Dschingiz Khan had died in 1227, and by the year 1234 his son and successor, Oktai, had completed the subjugation of Northern China. Two years later he sent his nephew Batu westwards at the head of 500,000 men, and in less than six years the latter had overrun nearly one quarter of the circumference of the earth.
The boundless steppes of Asia, and the lands lying between the River Ural and the Dnieper, with all their various peoples, were speedily brought under his sway. In the autumn of 1237 the Mongolian catapults had reduced Riazan to a heap of ruins; Moscow perished in the flames; and with the capture of Kieff, then the handsomest and best fortified city of Northern Europe, all Russia sank under the yoke of the Mongols, who ruled her for centuries. Kieff had fallen towards the end of 1240, and Batu had then divided his forces, sending 50,000 men to Poland, where they burnt Cracow and Breslau, and then proceeded to Silesia, where, on April 9th, they defeated an army of Germans, Poles, and Bohemians near Liegnitz; they then devastated Moravia, and entering Hungary on the north-west, presently rejoined Batu, who himself had made a straight line from Kieff for Hungary, entering it, as already said, by the pass of Verecz, on the north-east.
The third division of Mongols had gone south, skirting the eastern Carpathians and entering Transylvania at two different points.
One portion of this division had rejoined Batu at the river Sajó, in time for the pitched battle now imminent.
When first the Hungarian camp was pitched Batu had surveyed it from an eminence with a grim smile of satisfaction.
"There are a good many of them!" he exclaimed, "but they can't get away! They have penned themselves up as if they were so many sheep in a fold!"
With the return of Duke Kálmán after his victory at the bridge, all danger was believed to be over for the night, and save for a few merry-makers, the exultant army slept profoundly. There were few watchers but the King, the Duke, the Archbishop, and the few others gathered in the royal tent.
On the other side of the Sajó a different and wilder scene was being enacted.
The night was dark, but the Mongol camp was brilliantly illuminated by the blaze of a bonfire so huge, that its light shone far and wide.
It was never the Khan's way to extinguish his camp fires; quite the contrary. He wished his enemy to see them, and to suppose that his army was stationary.
Thanks to his innumerable spies, he was well aware of all that had taken place early in the night, and had not been in the least surprised by the recent sortie. It was, in fact, just what he had wished to provoke, by way of diverting the attention of the Hungarians from that which was taking place farther up the river.
If a few hundred scape-goats had perished, what matter? there were plenty more to take their place. And they were not even Mongols, but slaves, Russians, Kuns, etc., who had been forced into his service.
While these wretches, with the trembling Libor perforce among them, were bearing the brunt of the Hungarian onset, and being thoroughly beaten, Batu had sent a large force across the Sajó farther up and this, under cover of the darkness, was now stealthily drawing nearer and nearer to the Hungarian camp. It moved forward in absolute silence, and without attracting any notice.
Batu and several of his chief leaders were just now standing on a low hill, all mounted, armed, and ready for battle. Below was the Mongol host, mounted also and armed with bows, spears, and short, curved swords. A wild, terrible-looking host they were, short of stature, broad in the chest, flat in the face; with small, far-apart eyes, and flat noses. They were clad in ox-hide so thick as to be proof against most weapons, and consisting of small pieces, like scales, sewn together. So they are described by Thomas, Archdeacon of Spalatro, who had but too good opportunity of seeing what they were like. He adds that their helmets were either of leather or iron, and that their black and white flags were surmounted by a bunch of wool; that their horses, ridden bare-backed and unshod, were small but sturdy, well inured to fatigue and fasting, and as nimble and sure-footed in climbing rocks as the chamois. Scanty food and short rest sufficed these hardy animals even after three days of fatigue.
Their masters were not accustomed to much in the way of creature-comforts for themselves. They carried nothing in the way of stores or supplies, which gave them great advantage in the matter of speed; they ate no bread, and lived on flesh, blood, and mare's milk. Wherever they went, they dragged along with them a large number of armed captives, especially Kuns, whom they forced into battle, and killed whenever they did not fight as desperately as they desired. They did not themselves care to rush into danger, but were quite content to let their captives do the worst of the fighting while they reaped the victory. In spite of their enormous numbers they made no noise whether they were in camp, on the march, or on the field of battle.
Thus far Archdeacon Thomas.
When to this description we add the fact that they had had continuous practice in warfare for years past, that a career of well-nigh unbroken victory had given them perfect self-confidence, while it spread such terror among those whom they attacked as paralysed the courage even of the stoutest hearts, it is not difficult to understand how it was that everything fell before them, and they were able to found an empire vaster than any which had before, or has since, existed.
But to return to the Khan and his train of chiefs, among whom was to be seen Libor the Knéz—not the Libor of old days, but a much less comfortable-looking individual. Mongol fare did not seem to have agreed with him too well, for he looked worn and wasted, and his every movement betrayed his nervousness. Yet he was at the Khan's side, perfectly safe, and surely a hundred-fold more fortunate than the miserable captives whom the Mongols held so cheap that they cared not a jot whether they lived or died.
Libor was a Mongol now; he wore a round helmet of leather, carried a scimitar, rode one of the tough little Mongol horses, and was in high favour with his terrible master.
Batu was an undersized man, and the reverse of stout. His eyes, set far apart and slant-wise, were small, but they burnt like live coals, and were as restless as those of a lynx. His low forehead, flat nose, fearfully large mouth, and projecting ears, made him altogether strikingly like the figures, in gold on a black ground, to be seen on antique Chinese furniture.
He was marked out from those about him, however, by his dignified bearing, and by the pure white of his leathern garments.
It is true that his dignity was of the lion-like order, animal, that is to say, rather than human; but it was very pronounced. And there was a sort of rude splendour and glitter in his costume, too; for the white leather, the fur of which was turned inwards, was covered all over with strange designs, looking like so many dragons or other imaginary monsters.
