CHAPTER XII

A GREAT LORD IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

There was racing and running in the castle of Bonczida. Dionysius Banfy was expected back from Ebesfalva. The castle gate, which displayed a huge crest between the claws of a gilded lion, was overshadowed with green boughs and gay flags. On the street in a long line stood the school children, dressed in their Sunday clothes, with the teacher at their head. Farther back, with Sunday mien, stood the dependents, and in front of a hill were drawn up in orderly ranks the mounted nobility of the county of Klausenburg, about eight hundred men, noble, warlike figures, armed with broad swords and clubs. They had come to greet their superior officer, the general of the nobility. On the walls were Banfy's own warriors; about six hundred, in full armor, with long Turkish guns and with Scythian helmets. On the bastion toward Szamos were eight mortars, and several feet away burned a fire in which the cannoneers heated the ends of their long iron rods to use as a slow match. At every gate, at every door, stood two pages in scarlet cloaks and blue stockings, their entire costume adorned with silver lacings. At the window of the high tower was stationed a lookout to announce with the trumpet the arrival of the lord. The wind struggled above his head with a great purple banner, only swaying the heavy gold tassels that hung from it. From every window eager servants looked out. Lords and ladies appeared expectant. Only three windows were without gay groups. In their place were fragrant jasmine and quivering mimosa in beautiful porcelain jars, behind which one could just discern a pale, gentle woman, leaning on an embroidered cushion, in sentimental melancholy. This was Banfy's wife.

It might have been ten o'clock in the morning when the watcher on the tower inferred the arrival of the first carriages from the clouds of dust along the road and blew his trumpet mightily. The priests and teachers hurried to their pupils; the lieutenants brought their ranks into order and the trumpeters began to play their latest march. Soon came the carriages, attended by troops from the rest of the counties. Before and behind rode an armed throng in whose costume and equipment the greatest splendor of color was shown. The horses were of all kinds and colors: Arabian stallions, Transylvanian thoroughbreds, small Wallachian ponies, slender English racers and lightfooted horses from Barbary. There were horses with flesh-colored manes, with jeweled bridles, and with housings embroidered with butterflies, and in every color. There was, too, all the war equipment of days gone by: the slender Damascene, the spiked mace and those long, three-bladed daggers the points of which dragged on the ground. Each division carried the crest of its county on its gay standards. In front of the band rode the captain of the nobility, George Veer, a stout, muscular man of forty years.

The chief sat in a carriage drawn by five black horses; on both carriage doors was Banfy's crest in gilding. Behind were two hussars. Dionysius Banfy in proud dignity sat in splendor on the velvet cushions of his coach. All the magnificence displayed about him harmonized with his appearance.

The troops drawn up in line lowered their swords before him, the school children greeted him with songs, his vassals waved their hats, music sounded out along the walls, the priests made speeches and the guests in the windows waved their handkerchiefs and caps.

Banfy received all these marks of honor with accustomed dignity and noble nonchalance, like a man who feels that it is all his due. His eyes wandered to the three windows of jasmine and mimosa and his expression grew serious as he saw no one there.

From another window looked down an old man in a long soutane-like coat; but his bearing did not indicate that he took part in the general homage. At his side was a lady in mourning, on whose countenance were unmistakable signs of anger and contempt; and at a window below them stood Stephen Nalaczy with crossed arms, watching the whole procession with a scornful smile.

"Was there ever a Prince with so much splendor as this single baron?" said the lady in mourning to the old man. "I have been present at a coronation, an installation, an inauguration and a triumphal procession, but never before have I seen such a stir made over a single man. If it were a Prince it might pass, but what is this Banfy?--a nobleman like ourselves, with this difference only that he advances arrogantly and knows how to make pretensions; yet this princely splendor is not appropriate for him. I know the proper thing, for I have carried on lawsuits with greater lords than my Lord Banfy."

"Just see how my colleagues crowd forward to kiss his hand," muttered Koncz, to himself. "My learned companion, Csehfalusi, takes pleasure in being allowed to assist his Grace from the carriage; well may he, for Dionysius Banfy is a great patron of the Calvinists; for a poor Unitarian clergyman like me a place behind the door is quite good enough."

