He stood on the Khan's right hand, and more than once had the honour of being addressed by that personage; behind him, as behind the other chiefs, stood a swarm of servants, their ears—if they were still lucky enough to possess such appendages—ever attentive to catch the commands of their masters. Father Roger had been present in Libor's retinue on this occasion, a slave among slaves.

Presently the wild Mongolian "band" struck up. Its members were a motley crew, stationed before the Khan's tent, and their songs were of the most ear-splitting variety, accompanied too by the dull roll of drums and the screeching of pipes and horns, the whole performance being such as to baffle description, and to be compared only with the choicest of cats' concerts.

The "music" seemed to be intended as a welcome to a white-flagged procession which now appeared in the distance, advancing towards the Khan, every member heavily laden. It consisted in fact of the whole population of some two hundred villages and hamlets, from the district of which Libor was chief magistrate.

Meanwhile, Father Roger had brought round Libor's horse, magnificently caparisoned, and at the first burst of music, the Knéz mounted and galloped off, followed, in obedience to his haughty signal, by a couple of armed Mongols, the Mongol chiefs meanwhile looking on with envious eyes. They were not too well pleased with the Tartar-Magyar's rise to favour.

Libor galloped across the plain to meet the new-comers, who bowed down before him as if he had been a god, and then rising again at his command, followed him to the camp, where he drew them up in a long line; after which he hurried back to the Khan, dismounted, and announced that his people had brought him such gifts as they could, and only awaited his orders.

The Khan's wide mouth grew wider still as he smiled from ear to ear, and showed two perfect rows of sharp-pointed teeth; but the smile was like that of an ogre, and such as might have made some people rather uneasy, though not, of course, anyone who was such a favourite and in such an exalted position as Libor.

"That's well," said the Khan; and then, turning from him, he muttered something to the other chiefs which escaped Libor's ears or comprehension, though he had done his best to acquire the miserable language spoken by his master.

The next moment a large detachment of Mongols had stepped forth from behind the tents, and moving forward swiftly, but in perfect silence, had advanced towards the rear of the Hungarians. Others at the same time came from behind the Khan's tent, and in a few seconds the white flags were hemmed in before and behind.

Libor, who had looked upon the whole ceremony as merely one of the usual devices for squeezing the unfortunate people, was plainly startled, nay terrified, by this sudden movement, and his astonishment and discomfiture did not escape the sharp eyes of Batu.

"These proceedings are not quite to your taste, eh, Knéz?" said he, with a tigerish grin.

And the wretched Libor, bowing almost to the earth, made hurried answer, "How could I possibly take amiss anything that his Highness the Khan, my lord and master, may choose to do?"

"I thought as much, my faithful Knéz! Make haste then, and see that all that these folk have brought is taken from them, and then—have them all cut down together!"

Libor turned pale as death, but he knew his master; he knew that the slightest remonstrance, the slightest demur even, would be at the risk of his life. He bowed more deeply than before, and staggered away to give the signal for the plunder and massacre of his own people.

The wind had suddenly risen to a hurricane, and was filling the air with dust; the thunder pealed; but above the howling of the one and the roaring of the other, there rose one long, long cry, and then all was still.

Libor returned, trembling, shaking, to the Khan, the gracious Khan, whose favourite he was, who had honoured him to such an extent as to provoke the jealousy of the Mongol chiefs; who had enriched him, and had distinguished him above all the rest. He had faithfully obeyed the Khan's orders, though, with a bleeding heart; and now, holding as he did the first place among those who formed Batu's retinue, he was secure as to his own miserable life, for who would dare to lift hand against him?

The Khan received him on his return with the same enigmatical smile, which seemed just now to be stereotyped on his lips.

When the dust-storm was past, a terrible spectacle presented itself. Thousands of corpses lay upon the ground; and among the men, who were quite worn out by their murderous work, were to be seen Mongol women and children, seated upon the bodies of their victims, their hands stained with blood.