He was mounted on a slim, dapple-brown horse, of purest breed, and all his arms, even his bow, were profusely decorated with precious stones.
Of all the ape-faced circle, there is no denying that he was the best looking ape of them all, even if we include Libor, who was dainty enough in appearance, though fear just now was making him not indeed like an ape, but like a large hare, with quivering nostrils!
The camp was far from deserted, in spite of the large force detached, for there could not have been altogether fewer than 300,000 Mongols on the Sajó, and in addition, there were nearly half as many more of the miserable beings who had been first conquered and then forced to join the great host. Round about the hill where stood the Khan were multitudes of felt or leather tents, and thousands of temporary mud-huts, for the trees afforded but little shelter as yet, it being now about the middle of April. Tents and huts were full of armed men, also of women, who wore the scantiest of clothing, and of children, who wore no clothing at all.
Besides these, there were many women captives, who lay about in groups under the trees, with ears and noses cut off, the picture of exhaustion and misery, and so brutalised by slavery and suffering that they looked more like a herd of mutilated animals than human beings.
Any good-looking women captured by the Mongols were given up to their own women, who fell upon them like furies, tortured without mercy, and then murdered all but those wanted as slaves.
The camp extended far into the depths of the wood, where the chiefs kept order such as it was, with their whips.
As Batu reached the top of the hill, his harsh voice was to be heard giving some peremptory order, at which those about him bent their heads low in respectful submission, and a dozen women, his wives, appeared upon the scene, muffled up in white woollen garments, and mounted upon beautiful horses, which were smothered in fringes, straps, etc., of leather. They were followed by an armed guard, and preceded, oriental fashion, by a band of singers chanting a melancholy dirge.
They had come to take their leave of the Khan, who was sending them to his home, and on reaching the foot of the hill they were helped to dismount. Whereupon they threw back their snow-white veils, which were of wool like their other wraps, and Batu Khan looked at them in dead silence. There was no trace either of pain, or pleasure, or of any other emotion, unless it were vanity and ambition, upon his wild features.
The women burst into a furious fit of weeping; but it was evidently the result of great effort, not of any irrepressible distress. Men are much like overgrown children, and have always liked to deceive themselves and be deceived; and this weeping and lamentation were the proper thing, the conventional way of saying "farewell!"
And yet, if they but looked on themselves, the sight was surely enough to move anyone to tears; for these women were all strikingly beautiful, and their beauty was enhanced by an expression—and this not forced—of profound sorrow and dejection.
Who they were, and whence they came—whether they were Russian girls from the Volga and Don, Caucasians from the Caspian, fair Slavonians, or white-faced Wallachians, who could say? But all were beautiful, all had an air of distinction about them, and all looked overwhelmed with woe unutterable.
They gathered round the Khan, and his horse pricked its ears and whinnied as if it would take part in the proceedings; for, though Batu's horses were all his friends and tent-mates, far more beloved than his people, this one was an especial favourite, its sire, so the story went, having lived to the age of a hundred.
When he had had enough of the ceremonial weeping, Batu raised his hand, as who should say, "That will do! You have done your duty, now you can go!"
And instantly the sobs were checked, and smiles were forced to take their place, while the poor goods and chattels raised their hands towards their master, but whether as a mere token of farewell, whether in blessing, or perchance in secret cursing, who could tell!
Another signal and away they hurried down the hill; and a few moments after the white figures had disappeared out of the glare and were lost to sight in the recesses of the wood.
The women gone, Batu put spurs to his horse and raced down the slope, his chiefs following as best they might. With the light flashing blood-red about him, with his spear quivering uplifted above his head, himself and his horse absolutely one, he dashed on with the rush of a whirlwind, and wherever he went he seemed to say, "Look and admire!" And indeed, the Khan looked his best, when he was thus exhibiting his horsemanship, and in spite of his ape-like features, might almost have passed for some gallant, if wild cavalier.
He and his train galloped away into the darkness, followed by a select body of mounted men; and as soon as they were out of sight, the remaining squadrons were drawn up in regular order. Tents were taken down, and they and their belongings were packed on horses or in waggons, and in a short time, though the bonfire still blazed, it cast its light upon a deserted camp.
Followed by a herd of women, the entire force moved in dead silence towards the Sajó, where Batu had his first line of battle.
Day was beginning to break when the Hungarian camp was roused by startling cries, and those who rushed from the King's tent to learn the meaning of them were met by terror-stricken shouts of "The Tartars! The Tartars are upon us!" "They are yonder, close at hand!" "The guard at the bridge has been overpowered, massacred, put to flight," etc.
Looking out between the wooden walls, Master Peter descried at the distance of about a quarter of an hour's march, a dark mass of something which appeared to be in the form of a crescent, but of a size too vast to be measured by the eye. It was like a wall of stone, as solid, as silent, and as motionless; and for a moment he was in doubt as to what it might be, until the neighing of a horse, and the briefer, rarer sound of a signal-horn brought the truth home to him.
The Mongols had come up in the night; the camp was surrounded on three sides; and nothing but the most desperate determination could save them! So much was evident even to his inexperienced eyes, and the silence of these savage folk, who could howl like the very wolves at other times, had something so weird and terrible about it that Master Peter was not the only brave man to feel his heart quake and his blood run cold.
The victory of the Duke and Ugrin but a few hours before had been delusive indeed, for they had hardly returned in triumph to the camp when Batu sent down to the bridge seven of the gigantic engines of war which played so large a part in the Mongol invasion.
Suddenly, without the least warning, the detachment left on guard found itself assailed by a fierce and heavy storm of stones and pieces of rock; and what added to their terror was the fact that they could not see their enemy, and that there were no stones or rocks anywhere near the river. Seized by superstitious panic, those who escaped being crushed or wounded fled back to the camp, where instantly all was uproar and confusion.
