dress, to conceal her sobs.

The youth still hesitated--still waited to see if any one would bid him stay; and when he saw that none spoke, not even his bride, he raised himself slowly and silently from the earth, still holding his hand across his breast, and, with tottering steps, turned once more to the trackless plain, and wandered into the woods beyond, where he sank never to rise again.

One or two of the Szekely youths returned afterwards from the lost field, but the women refused them admittance.

"Seek another home," they said, "than the one you could not defend!"

And the few who survived wandered into distant countries, for none dared return who had outlived his country's ruin.

* * * * *

Bitter were the sounds of weeping and lamentation in the churchyard of Kezdi-Vasarhely--the cry of the Szekely women rose to heaven.

The old man at the crypt-door asked, in a feeble voice, the cause of the weeping.

"Szekely-land is lost!" they cried; "your son and your grandsons have fallen on the field with their leader, and Gabor Aron; and all their cannon is taken!"

The old man raised his hands and sightless eyes to heaven. "My God!" he exclaimed, and, sinking to the earth, he ceased to be blind; for the light of eternity had risen on his spirit.

The old man was dead.

The Szekely women surrounded the body with deep reverence, and bore it in their arms into the town.

The cripple followed slowly on his crutches, repeating bitterly to himself, "Why could not I have been there too? why could not I have fallen among them?"

In all Kezdi-Vasarhely there was not a man to be seen; the brave had fallen, the deserters had been turned away, and the last man they were now placing in his coffin, and he was an old man past eighty, and blind.

Only women and children now remained--widows and orphans--who wept bitterly round the old man's bier, but not for the dead.

The cripple knelt unheeded at the foot of the coffin; and hid his face in his hands, as he heard them say that the _last_ man was dead; they did not consider him as one!

The house was quite full, as well as the court--for the old man's grandchildren and great-grandchildren formed a large congregation; and all those to whom he had done good during his life, whom he had assisted with his counsel or supported in their sorrow--how many there were! and yet the greater part was absent, covering the battle-field!--and among all his sons and grandsons, only that one cripple was present, and he was not considered as a man!

They had all their dead to mourn--all their peculiar sorrows, but none more than the high-minded Judith, and the poor cripple,--and yet they alone wept not. A restless fever burned within them, and, instead of tears, sparks of fire seemed to burst from their eyes.

In the midst of the weeping and lamentation, Judith beckoned the cripple aside.

"David!" she exclaimed, taking the youth's damp, cold hand, "your grandfather lies stretched out before you, and yet you stand beside the coffin without shedding a tear! what are you thinking of? Last night I heard you sighing and tossing on your bed--you never slept--what were you thinking of then, David?"

The cripple hung his head in silence.

"David, if you were a strong, sound man--if you could hold a sword or a lance, instead of those crutches--would you hang your head in silence as you do now?"

The cripple raised his glowing face, and his large, dark eyes met Judith's with such a gleam of enthusiasm, it seemed as if the ardent spirit had forgotten for a moment the weakness of its mortal dwelling.

"And you will never be happy," she continued; "no joys await your lot in this life, and yet who knows how long that life may be. Speak! should death appear before you in its most brilliant form--more glorious than on the battle-field--and bid you cast away your crutches and embrace the weapons of destruction, giving you all you loved on earth as a funeral pile to perish around you, that none should remain to whom your thoughts might return from the other world"--

"I do not understand you."

"You _will_ not, perhaps. The world is still fair to you, even amidst ruins, and blasted by dishonour; unfortunate as you are, life is still dear--even your crutches are not to be exchanged for wings!"

"Oh! speak not thus; how often would I have given the life I abhor for the death I envy!" exclaimed the unhappy youth; and added, in a lower tone, "for the death of glory!"

"And what death would be more glorious than yours? on a battle-field in which the elements themselves should join, where you would stand in the midst, high above all, like the angel of death, proclaiming resistance to the last, in a voice which would be heard above the battle-cry; and, when all had fallen, when there remained none to help, you alone would snatch the victory from the enemy's hand, and bear it with you--not to the grave, but to heaven!"

"O that I could!" sighed the cripple; "but what is my voice? it would not be heard in battle; and my arm could snatch the victory from none!"

"Listen to me! The victors will arrive to-day or to-morrow; but neither repose nor enjoyment shall await them here--they shall find every door closed, and our weapons shall be the reply to theirs. If the men of Kezdi-Vasarhely have fallen in defence of their country, the women shall not be unworthy of them! We shall lose--for the arm of woman is weak, though her heart is strong--we have neither the weapons nor the force to resist, only the will; and therefore our aim is not victory, but an honourable death. You will go up to the tower, and when you see the enemy approaching at a distance, ring the bell; we will then carry out the dead to be buried, and await the hated foe beside his grave; and wo to them if they try to enter by force, we shall defend every house to the last--despair will teach us to fight; and should fear or hesitation overcome our weak hearts for an instant, the voice of your bell will revive our courage, and inspire us with new strength. And you must not cease one moment till the combat is over; then take the wreaths of tarred pine, which you will find in a niche of the tower ready prepared, and when the enemy have taken possession of the town, throw them down on the roofs of the houses! Thus you will regain the town from the enemy, and, amidst smoke and flames--the funeral-pile of all you love on earth--you will bear victory along with you to heaven!"

The cripple listened with increasing agitation to Judith's words; and when she had finished, he dashed away his crutches, and, falling at her feet, embraced her knees, and murmured some unintelligible words; but the enthusiasm which glowed in every feature told how the spirit rejoiced to meet the death she had portrayed in such brilliant colours.

"Will you have courage?" asked Judith.

"Oh! I shall rejoice in it! I shall no longer be a cripple--no longer unhappy; I shall die like a hero! and when the flames are bursting around me, I shall sing with the prophet, 'Cry out, ye gates, cry out, O city, for the terrible day of the Lord is come!'"

And the cripple trembled violently with agitation, and his withered arm was raised to heaven.

Judith gazed at him in silence, as he still knelt, with his hands and eyes upraised, as if inspired.

"Come with me!" she exclaimed, after a few moments' pause, raising him from the ground.