"Just see--do see--how they carry him on their shoulders to the gate! It is a good thing they do not carry him in a chair the way they do princes;--as if he were their lord because he is serving them to-day!"

"Let the people do him homage," said Nalaczy; "my men will provide salt for the entertainment. He will get his comb cut!"

Meanwhile Banfy had mounted the stairs, the people crowding in at the same time to deposit their load at the end of the hall. In the surging throng the clergy succeeded in maintaining their places only with great difficulty, being knocked about by the godless crowd without mercy, while George Veer forced his way to the over-lord with many a thrust of his elbow. As many of the nobility crowded into the hall as it could contain; the rest filled the corridors. The dependents remained in the courtyard and, although they caught only the noise, took great satisfaction in that.

"My noble friends," said Banfy, after it had become somewhat quiet and he had allowed his glance to run over the throng;--"it is not without cause that I wish to see you before me in arms. The history of our poor fatherland is familiar to you, how much our nation has suffered because our princes, either dissatisfied with what they already possessed or else incapable of maintaining it, have persistently called foreign troops into the country. Of these days of contest the historians have described only what was to the credit of the princes, the victories, the battles; they have forgotten to mention that in the year 1617 as a result of the misery caused by the war throughout all Transylvania not a single child was born, but we know it, for we felt it with the people. Now, thanks to Heaven, we are masters in our native land. By the peace of Saint Gotthard both the Roman Emperor and the Turkish have alike agreed not to send any more of their troops into Transylvania, and have put such a restraint upon each other that they have assured us some respite, so that we are not compelled either to take up arms against the one or for the other, but can give our energies to healing the wounds of our fatherland that have bled for a century. For a Golden Age is dawning. The entire land struggles and bleeds; we alone enjoy peace; in our country only is the Hungarian master independent. It is true the country is not large, but it belongs to us, and even if we are a small people we recognize no greater ones over us. But now there are people who would shorten the Golden Age: there are people who do not concern themselves with the cost to the country of a war unwisely begun, if only their ambition, if only their greed, be fattened. And if by chance their opponent conquers they will not be ruined with their fatherland, but will simply turn their coat, join the conqueror and share with him the booty."

"That's a slander!" was hissed from the rear, in a voice that Banfy recognized as Nalaczy's.

The crowd turned threateningly toward the corner from which the voice had come.

"Let him alone, my friends," said Banfy. "Very likely it is some satellite of Michael Teleki's. He too shall have the advantage of freedom of speech. But I, who know the swift mode of thought of the states throughout the country, I can tell you quietly that this rash step will never be taken in lawful fashion. But should secret stratagems, or unforeseen violence attempt to accomplish what would not succeed in open attack, they will find me on the spot. If necessary I will defend the country even against the Prince. Hear now what the intriguers have planned in order to entangle us against our will in snares out of which we have escaped. In spite of the peace, Turks and Tartars at times fall upon our borders, plunder the people, set the towns on fire,--in short, in every possible way obtrude upon us their friendship. A week ago they laid waste Schassburg and before that they made raids in the vicinity of Csik. But that is not my affair. That concerns the Saxon magistrate and the general of the Szeklers. The mouth of his majesty, Ali Pasha, has for a long time been watering for my province but he is not yet quite sure of the way to catch me. Lately he had the circuit Lieutenant of the Prince caught by Tartars and forced him to declare throughout the entire neighborhood that the people were to pay a new tax, a penny a head. The poor peasantry were delighted to get off so cheaply and made haste to pay the tax, without asking me first whether this could be justly levied. In this way the sly Turk accomplished a twofold purpose; in the first place he had compelled the people to recognize the tax, and in the second place he had found out how many taxpayers there were; then he at once imposed the frightful tax of two Hungarian florins a head."

The crowd expressed their indignation.

"At once I forbade all further payments. It is true this tax was not a burden to us, for we are of the nobility, but for that very reason are we the lords of the peasantry that we may not allow them to be robbed of their last farthing. Instead of any reply I sent his Turkish majesty a pig's tail in a box, and if he comes himself to collect the tax I swear by the God in heaven to receive him in such a way that he will remember it all his life."