Master Peter rushed back to the King as fast as he could for the turmoil, the narrow ways, and the tent-ropes; and indignation filled his soul at some of the sights he saw: luxurious young nobles, for instance, making their leisurely toilets, combing and arranging their hair, having their armour put on with the greatest care, and finally drawing on new gloves! What he heard during his hurried passage was not much more reassuring. There was plenty of courage and confidence expressed; plenty of contempt for the despicable foe; plenty of assurance that Mongol spears and arrows would prove ineffectual against iron armour; but also there was among some contempt, openly expressed, for their own leaders, though they looked upon the victory as already won.
"It will be a hard day's work!" muttered Peter Szirmay to himself, while his thoughts flew to Dora in her lonely castle. He had little doubt that the Hungarians must conquer in the end, in spite of the huge odds against them, but still—! and even if they did, he himself might fall! What would become of her?
"God and the Holy Virgin protect her!"
Peter Szirmay and Paul Héderváry were arming the King with all speed, while his charger, magnificently caparisoned, was brought round, neighing with excitement.
Béla had never appeared more cool and collected than on that eventful morning. As already remarked, he was without military experience, and though his expectations were not extravagant, and he did not make the mistake of underrating the enemy, he had much confidence in the valour of his army.
"We must get the troops outside, without an instant's delay!" shouted Bishop Ugrin, galloping up his face aglow with pleasurable excitement, for he was never happier than when astride his war-horse and amid the blare of trumpets.
"Sequere!" (follow) cried the King, who usually spoke Latin to the ecclesiastical dignitaries.
They rode through the camp, finding the ways everywhere crowded with men, whom some of the officers were trying to reduce to order, while others, still busy attiring themselves, were of opinion that they would be in plenty of time if they made their appearance when the whole army was mounted.
The Templars were first on horseback.
Their white mantles, with the large red cross upon them, were blowing about in the keen wind, and displaying the steel breastplates beneath, their martial appearance being enhanced by their heavy helmets, which covered the whole head and face, with the exception of narrow slits through which they breathed and saw. As the King rode up to them, the wind blew out the folds of their white banner, and showed its double-armed cross of blood-red.
All this time the Mongols had been drawing nearer and nearer, like an advancing wall, so close were their ranks. And now like a storm of hail the arrows began to fall upon the half-asleep, half-tipsy, and wholly bewildered men in camp. Most were mounted now, but the confusion was indescribable. There were grooms with led horses looking for their masters, masters looking for chargers and servants, and generals looking for their banderia.
There was shouting, running to and fro, and such confusion and hurly-burly that the King had great difficulty in making his orders understood.
He galloped from one squadron to another, amid a cloud of falling arrows and spears, doing all that in him lay to organise the troops. Men were falling on all sides around him, more than one arrow had struck his own armour; the battle had begun, and blood was flowing in streams before the army had been able so much as to get out of camp.
At last a dash was made down the narrow ways between the tents and the hastily uncoupled waggons; and then with the rage, not the courage, of despair, every leader wanted to rush upon the enemy straight away without waiting for orders, or heeding any but his own followers.
"Stop!" cried Béla, hurrying up to them with the Palatine, and a few men who were hardly able to force their way after him. "Stop! Wait for the word of command!"
But no one even saw, no one heard him.
Leaders and men had most of them lost their heads, and the few disorderly squadrons which succeeded in reaching the Mongols were immediately surrounded and overwhelmed.
The great black crescent was growing more and more dense and solid; there was no way of eluding it, no hope of escape.
Bishop Ugrin was well-nigh beside himself; and he poured forth now blessings, now execrations, as the distracted troops rushed aimlessly hither and thither, between the tents and their ropes, and down the narrow passages.
They were completely entangled as in a net; to form them up in order was an impossibility; and a deadly cloud of spears and arrows was continuously poured upon them by the Mongols.
To add to the general horror and terror, the waggons took fire, and soon the tents nearest them were in flames. The tumult and confusion waxed greater and greater.
Batu's main object was to capture the King, and already Béla had had at least one narrow escape, which he owed to the devotion of one of his guard; but now both he and they were all wounded.
Fighting had been going on since early morning; it was now noon, when the Duke made a last bold effort to retrieve the day.
"I'll break through the enemy's lines with the right wing," he shouted in stentorian tones. "Will your Majesty give the left wing orders to do the same, and then yourself lead the centre!"
The heroic Duke spoke of left and right wing, and centre; but alas! where was any one of them?
Without waiting for the King's answer he galloped off again, succeeded in infusing some of his own spirit into his men, and, joined by Ugrin and his followers, and the remaining Templars, he made a dashing attack upon the Mongols, who were drawn up in such close order that individuals had no room to turn.
Numbers of them fell before the furious onslaught of the Hungarians, and great was the devastation wrought in their ranks, when suddenly, like a whirlwind, up came Batu Khan himself with a fresh cloud of savage warriors, and arrows and spears flew thicker and faster than ever.
The Archbishop was smitten on the head by a spear, just as he had cut down a Mongol, and he fell, as a ship's mast falls struck by lightning.
Next fell the leader of the Templars, fighting helmetless by his side. The riderless horses dashed neighing into the ranks of the enemy, among whom they quickly found new masters.
Kálmán had seen the bravest fall around him, but he was still pressing forward, still fighting, when he also received a severe wound. Just then the sun went down.
His sword-arm was useless, and his brave warriors, placing him in their midst, made their way back to the camp. But the camp was deserted now by all but the dead and the dying. The troops whom they had left there had forced their way out at last, but it was to fly, not to fight.