"A few thousand bread eaters the less!" exclaimed Batu, in high good humour, "and if my orders are as well carried out in other parts of the country as they have been by you, Libor, my faithful Knéz, there won't be many left to share the rich harvest and vintage with us."

Libor said nothing, for his lips were twitching and quivering convulsively.

"By the way, Libor," the Khan went on pleasantly, "it has just struck me, what present have you yourself brought, my faithful servant?"

"All that I possess belongs to your Highness, mighty Khan," said Libor, trembling.

"Excellent man!" replied Batu, and turning to one of the chiefs standing by, he addressed him in particular, saying gently, "See now, and take example by this excellent man, who has made me a present of all that he has!"

The chief to whom these words were spoken cast a furious glance at the favourite.

"All you possess is mine, eh, Libor?" Batu went on, "all, even your life, isn't it?"

Libor bowed.

"Oh, how faithful he is!" exclaimed the Khan, addressing the same chief as before, and speaking in the same good-natured tone. "I know the loyalty of this trusty Knéz of ours is a thorn in your eyes! and I know that there are some of you daring enough even to have doubts of his splendid fidelity and obedience! Wretches, take example by Libor the Knéz!"

So saying, the Khan rose from his seat, and cried in a loud, shrill voice, "Take this devoted servant and hang him on the tree yonder opposite my tent!"

If a thunder-bolt had fallen at his feet Libor could not have been more terror-stricken. He threw himself on his face before the Khan, but his voice was strangled in his throat, and he could not utter a word; all that he was able to do was to wring his hands, and raise them imploringly towards his awful master.

And the Khan—burst into a loud fit of laughter!

Another moment and Libor the favourite, the envied—whom the other chiefs were ready enough to speed upon his way—Libor was hanging to a lofty willow-tree and tossing to and fro in the stormy wind.

Batu Khan presented one of Libor's horses—a lame one—to Bajdár; and the rest of the ex-favourite's very considerable property he kept for himself.

(Bajdár, it may be remembered, though, of course, neither Father Roger nor Talabor were aware of the fact, had been of the party which had attacked Master Peter's house, and we may readily guess how he had earned this handsome reward.)

Orsolya gave a sigh of satisfaction as Father Roger finished his story.

"There is one traitor less in the world," said she, "and he might think himself lucky that he was only hanged! It was an easy death compared with many!"

And she said the same thing, yet more emphatically, when she heard from Dora and Talabor of their experiences at the hands of the Magyar-Tartar-Knéz.

Gentle Father Roger sighed too, but without any satisfaction, as he thought of the youth, with whom he had lived under the same roof, and to whom, as he was fond of insisting, he and his servant owed their lives.

But when he heard all that Talabor could tell him, he was as indignant as even Orsolya could have wished; for he understood Master Peter, and saw at once what had puzzled so many, the reason why he had left Dora at home instead of sending her to the Queen, out of harm's way.

CHAPTER XX.
LIKE THE PHŒNIX.

As soon as King Béla knew that the unexpected had come to pass, and that the land was clear of the enemy, he hastened home. But what a home he found! It had been one of the fairest and richest in Europe; and now he rode for whole days without seeing so much as a single human being, and his followers had to do battle with the wild beasts, which had multiplied to an alarming degree. Go which way he would, he found the land uncultivated and overgrown with thorns and weeds; and when he did come across an inhabited district, the men he encountered were not men, but spectres. The many unburied corpses, together with the sometimes altogether indescribable kinds of food upon which the people had had to subsist, had produced pestilence of divers kinds, which carried off many of those who had escaped the Mongols.

It was only a year or so since the first irruption of the Mongols, but the land was a chaos.

How the King laboured with might and main to restore the "years which the locust had eaten," and how he succeeded are matters which belong to history.