"We will cut him to pieces," threatened the crowd, clashing their swords and swinging their clubs in the air.

"Now, my faithful followers, go to your tents," said Banfy. "The master of the kitchen will look out for your entertainment. I will decide whether there shall be war."

The excited nobility withdrew amid lively expressions of approval and the clinking of swords. Only a few with requests to make, remained behind. The Professors from Klausenburg invited their patron to the public examinations. Banfy promised to come, and offered prizes for the best pupils. When they had withdrawn he indicated those whom he would see in turn. In the first place he motioned to him Martin Koncz, leader of the Unitarians in Klausenburg.

"How can I serve you, worthy sir?"

"I have a complaint to bring before you, gracious lord," replied Koncz, bowing and scraping. "The city council of Klausenburg has taken by violence the market booths belonging to the Unitarian church. I beg you to assist in their recovery."

"I regret, worthy sir, that I cannot help you in this case," replied Banfy, as he fastened up his coat. "That is a privilege by establishment and concerns the Prince. It is true the territory is mine but the affairs must come up before him for judgment."

"This is the reply that the Prince made me, only reversed: 'It is true the decision in the matter is mine, but the territory is Banfy's, and you must go to him.'"

Banfy smiled good-naturedly, but Koncz did not find the affair so entertaining.

"Listen, there is no way for me to turn, even though justice is most clearly on my side."

Banfy shrugged his shoulders.

"You would like to have justice, worthy sir, but that can hardly be attained."

"Then he is as badly off as I am," cried a voice, and as Banfy looked, he saw Madame Szent-Pali coming toward him. The great lord acted as if he had not noticed the widow and fingered indifferently the diamond clasp of his cloak; but the widow placed herself directly in front of him and began to speak:

"Your Grace has been pleased to look beyond me, but it is in vain. I am here, even though unbidden."

Banfy looked at her without a word, half smiling and half amused.

"Or has your Grace perhaps forgotten my name?" asked the woman, sharply, and smiting her breast. "I am the noble, well-born"--

"And knightly," said Banfy, completing her words with a laugh.

"I am the widow of George Szent-Pali," continued the lady, without allowing herself to be disconcerted,--"whose family in all its branches is quite as noble as is the Prince himself, and that too since the beginning of the world. I have never forgotten my name when asked, and have already stood in the presence of princes and generals greater even than your Grace."

"Well, well, gracious lady, I know that already, I have heard it so often. Tell me quickly now anything good that you may have to say."

"Quickly! I suppose your Grace thinks that a few words will set forth what has been a lawsuit between us now for four years, and between the town and my family for sixty-three."

"To cut it short I will tell you the story," interrupted Banfy. "The gracious lady may then make her additions. The gracious lady owns a dilapidated little house in the centre of the Klausenburg market place"--

"The idea! A manor house just as good as your Grace's castle!"

"These barracks have for a long time disfigured the market place. It was in vain the city council entered into negotiations with your family--went before the courts to buy the house and move it off."

"We did not yield. You are quite right. A true nobleman does not sell his property gained by heritage. It belongs to me and within my four walls neither country nor Prince has any authority over me--not even you, General!"

"I certainly did not demand this noble ruin of you for nothing. I offered you ten thousand florins for it. For that sum of money I could have bought the entire gypsy quarter, and yet there is not a single house in it so dilapidated as yours."

"Let my lord keep his money. I do not give up my house. Two hundred years ago an ancestor of mine built it. Cease, I beg, your scornful words. I was born there; my father and my mother were buried from there. If it offends your Grace's sense of beauty to look down from your magnificent palace upon the roof of my poor house, yet it does me good to be able to live out my days in the room in which my poor husband breathed away his life, and I would not accept any palace in exchange."

At the mention of her dear departed husband the lady began to sob; this gave Banfy an opportunity to speak, and he took advantage to reply vehemently:

"As I have said, so shall it be. The masons are already on the way to tear down your house. You will receive your ten thousand florins at the public treasury."