The Mongols had made no attempt to stop them; on the contrary, they had opened their ranks to let them pass through, and the faster and thicker they came, the more room they gave them.
That the fugitives would not escape in the long run well they knew, and their object just now was the King.
The flower of the Hungarian nobility, several bishops, and high dignitaries, both of Church and State, had fallen in the battle, or fell afterwards in the flight. Most of them took the way to Pest, which was strewn for two days' journey with the dead and dying, with arms and accoutrements.
Many were slain by the Mongols who pursued and attacked them when they were too weak to defend themselves; and many others perished in the attempt to cross rivers and swamps.
Seeing that all was lost, Béla himself thought it time to fly, and while the Mongols were plundering the camp, he succeeded in reaching the open, and made for the mountains, recognised by few in the on-coming darkness.
Immediately surrounding him were Paul Héderváry, in spite of his five wounds, Peter and Stephen Szirmay, Akos, Detrö, Adam the Pole, the two Forgács, and several others—a devoted band, while behind came a long train of the bravest warriors, the last to think of flying, who followed in any order or none.
Few, as we have said, had recognised the King, but there were some who had, and these pressed hard after him.
"My horse is done for!" cried the King, as his famous charger began to tremble beneath him. "Let us stand and die fighting like men!"
"No! for Heaven's sake, no!" cried Adam the Pole, leaping from his horse as he spoke. "Mine is sound! take him! I hear the howl of the Mongols."
One had indeed actually overtaken them, but, though on foot, Adam felled him to the ground, leapt upon the Mongol's horse, and galloped on after the King.
The handful of brave, true men guarded Béla as the very apple of their eye. Not one thought of himself; their one anxiety was for the King.
For an hour they galloped on, always pursued by the Mongols. The foam was dropping from the horses; the moon had risen and was shining brightly down upon them, when the irregular force which had followed them was overtaken, and engaged in a fierce battle with the relentless and unwearied enemy.
Just at that moment down sank the horse which Adam had given to the King; but one of the two Forgács, András (Andrew), who was known in the army as Ivánka (Little John, i.e., John Baptist) gave up his. The King was so worn out by this time that two of the nobles had to lift him upon the horse; Ivánka himself followed on foot. A younger brother of his, whose name has not come down to us, lost his life at the hands of the Mongols, who were again approaching perilously near the fugitives.
Ivánka was threatened by the like danger, when Paul Héderváry and a few of the others who were on in front chanced to see his peril, and turning back, routed the Mongols. Ivánka mounted his brother's horse, which had remained standing quietly by its master's body, and rode after the little band.
Daybreak was once more at hand, and they were far, far away from the field of blood, when again the King's horse failed him, and the Mongols were hardly so much as a hundred paces behind.
They had recognised the King, and one of Batu Khan's sub-officers had promised a large reward to anyone who could get Béla into his hands, alive or dead.
Then a young hero, Rugács by name, who had already distinguished himself in battle, offered the King his charger, and it was thanks to this good horse of Transylvanian breed that the King finally escaped his pursuers. For, tough though they were, even the Mongolian horses were beginning to fail, while nothing apparently could tire out the Transylvanian.
As they helped him to mount, Béla noticed that there was blood on the arm of the faithful Rugács, and asked kindly whether it gave him much pain.
"Ay, indeed, sir!" was the answer, "but there is worse pain than this!"
"Ah! your name shall be Fáj from to-day," said the King. "Remind us of it if we live to see better times."
And accordingly, there is to this day a family which bears the honourable name of Fáj or Fáy, the meaning of which is: "It pains."
At last the fugitives reached the forest, the Mongols were left behind, and the King then happily gained a castle in the mountains, where for a while he remained.
But when he looked upon his devoted followers, how many were missing! how many had laid down their lives to save his!
Among the dozen or more who had fallen by the way was Jolánta's father, Stephen Szirmay; his brother Peter, though he had not come off scathless, had escaped without any mortal wound.
Having no army, the King was for the present helpless, and as soon as he could do so, he made his way to Pressburg, where he sent for the Queen and his children to join him, they having taken refuge in Haimburg, on the other side of the Austrian frontier.
But instead of the Queen, appeared Duke Friedrich, who persuaded the King that it would be much wiser for him too to come to Austria, and had no sooner got him in his clutches than he made a prisoner of him, and refused to let him go until he had refunded the large sum of money with which Friedrich had purchased peace from him four or five years previously.
Béla gave up all the valuables which he and the Queen had with them, but as the Duke was still not satisfied, he had to pawn three Hungarian counties in order to regain his liberty.
Once more free, he sent the Queen to Dalmatia for safety, and despatched ambassadors to Pope and Emperor, and the King of France, praying for their help against the terrible foe who threatened all Europe with destruction. But the Emperor was fighting Rome, and the Pope was bent upon reducing him to obedience. Poland was fighting the Mongols on her own account; Bohemia was in momentary danger of being herself attacked; and the shameless Duke Friedrich availed himself of Hungary's defenceless condition to invade and plunder the counties nearest him, and even to rob such fugitives as had fled to Austria for refuge from the Mongols.
Béla meantime had borrowed a little money where he could, and had gone south to await the answers to his appeal, and to raise what troops he could for a campaign. But he waited in vain. No help came! and without an army or the means of raising one, he was helpless.
His brother Kálmán had reached Pest, and after urging the terrified inhabitants to abandon the city, cross the Danube, and hide wherever they could, he continued his journey to Slavonia (then Dalmatia and Croatia), his dukedom, where he soon after died of his wounds.
Before the people of Pest could remove their goods to a place of safety, they were hemmed in by the Mongols. Thousands from the surrounding country had taken refuge here with their families and treasures, and the numbers had been further increased by the arrival of fugitives from the army. They resolved to defend themselves to the last man; but they little knew the enemy with whom they had to deal. Three days' battering with catapults was enough to make breaches in the walls; the Mongols stormed and burnt the town, and murdered all who fell into their hands.