Very gradually and cautiously the people ventured forth from the dens in which they had concealed themselves. At first they came only one or two at a time, to reconnoitre; but when they were convinced that the enemy had utterly withdrawn himself, the joyful news was quickly conveyed to those who were still in hiding, and they flocked back to the ruined towns and villages, which began at once to rise from their ashes.

One by one the bells pealed forth again from the church-towers, and many, many a cross was put up in the graveyards to the memory of those who returned no more; not only of those known to be dead, but of those who had simply disappeared, no one could say how, but whose bodies were never found, and who might therefore have been carried away to a living death as slaves. Few indeed of the captives were ever seen again. Many a hamlet and small village of the plains had been wiped out as completely as if it had never existed, and some of these were never rebuilt, though their names live in the neighbourhood to the present day.

Many a young man who had been but a "poor relation" before the flood, now found himself the heir to large estates and great wealth.

Once more the plough was to be seen at work among the furrows, drawn now by an ox, now by a horse, and not infrequently by the farmer himself, the old owner or the new. Where there had been ten inhabitants there was now one; but that one seemed to have inherited all the energy, vigour, and hopefulness of the other nine, so fiercely he worked.

Buried treasures were dug up again, though often not by those who had buried them; many remained undiscovered for centuries; many have not been found to this day.

The wolves still roamed the plains as if the world belonged to them; they would even enter the scantily populated villages and carry off infants from the cradle, and from the very arms of their mothers. Clouds of ravens and crows still hovered over the countless bodies of those who had fallen victims to the Mongols or to starvation, exposure, disease. Both birds and beasts disputed the possession of the land with its returning inhabitants.

Of the forty members of the Szirmay family there now remained but four male representatives: Master Peter, his nephew Akos, and two others whose names have not come down to us; and all four of these were now wealthy landed proprietors.

Dora had been unable to communicate with her father; Gabriel had never reached him; and when at length Master Peter was able to re-visit his faraway castle, he did so not knowing whether his daughter were alive or dead. He found the whole place in ruins; for Dora had been only too right in her conjectures. The Mongols had paid it another visit not long after her departure; and, finding the house deserted and empty, had vented their rage upon it in such a way that nothing remained to receive their owner but the bare walls.

Among the ruins, however, he discovered old Moses, Jakó, and a servant or two, all in a famishing condition. From them he learnt how Dora had left the house only just in time to escape the second attack; but as to what had befallen her since, they could, of course, tell him nothing. She had intended to join him in Dalmatia, and she had never arrived there. So much only was certain, and when he thought of the perils she must have encountered, and the awful sights he had himself seen by the way, his heart sank within him. And, worst of all, there was nothing to be done, nothing! but to wait, wait, wait, in a state of constant anxiety as to what he might any day hear.

But supposing that she should have been preserved through all, and were only waiting till she heard news of him, or perhaps until she were able to travel! She would certainly hear in time, wherever she might be, of the King's return—she would go to him for news of her father—she would hear that he was alive, and she would come back to the old home to find him; so there he must stay!

Master Peter was sufficiently practical to reflect that if his daughter appeared one day without warning, he would want a roof to shelter her, and to work he set making preparations accordingly, though with a heavy heart.

Yet the work did him good. It cheered him to see the labourers repairing the walls and roofing in what had been her own room, for sometimes it beguiled him into thinking that Dora must certainly be coming, would be there perhaps before the place was ready for her, and then he would urge the workmen to greater speed.

He was watching and superintending as usual one day, growing more and more down-hearted as he reckoned the many weeks, the months which had slipped past since he had left Dalmatia, when the clatter of horse-hoofs roused him. Most people were finding enough to do at home just now, and Master Peter was never more ready to welcome anyone—anyone who might bring him the tidings he longed for, and yet dreaded, or at least tell him news of some sort which would divert his thoughts for the time.

He hurried forward to meet the visitor as he clattered into the courtyard, and—did his eyes deceive him? or was it indeed his old page who was bowing before him?

Talabor the page! Talabor! Any old face was welcome, but—suddenly he remembered! Talabor had left the castle with Dora, he had come back without her!