"I do not wish them. Throw them to your dogs!" screamed the lady, in a passion. "I am no peasant woman to be hunted from my property. I advise nobody to enter my courtyard unless he wishes to be driven out with a broom like a dog. I have been to the Prince, I have been to the Diet, and here you have an official document in which the Diet forbids anybody to trespass on my land. I will nail it to the gate, it is good legible handwriting, then I will see who dares force his way into my possessions."

"And I tell you that to-morrow your house shall be moved off, even if it is surrounded by armed troops. If the Diet pleases it may have the place rebuilt."

With that Banfy was going away full of anger, when Nalaczy met him. The two men greeted each other with forced friendliness, and while Madame Szent-Pali moved away uttering imprecations, Nalaczy began in sweet tones, after a little preparation,

"His Highness, the Prince, wishes to inform your Grace of a very unpleasant incident."

"I will hear."

"During this year the Turk has already forced from us, under one pretext or another, presents on three different occasions."

"He ought not to be allowed to force them."

"If we refuse him he threatens to force on us as Prince the fugitive, Nicholas Zolyomi, living at Constantinople."

"He has only to bring him here and we will drive him out at once, together with his protector."

"Quite true. But the Prince is so wearied of this bitter hatred that he has decided, partly out of fright too, to pardon Zolyomi and permit him to return."

"Let him do so, in God's name."

"Right, quite right. But your Grace certainly knows that the estates of Zolyomi are at present in the possession of your Grace. The Prince, therefore, finds himself compelled to demand of your Grace that you should with all good feeling give over these estates to Zolyomi on his return."

"What!" cried Banfy, stepping back. "And you think that I will give up these estates! The Diet gave them over to me with the burdensome condition that I should equip two regiments for the defence of the country. This burdensome condition I have complied with, and do you think that now I will give up these estates that you may have one more fool in the country?"

"But if it is the Prince's wish?"

"It matters not who wishes it, I will not give them back."

"And shall I carry back this answer?"

"This unmistakable answer," replied Banfy, accenting every syllable. "I do not give them up."

"Your most humble servant," said Nalaczy, bowed mockingly, and withdrew.

"Slave!" Banfy threw after him contemptuously. Then he looked out into the corridor and seeing some of his dependents waiting there hat in hand, he shouted: "Come in, what do you want?"

When the simple folk saw that their over-lord was in a bad humor they hesitated to enter until the castle steward pushed them in.

"We ought to have brought the tithe," began the oldest peasant, with eyes downcast and in tearful voice, "but we really could not. It was not possible."

"Why could you not?" said Banfy, harshly.

"Because we have nothing, gracious lord,--the rain has failed, crops have gone to ruin, we have not harvested enough corn for the sowing; the people in the village are living on roots and mushrooms, so long as they last. After that God knows what will become of them!"

"There it is," said Banfy. "A new blow of fortune and we are still longing for war. Here, steward, you must have the storehouses opened at once and furnish grain for sowing; and the poor must be provided with sufficient food for the winter."

The poor peasant wanted to kiss Banfy's hand but he would not allow it. The tears stood in his eyes.

"That is what I am your master for--to lighten your fate if I see you in need. My agents will carry out my orders; if my own granaries become empty they must order grain for you from Moldavia for cash," and with that he went away.

* * * * *

Banfy's wife listened with throbbing heart as the familiar footsteps came nearer. There she sat among the fragrant jasmine and quivering mimosa, as tremulous as the mimosa and as pale as the jasmine. Everything about her shone with splendor. On the walls hung polished Venetian mirrors in gold frames, portraits of kings and princes, the most beautiful of which was John Kemény's, painted when he was still attached to the Turk, with smooth shaven hair and a long beard, at that time quite fashionable with Hungarian gentlemen. On one side of the room was an artistic cabinet with countless drawers, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli and tortoise-shell. In the middle of the room stood a beautifully painted table with wonderfully wrought silver candelabra; in glass cases the family jewels were displayed to view, beakers covered with precious stones; stags enameled in gold, their heads made to unscrew; several large silver baskets of flowers, marvels of filagree work, hardly worth a dollar in weight; the bouquets in these baskets were of various-colored jewels; a gold butterfly alighted on an emerald leaf, so cunningly made that everything gleamed through its wings as it swayed gracefully. From the high windows heavy red silk curtains hung down to the ground and the sills were covered with the most beautiful flowers of those times. Amid all these flowers only the quivering mimosa and the pale jasmine seemed suited to the lady, so melancholy a contrast did her face make to the splendor of her house.