The Mongols flooded all the land east of the Danube, but for the present the broad river formed a barrier which they could not easily pass, and they were further deterred from making the attempt by the idea, unfortunately erroneous, that if they crossed it they would find all the armies of Europe massed upon the other side waiting to receive and beat them back.
But if they were checked to the west, there was nothing to prevent their chasing the King, who was lingering near the Drave. Here they were in no fear of the armies of Europe, and they crossed the Danube by means of bladders and boats.
Béla fled to Spalatro, but feeling unsafe even there, retired with his family to the island of Issa. Furious at finding that his prey had escaped him, the Mongol leader, Kajdán, revenged himself upon his prisoners, whom he set up in rows and cut down; then he hurried on to the sea coast, and appeared before Spalatro early in May. Foiled again, he hurried to Issa, which was connected with the mainland by a bridge; and here he had the mortification of seeing the King and his followers take ship for the island of Bua under his very eyes.
Pursuit, without a fleet, was hopeless, and Kajdán had to content himself with ravaging Dalmatia, Croatia, and Bosnia.
For days, weeks, months, Talabor had been expecting Libor and his Mongols to return and renew their attack upon the castle, whose defences he had strengthened in every way possible to him.
But spring had given way to summer, and summer to autumn, and still they had not come. When a winter of unusual severity set in, he felt the position safer, for the steep paths were blocked with snow or slippery with ice.
Rumours of the fatal battle had not been long in reaching the castle, and fugitives had been seen by one or another of the villagers, whose accounts, though they differed in many respects, all agreed in this, that the country was in the hands of the Mongols, and that the King had fled for his life—whether he had saved it was doubtful. One reported the death of both the Szirmays, another declared that Master Peter had escaped with the King.
The general uncertainty began to tell upon the inhabitants of the castle.
Gradually, one by one, the men of the garrison disappeared. If a man were sent out hunting, or to gather what news he could in the neighbourhood, he not seldom vanished. Whether he had deserted, or whether he had been captured, who could say? In either case he might bring the Mongols down upon them.
At last, when the number of fighting men was so diminished that it would have been out of the question for them to offer any serious resistance, disquieting events began to occur among the house-servants. One day two of them were nowhere to be found! One was a turnkey of Master Peter's, the other a maid-servant, a simple, country girl, whom no one would have supposed capable of counting up to three!
These two had evidently not gone empty-handed, moreover, a few silver plates and other light articles having vanished at the same time! Neither of them had been sent out to reconnoitre; neither, least of all the peasant girl, could have gone a-hunting. They had deserted, and they had stolen anything they could lay hands on!
After this discovery Dora became every day more uneasy, feeling that the danger from within might be as great as that from without.
Talabor kept his eye with redoubled vigilance upon those who were left, but confidence was destroyed in all but one or two.
Early one morning it was found that the whole of the plate had disappeared from the great dining hall. Every chest was empty, and no one of the servants knew where the contents were. Talabor had spent an entire night in carrying them away to a hiding place shown him by Master Peter, a sort of well-like cavity in a cellar, of which he kept the key always about him. He had been busy for days digging out the earth and rubbish, without letting anyone, even the faithful Moses, know what he was about; for, like many another sorrowful Magyar in those days, the old man had of late been trying to drown his grief in wine, and Talabor feared that his tongue might betray what his fidelity would have kept secret.
All being ready, he carried down the silver from the chests in which it had been locked, and finally removed from the shelves in the dining hall even what had been in daily use. This done, he filled the pit with earth again, and left no traces to indicate the hiding place of Master Peter's treasure.
Libor, of course, was well aware of its existence, and Talabor sometimes wondered whether he were intending to keep the knowledge of it to himself, to be made use of later on, when the winter was over, and the castle more easily reached. Be this as it might, neither he nor the Mongols appeared again; and only once had Talabor encountered any in his rides. So far as he could see and learn, the neighbourhood seemed to be free of them; and still anxiety rather increased than diminished, as day followed day without bringing any news to be relied on.
Early one morning Dora sent for Talabor, who went expecting merely some fresh suggestion or order; but he had no sooner entered the room than she met him, and without any sort of preliminary, exclaimed, in a somewhat agitated voice, "Talabor! you are loyal to us, and to me, I know you are! aren't you? You would do anything for me? I am sure you would!"
Talabor fell upon one knee, and with glowing countenance raised his hand to heaven, by way of answer. His heart swelled within him, and just then he felt strong enough for anything.
"Good Talabor, I believe you," said Dora; "but get up and listen to what I want to say. I am only a woman, and perhaps I give myself credit for more courage than I really have; but one thing I know, I have a strong will, and I have made up my mind. I mean to go and find the King and my father!"
"What!" exclaimed Talabor, almost petrified by the mere idea of so daring a step. "Master Peter—we don't even know whether——"
"He is alive!" interrupted Dora very decidedly.
"But the King! whether it is true or not, who can say? But so far as I can gather he seems to be in Dalmatia, and the Tartars are pursuing him. The country may still be full of them, for anything I know; and you mean to run such a frightful risk as this would be? Dear mistress——"
"I do mean, Talabor!" said Dora, "I do mean; for it seems to me that I may have worse to face if I stay here; and what is more, I can't do any good by staying. I can't in the least help those who would, I know, lay down their lives for me. Did not you yourself say, months ago, that this place was not safe?"
"True, but then things were not as they are now, and I was thinking of some safer refuge, not of a perilous winter journey. We will defend ourselves to the last, and now that we are free of traitors, we shall be stronger than before."