The delicate little figure was almost lost in the high-vaulted room, in which she could with difficulty move one of the heavy armchairs or lift one of the huge candelabra or push aside a hanging. Every noise, every footstep set her nerves quivering. When the familiar step touched her threshold all the blood streamed into her face. She wanted to jump up to meet him but after the door opened she turned pale again and was unable to rise from her seat. Banfy hurried toward his trembling wife whose voice was too stifled for words, clasped both her hands, delicate as dewdrops, and looked kindly into the dreamy eyes.

"How beautiful you are, and yet how sad!"

The lady tried to smile.

"This smile even is melancholy," said Banfy, gently, and put his arm around his fairy wife.

Madame Banfy drew close to her husband, put her arms around his neck, drew his face down to hers and kissed it.

"This very kiss is sorrowful!"

She turned away to hide her tears.

"What is the matter with you?" Banfy asked, and smoothed her brow. "What has happened to you? why are you so pale? what is the matter?"

"What is the matter with me?" replied Madame Banfy, raising her eyes full of tears and sighing deeply; then she dried her eyes, put her arm in her husband's and led him to her flowers as if to turn the conversation. "Just see this poor passionflower, how faded it is; yet it is planted in a porcelain vase and I water it daily with distilled water. Once I forgot to raise the curtains, and just see how the poor thing is faded. It lacks nothing except sunlight."

"Ah," whispered Banfy in subdued voice. "It seems we speak with each other in the language of the flowers."

"What is the matter with me?" said Madame Banfy with a sob, as she clung to her husband's neck;--"my sunlight is wanting--your love!"

Banfy felt himself unpleasantly affected. He sat down beside his wife, drew her gently toward him and asked in the most friendly, though excited voice,

"Do I not know how to express this to you as well as formerly?"

"Oh yes, but I see you so rarely. You have been away now nearly six weeks, and I could not be with you."

"Wife, are you ambitious? would you shine at the Prince's court? Believe me your court is more splendid than his and not nearly so dangerous."

"Oh, you know that I do not seek splendor nor fear danger. When you were banished, when a little hut sheltered us and often only a tent covered us in the snow, then you would lay my head on your breast, cover me with your cloak--and I was so happy! Often noise of battle and thunder of cannon would frighten sleep from our eyes and yet I was so happy! You would mount your horse while I sank down in prayer, and when you came back covered with blood and dust, how happy I was!"

"Heaven grant that you may be so again. But there is a fortune that stands higher than that of family life. There are times when your mere glance would hinder me--would stand in my way"--

"Yes, I know them. Gay adventures, beautiful women--am I not right?" said Madame Banfy in a jesting tone, but perhaps not without significance in the background.

"Certainly!" said Banfy, springing hastily from his chair. "I was thinking of the fatherland." With that he paced angrily the length of the room.

When a husband falls into a rage over such a jest it is a sign that he feels himself hit. With smoothed brow Banfy stood before his trembling wife, who in the few moments since her husband had entered the room had been a prey to the most varied feelings; joy and sorrow, fear and anger, love and jealousy struggled in her excited bosom.

"Margaret," he began, in a dull voice, "you are jealous, and jealousy is the first step toward hatred."

"Then hate me, rather than forget me!" said his wife, bursting out vehemently, and then regretting it at once.

"What then do you wish of me? have you any ground for your suspicions? You certainly do not wish me to give you an account of the roads I have taken and the people I have spoken with, like the simpleton Giola Bertai, who when he goes away from home takes a diary with him and makes out a report of every hour for his other half. Neither do I keep you under lock and key the way Abraham Thoroczkai does his wife. He has a lock put on his wife's room during his entire absence and when he returns requires the whole village to give an oath that his wife has not spoken with any one in the interval."

Madame Banfy laughed, but the laugh ended in a sigh.

"You evade the question with a jest. I do not accuse you, I do not keep watch of you, and if you should deceive me I should never find it out. But listen; there is in the heart of woman a something, a certain distressing feeling which causes pain without one's knowing why, which knows how to give information whether the love of one who is our all is coming or going, without being able to support itself by reasons. I do not know, and I will not learn where you spend your time, but this I do know, that you stay away a long while at a time and do not make haste to come home. Banfy, I suffer--suffer more than you can imagine."

"Madame," said Banfy, looking at her coldly as he stood before her; "in this country a suit for divorce does not require much time."

Madame Banfy fell back in her chair, clasped her hands over her heart in terror and struggled for breath. A trembling cry broke from her lips and they did not close again. It was as if some one had cut the strings of her heart with a sword. Half-fainting she stared at her husband as if doubting whether his words could have been in earnest or whether she ought not to take them for a horrible jest.

"You are unhappy," Banfy went on, "and I cannot help you. You love to dream and I do not understand you in the least. Possibly my soul does hurt yours, but it is unintentional. It is a fact that your feelings hurt mine and that I will not endure. I recognize no tyrant over me, not even in love. I will not be importuned even with tears. Let us tear our hearts apart. Better for us to do it now while they would still bleed, than to wait until they fall apart naturally. Better for us to separate now while we love each other, than to wait until we come to hatred."

During this terrible speech the lady struggled, gasping for breath, as if some dread phantom oppressed her heart and robbed her of speech, until at last her passion made its way by force and she uttered the piercing cry:

"Banfy, you have killed me!"

Her voice, the expression of her face, seemed to make Banfy tremble; and though he was already on the point of leaving the room in haste, he stopped half-way and looked once more at his wife. He did not notice at this moment that the door had opened and that some one had entered. He saw only that in the face of his wife, so ravaged with despair, there came suddenly an indescribably distressed smile; this forced smile on her agonized features was something terrible. Banfy thought his wife was losing her mind. But Madame Banfy rose, bustling from her seat and cried out,

"Anna, my dear sister," and rushed to the door.

Then for the first time Banfy turned toward the door and saw Anna Bornemissa, wife of Michael Apafi.

This keen-eyed woman had not failed to take in the situation in which she had surprised these married people, although they knew well how to assume a calm air in an instant; but she acted as if she had noticed nothing. She drew Margaret to her breast and extended her hand to Banfy in the most friendly fashion. Her sister had not yet fully recovered.

"I heard your voices outside," said Madame Apafi, "and that is why I came here without being announced."

"Oh yes, we were laughing," said Madame Banfy, and made haste to dry her tears with her handkerchief.

"To what circumstances are we indebted for this extraordinary good fortune?" asked Banfy, hiding his confusion behind rare courtesy.

"As you did not bring my sister to me," began Madame Apafi with smiling reproach, "I came on a visit to my poor relative exiled to Hungary."

Banfy felt the sting under these last words and said as he stroked his beard:

"Here my lovely sister-in-law can do with me what she pleases. She can use me as the target of her wit and overthrow me with her jests. Before the Prince's throne, in the national hall, we face each other as foes. Here on the contrary you are my ruler. Here I am nothing except your most loyal subject, who does homage to your grace and is beside himself with joy that he may have you as a guest."

While he was saying this Banfy threw his arms around the dignified Madame Apafi with familiarity. Not without significance he added turning to his wife, "It is to be hoped that you will not be jealous of Anna."

Madame Apafi took it upon herself to answer in Margaret's place.

"I am more inclined to think that you cannot trust yourself to me."

"If you were my wife that might be so. And that came very near being the state of affairs; there was a time when I wanted to marry you."

"But it did not advance beyond the beginning," replied the Princess with a laugh.

"We recognized each other soon," continued Banfy. "Two such heads as ours would have been too much for one house; there is not even room for them both in one country. We both like to rule and we should have been well sold if we had been obliged to obey each other. It is better as it is; we have both found our corresponding halves; you, Apafi; and I, Margaret; and we are both happy."