"To the last, you say? Then the last person would be myself, and I should be left to die by torture or to become the slave of some Mongol scoundrel! No, Talabor! if I could protect those who have been faithful and devoted to me, if I could even protect those who have deceived me, robbed me and deserted me so disgracefully, I would stay, but my presence here does no one any good."
"And," Dora continued, after a moment's pause, "the fact is we are living over a volcano, for who can answer for it that none of those who have stayed behind are traitors, and what of those who are gone? Why then, should you wish to stay?"
Dora had taken to "theeing and thouing" Talabor, ever since the time of danger and anxiety which they had passed through together. It showed him that she had confidence in him; but he, of course, continued to address her in the third person.
"Because," replied the young man in a firm voice, "I can put down any mischief that may raise its head here; and because, dear lady, if there is any danger of your being attacked here in the castle, the dangers outside in the open are a thousand times more serious."
"You are mistaken in one thing, Talabor. It may all be, perhaps it is, as you say, but something tells me to go! I can't explain it, but it is as if I were continually hearing a voice within saying, 'Go, go;' but if I made a mistake in expecting you to follow me blindly——"
"Oh, dear lady, how could you be mistaken in trusting the most devoted of your servants! Let it be as you say! Command me, and I will neither gainsay, nor delay to do what you wish."
"You really mean it?"
"I do! before Heaven I do."
"Well now, Talabor, can you deny that there is a sort of nightmare oppression about this place? The garrison has dwindled to three, and there are but four servants. We can't reckon upon Mr. Moses, for he grows harder to stir every day."
It was all so perfectly true that Talabor could say nothing; but they talked on for a time, and then Dora began to think and consult with him as to the first steps to be taken. She wished to discharge all her duties as mistress of the castle to the end, as far as was possible; and the first question was, what was to become of Moses and the rest of the household? This settled, they thought it time to take the old governor into their confidence.
Mr. Moses had long been of opinion that the castle was no safe place to stay in, and he readily undertook to conduct the remaining members of the garrison and household to a place of greater safety.
In the depths of the neighbouring forest lived an old charcoal-burner, who supplied the castle blacksmith with charcoal, and had managed to steal up with it now and then all through these perilous times. The hut, or rather cave, in which the poor man and his family lived, was far away from any road, it was closed in by rocks, and was altogether so difficult, if not impossible, for any stranger to discover, that Moses and Talabor thought it the safest place of any to be found. But Dora begged them both to keep their own counsel until the time for action should come; and as to when that time should be, no one knew but herself.
Latterly, as troubles had multiplied, it had become a sort of fixed idea with her that she must go and find her father at all costs, or at least make sure whether he were still alive or dead, and in the latter event she had resolved to take refuge in a convent.
Two or three days after the consultation mentioned above, Dora sent for her two devoted followers.
It was quite early in the morning, but she was already dressed for going out—for a journey it seemed, though, in spite of the bitter cold, she wore none of her rich furs. Except that she was cleaner and neater, there was nothing to distinguish her from the poorest peasant-girl tramping from one village to another, or perhaps going on a distant pilgrimage.
In the narrow belt, which she wore in the ancient Magyar fashion, round her waist, she had hidden a few pieces of gold; on her feet she had thick, heavy boots, and over her shoulders hung a rough cloak of antiquated cut, which might be put over her head like a hood if necessary.
Somehow Talabor had never admired her so much before as he did now. Moses stared at her wide-eyed, for of late he had seen her always in black.
The old huntsman looked as if he were wondering what new madness this might mean, and one can hardly be surprised at him. But he was always respectful to Dora, and next to the old castle, and the woods, and Master Peter, he loved her better than anything else in the world! Talabor came next to her in his affections, but a good way behind.
"Mr. Moses," began Dora gravely, addressing him first as she always did, because he was governor, in name at least, if not in fact, "I think the time has come for us to follow your advice; we have not men enough to defend the castle, and if it is true that the whole country is laid waste, it is very likely that one of the horrible Tartars who came before will take it into his head to come again. Besides, the thieves who have deserted us know how few we are, and how much plate there is in the chests; and what is to hinder their coming back? Well, at any rate, I have made up my mind to leave the castle, but I mean to be the last. I shall not go until I know that every one is as safe as he can be."
"I don't stir a step without you, mistress," exclaimed Moses.
"I am Dora Szirmay, Master Peter's daughter, and my faithful governor will obey my orders!" returned Dora, in tones so decided that it was plain she had not forgotten how to command.
Mr. Moses was silenced, and Dora went on, still in the same grave way, "I know that you are faithful, that no one is truer to my father and me than yourself, and so I can give you my orders with trust and confidence. You, Mr. Moses, and everyone that is left in the castle, except Talabor and Gábor, will go to-day as soon as it is dusk, to old Gödri, the charcoal-burner. You can take Jakó's pony with you in case anyone should be tired, and be sure you take all the arms you can carry. The food, too, you must take all that, though I am afraid there is not much left, for we have all been hungry for some time past, if we have not been actually famished. When that is gone, there are the woods; and no hunter ever died of starvation."
"But yourself, my dear young mistress?" asked Moses.
"I stay here in the meantime with Talabor and Gábor. You know all I wish done besides, good Mr. Moses," said Dora gently, with a smile, rather sad than cheerful.
"I need not tell you all to be prudent," she continued. "That we must every one of us be. Take all the care you can of yourselves!"
"And what about the horses?"
"They must be turned out. They will find masters: we need not be troubled about them; and if they don't, they can roam where they will, and there will be grass under the snow, down in the valleys. Jakó might take Fecske (Swallow), if he thinks he could feed her; it would be a pity for her to fall into the hands of the Tartars."
"Fecske" was Dora's own favourite horse.
"You understand me, don't you, Mr. Moses?"
"Yes, young mistress; but—" he added uneasily, "what of the castle and everything?"