With these words Banfy kissed his wife's hand tenderly, which she acknowledged with equal tenderness, and then he left the two sisters alone. Anna with sweet seriousness laid her hand on her sister's, who looked up to her with a smile, like an innocent child to her good genius.

"You have been crying," began Madame Apafi. "It is of no use for you to assume the appearance of good spirits."

"I have not been crying," replied Margaret, asserting her assumed calm with astonishing strength of mind.

"Very well, I am glad that you hide it. It shows that you love him; and if ever you needed to love your husband, to watch over and protect him, it is now."

"Your words bewilder me. You seem to have something extraordinary to say."

"You must have wondered already at my coming here. You can well understand that I have not come without a reason. We have both of us one person to fear, in like degree, and of whom we must be jealous; and if we do not understand each other one of us may lose an individual dear to her."

"Speak, oh speak!" replied Madame Banfy, and drew her sister down to her on a sofa in a corner of the room.

"Our husbands have hated each other from the first. They were always of opposite opinions, in different parties, and had become accustomed to consider each other as foes. Woe to us if this hatred should come to open battle and we should see our dear ones fall at each other's hands."

"I can assure you positively that Banfy cherishes no unfriendly intentions toward your husband."

"I am not afraid of Apafi's overthrow, but of your husband's. The throne to which he was called by force has worked a great change in Apafi. I notice with astonishment that he is beginning to be jealous of his power. Already at Neuhaüsel he expressed himself in the presence of the Grand Vizier as disturbed because Gabriel Haller had aspirations toward the Prince's crown; in consequence of which the Vizier had poor Haller beheaded at once without my husband's knowledge. Even now Apafi recalls the message which your husband once had sent to him, that in a short time he would tear his green velvet cloak from off his shoulders."

"Oh my God, what must I fear!"

"Nothing so long as I have not lost my husband's favor. While others sleep I am awake at my husband's side and keep watch for the manifestations of his feelings; and God has given me the strength to be able to struggle against monsters who would drown in blood the memory of his rule. In spite of all this, now and then there appears in my husband a condition of mind when my influence loses all its magic, when he steps out of his own nature and his gentleness turns to a brutality demanding action. Then his eyes, which at other times overflow with tears at the death of a servant, become bloodshot and seem eager for murder; he who at other times is so cautious, then becomes hasty. And this condition, I blush to acknowledge to you, is drunkenness. I do not bring it up against him as a complaint, the man we love has no faults for us, we forgive him everything"--

"With one exception--his infidelity."

"That too--that too," the Princess made haste to add. "When his life is at stake we must forgive that too."

"Oh, Anna," said Margaret, in distress, "you leave me to suspect mysteries that you do not reveal."

"What you must learn, you shall. A little time since, your husband with proud recklessness set himself against a mighty party which joined with kings against kings. It may be said that your husband intends to thwart fate. He is proud enough not to take into consideration the peril which he has raised up against himself in this way. Or perhaps he thinks that those who are whetting their weapons against a ruling king would defer an instant if one of your people should show his face against them. Banfy has insulted, mocked and threatened the men, and tangled the threads in their fine-spun plans; in fact he has insulted both them and the Prince face to face, and that too in the presence of each other."

Madame Banfy folded her hands timidly.

"I see the storm that is gathering over Banfy's head."

"In his drunkenness Apafi has let fall allusions in my presence that have filled my soul with terror, and for the sake of others I am not willing that Apafi's hand should be the one to strike him. On all sides they are going to seek occasions of quarrel with him. I will exert myself to keep off the blow, but if it must fall you shall ward it from him. We two must keep the love of our husbands to the uttermost that we may be able in this spiritual power to throw ourselves between them if they should attack each other. Think how terrible it would be if one should fall by the hand of the other, and one of us should have caused the other's mourning!"

"What shall I do? Oh my God, what can I do, where does my strength lie?"

"Your strength? In love, watchfulness and self-sacrifice," replied Madame Apafi, striving by her own strong soul to fill her weak sister's with courage.

The fate of two men was in that moment given over into the hands of two angels: and the fate of these two men was one with the destiny of Transylvania.