"Well, Mr. Moses, you were the first to call attention to the unsafe state of the castle, weren't you? So what more can we do? We can't defend it, we can't live in it, we can't carry it with us! Now you will start to-day, all of you, except Talabor, Gábor, and myself; and you must trust everything else to us!"
Moses would dearly have liked to raise a multitude of further objections, but he could not, perhaps did not dare. Just as he was about to leave the room, Dora stopped him, saying, "One thing more, Governor; when all is ready, let them all come to this room."
Mr. Moses departed, and turning to Talabor, Dora asked him what he thought of her arrangements. She spoke more brightly now, and Talabor answered calmly and respectfully, "I will obey you, mistress! But, I should like to make one little remark—it is not anything concerning myself——"
"No preamble, Talabor!" said Dora, who looked more cheerful every moment. "Make any remarks you wish, and I will hear you out, because I know you don't speak from fear."
"Well, lady, wouldn't it be better to keep Jakó with you, instead of Gábor? Gábor is a good, trusty fellow and active, but he is not equal to Jakó."
"I am not going to keep more than one with me, and that is yourself, Talabor! For safety's sake I must travel on foot, like a pilgrim, and with as few followers as possible. Why I am keeping Gábor is that I want to send him to seek my father by one route, while we take another. Jakó is the only one of the others who is capable of thinking and acting for them. If I take him they have no one. Don't you think, now, that I am right?"
Talabor assented, and no more was said, but when he realised that he was to be Dora's sole guardian and travelling companion, he felt as if he had the strength of a young lion.
That same evening, Moses the governor, and all the rest, with the above-mentioned exceptions, quitted the castle; and by dawn of the following day, Master Peter's ancient dwelling-house was like a silent sepulchre. All the doors and windows were open, but the drawbridge was up, and the moat full of water.
The most valuable articles of furniture of a size to be moved, Talabor had helped Gábor to carry down to a vault opening out of the cellar, in the course of the night, and together they had walled them up.
As to what had become of Dora and the two men, no one knew but Moses. Some thought that she was still there, and others that she had "left the country," as they said in those days, though how she could have crossed the moat, except by the drawbridge, and how, if she had done so, the drawbridge could have been pulled up again, was a mystery which none could fathom.
Not even Talabor had ever known of the subterranean passage, which Master Peter had shown to his daughter and to no one else; and even now Dora did not disclose its whereabouts. Blindfold, her companions were led through it, she herself guiding Talabor, and he Gábor; and when she allowed them to take the bandages off their eyes, they were out of sight of the castle, and could see not the slightest sign of any secret entrance. They were in a diminutive valley, with rocks and cliffs all about them; and here Dora gave Gábor, the horseman, a small purse, which, had she but known it, was likely to be of small assistance in a wilderness where no one had anything to sell, but where there were plenty of people ready to take any money they could get hold of.
Dora told the man to travel only by night, to avoid all the high roads, and to make for Dalmatia, where he had been once before in charge of a horse which Master Peter was sending to a friend. He remembered the way well enough, which was one reason why Dora had chosen him for this dangerous and almost impossible mission.
Hungary was a very garden for fertility; her crops of every kind were abundant, her flocks and herds were enormous; and while the grain-pits and barns were full, and while there were sheep and oxen to steal, the Mongols lived well. But at last the country was stripped, provisions began to grow scarce, and the year's crops were still in the fields. Whether or no the Mongols themselves ever condescended to eat anything but flesh, the mixed multitudes with them were no doubt glad of whatever they could get, and Batu foresaw that if the harvest were not gathered, and if something were not done to keep such of the population as yet remained in their homes, and bring back the fugitives, there must needs be a famine.
Among his prisoners he had many monks and priests whom he had spared, from a sort of superstitious awe, and these he now called together, and tried to tempt with brilliant promises, to devise some plan for luring the people back to the deserted farms and homesteads. Many and many a brave man rejected his offers at the risk, and with the loss, of his life; but there were some who were ready to do what the Khan wanted, if only they could hit upon any scheme. All their proclamations issued in the Khan's name failed to inspire confidence, however. The people did not return; those hitherto left in peace fled at the approach of the Mongols, the general need increased day by day, and the captives were put to death by hundreds to save food.
The massacres were looked upon as a pleasant diversion and entertainment in which the Mongol boys ought to have their share; to them, therefore, were handed over the Hungarian children; and those who showed most skill in shooting them down were praised and rewarded by their elders.
Yet how to feed half a million men in a country which had been thoroughly pillaged was still a problem.
And then, all over the country there appeared copies of a proclamation written in the King's name, and sealed with the King's seal.
There was no Mongol ring about this, as there had been about similar previous proclamations, and it was given in the King's name, it was signed with the King's own seal! Of that there could be no question.
The news spread rapidly, further flight was stopped, and in a few days the people dutifully began to venture forth from their hiding places, and that in such numbers that a great part of the country was re-populated. Moreover, the Mongols, though still in possession, actually welcomed them as friends, which showed that the King knew what he was about! They were allowed, moreover, to choose magistrates for themselves from among the Mongol chiefs, to the number of a hundred, who met once a week to administer strict and impartial justice.
Magyar, Kun, Mongol, Tartar, Russian, and the rest all lived as amicably together as if they were one family. Farming operations were resumed, markets were held, and peace of a sort seemed to have returned to the land.
At last harvest and vintage were over. Corn and fruit of all descriptions had been garnered, and there was wine in the cellars. And then? Why, then, late in the autumn, the too confiding people were massacred wholesale; and those of them who managed to escape fled back to their hiding-places.
Then followed winter, such a winter as had not often been matched in severity. The Danube, frozen hard, offered an easy passage; there was no European army to oppose them, for the heads of Christendom were fighting among themselves, and the Mongols crossed over to do on the right bank of the river what they had already done on the left.
Always rather savage than courageous, the Mongols obliged their prisoners to storm the towns, looked on laughing as they fell; cut them down themselves from behind if they were not sufficiently energetic, and drove them forward with threats and blows. When the besieged were thoroughly exhausted, and the trenches filled with corpses, then, and not till then, the Mongols made the final assault, or enticed the inhabitants to surrender, and then, with utter disregard of the fair promises they had made, put them to death with inhuman tortures. The Mongols were exceeding "slim," as people have learnt to say in these days. One example of their savagery will suffice.
The most important place on the right side of the Danube was the cathedral city of Gran, which had been strongly fortified with trenches, walls, and wooden towers by its wealthy inhabitants, many of whom were foreigners, money changers, and merchants. As the city was thought to be impregnable, a large number of persons of all ranks had flocked into it.
Batu made his prisoners dig trenches all round, and behind these he set up thirty war-machines, which speedily battered down the fortifications. Next the town-trenches were filled up, while stones, spears, and arrows fell continuously upon the inhabitants, who, seeing it impossible to save the wooden suburbs, set fire to them, burnt their costly wares, buried their gold, silver, and precious stones, and withdrew into the inner town. Infuriated by the destruction of so much valuable property, the Mongols stormed the city and cruelly tortured to death those who did not fall in battle. Not above fifteen persons, it is said, escaped.
Three hundred noble ladies entreated in their anguish that they might be taken before Batu, for whose slaves they offered themselves, if he would spare their lives. They were merely stripped of the valuables they wore, and then all beheaded without mercy.
For weeks Dora and Talabor had journeyed on, avoiding all the main roads, travelling by the roughest, most secluded ways, and seldom falling in with any human beings, or even seeing a living creature save the wild animals, which had increased and become daring to an extraordinary degree.
Wolves scampered about in packs of a hundred or more, and over and over again Talabor had been obliged to light a fire to keep them off. He had done it with trembling, except when they were in the depths of the woods, lest what scared the wolves should attract the Mongols.
Bears, too, had come down from the mountains, and had taken up their quarters in the deserted castles and homesteads, and many a wanderer turning into them for a night's shelter found himself confronted by one of these shaggy monsters.
Traces of the Mongols were to be seen on all sides: dead bodies of human beings and animals, smouldering towns, villages, and forests; here and there, perched upon some rocky height, would be a defiant castle, whose garrison, if they had not deserted it, were dead or dying of hunger; in some parts, look which way they might, there was a dead body dangling from every tree; poisonous exhalations defiled the air; and over woods, meadows, fields, ruined villages, lay a heavy pall of smoke.
Such was the condition to which the Mongols had reduced the once smiling land. Truly it might be said, in the words of the prophet: "A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness."
But, though they saw their works plainly enough, the wanderers saw hardly anything of the Mongols themselves, which surprised them. Once or twice they had narrow escapes, and had to take sudden refuge from small parties, travelling two or three together; but they encountered nothing like a body of men, and those whom Talabor did chance to see appeared to be too intent on covering the ground to look much about them.
From one or two wanderers like themselves he presently learnt that the Mongols were everywhere on the move, and were all going in the same direction, southwards. But what it meant no one could guess. They were moving with their usual extraordinary rapidity, and but few stragglers on foot were believed to be left behind.
But it might be only some fresh treachery, some trap, and the people dared not leave the caves, caverns, thick woods, where they had hidden themselves, and lived, or existed, in a way hardly credible, on roots, herbs, grass, the bark of trees, some of them even eking out their scanty provisions by a diet of small pebbles!
Needless to say that many died of hunger, while the remainder were reduced to skeletons, shadows, ghosts of their former selves.
From some of these bands of refugees Talabor heard fragmentary accounts of the horrors that had been enacted, and the events that had followed after the battle of Mohi.
Dora had felt more and more confidence in her travelling companion as day had followed day during their terrible journey. He had spared no pains in his efforts to lighten the privations and difficulties of the way; he had thought for her, cared for her, in a hundred ways; and yet with it all, he was just as deferential as if they had been in the castle at home.
Miserable were the best resting places he could find for her for the night, either in the depths of the forest or in some cavern or deep cleft of the rocks. Sometimes he was able to make her a little hut of dry branches, roofed over with snow; and when he could do so without risk of discovery, he would light a fire and cook any game that he had been able to shoot in the course of the day.
But whatever the shelter he found or contrived for her, he himself always kept watch outside, and got what little sleep he could when the night was past.
They had almost lost count of time, and they hardly knew where they were, when, late one night, Dora came to a standstill.
The moon was shining, the cold intense, and the snow, which crackled beneath their feet, lay thick and glittering all around them. It was the sort of night that sends fear into the hearts of all who are compelled to be abroad, and yet are anxious to escape the notice of their fellow men, for it was as light almost as by day, and the travellers showed up like a couple of black spots against the white background.
Talabor, muffled in his cloak, was leading Dora by the hand; she had her large hood drawn over her head, and the two looked as very a pair of tramps as one could meet with anywhere.
The cold cut through them like a knife, though the night was still—too still, for there was not wind enough to cover up the track they had left behind them. It would be easy to trace them, for the snow was powdery, and in many places they had sunk in it up to their knees.
"I must stop, I am tired out! and I am so deadly sleepy," said Dora, in a broken voice, "I feel numb all over, as if I were paralysed."
She looked ghastly pale, worn, thin, a mere shadow of what she had been; and she had been travelling all day, dragging herself along with the greatest difficulty.
"Dear lady," said Talabor gently, supporting her trembling figure as well as he could, "do you see that dark patch under the trees yonder?"
"I can't see so far, Talabor," she stammered.