Master Peter could do nothing but look at the young man, for his lips refused to utter a word; and he put up his hand with an imploring gesture, as one who would ward off an expected blow.

What was it Talabor was saying? That she was alive, safe, well! Dora was alive and well! Then—where was she? and why was she not with him?

It was a minute or two before he could take it in; for, his tongue once loosed, he poured forth his questions so fast that Talabor had no chance of replying to them. But, when at last he did understand that Dora was with "Aunt Orsolya," that she had wanted to set out with Talabor as soon as ever the roads were considered safe, that in fact she had begged and prayed her hostess to let her go, but that the old lady would not hear of her doing so, and had insisted on sending Talabor first—why then, with a good-humoured "Just like Aunt Orsolya!" Master Peter hastily decided that Talabor must set out with him again that very day, and take him to her.

Horse tired? what did that matter? Thank Heaven, he had a horse or two still in the stable! and catching sight of Moses, he shouted the good news and his orders together.

Talabor had hidden the furniture, the plate? Very well, very well! so much the better, but they could wait! Later on no doubt he would be properly grateful, but what would he have cared for a gold mine just now? He had no thought for anything but how to reach Dora at the earliest possible moment, bring her home, and never let her out of his sight again whatever might betide.

Orsolya had remained in the cavern until all apprehension of the return of the Mongols was over; and then she had betaken herself to the "barn" in Frata, with quite a regiment of poor, homeless folk, whom she supported as best she could. There Master Peter found her and Dora; and there, too, he met his nephew Akos, and heard from him how he had escaped with Mária from the Kun massacre, and heard from Dora how she had become quite attached to his bride, and no longer wondered at her cousin's choice.

There is little more to say. But two or three months later, when Master Peter and his daughter had not only been restored to one another, but were once more at home, when the castle had been rebuilt, the hidden treasures found uninjured and brought back to the light of day, when Dora had recovered the effects of her terrible journey and was beginning sometimes to feel as if its horrors were a dream—she received an offer of marriage from the haughty Paul Héderváry, who had lost his wife in Dalmatia, and was now willing enough to conform to ancient usage and bestow himself upon her cousin, "his first love," as he was pleased to call her, the only child of the now wealthy Master Peter, and the heiress of his large estates.

It was very magnanimous of him, he felt, and he expected Dora and her father to see the matter in the same light, and to show their appreciation of the honour he was doing them. Great therefore was his astonishment, when he received, not the willing assent he expected, but "a basket," or in other words a refusal, courteously worded, but unmistakably decided.

He was even more than astonished, he was annoyed, mortified, for "secrets" of this kind were sure to leak out, even though the parties concerned held their tongues. There would certainly be some kind friend to spread abroad the news, that Paul Héderváry had been refused!

Little as he cared for Paul, Master Peter was gratified by the proposal, if only because it would set Dora right in the eyes of the world. Possibly he would have been pleased to see her the great man's wife, in spite of all that had come and gone, but if so, he cared for her too much to press his views, and when Dora herself asked his consent to her marriage with Talabor, he was not the man to say her nay! How could he, when but for Talabor he would have had no daughter, whether to give or to keep? And now he would give and keep too, for she could and must always live with him, and this reflection consoled him for any regret he might have felt at not having a more notable son-in-law, with a family-castle and estates of his own.

A few words as to Akos, or rather his wife, Aunt Orsolya's ward, Mária, who had shared her retreat in the cave. Who she was, was never exactly known to the world in general. In Hungary she was always said to be a Transylvanian relation of the Szirmays, while in Transylvania she passed for a Hungarian member of the same family. But how she came to be placed in Aunt Orsolya's charge was a secret never divulged. One thing struck people as strange, and it was this: Akos had been well known as a friend of the Kunok, so that, if the Kun King had confided to him the place where he had hidden his treasure, that was nothing remarkable; nor was anyone astonished to hear that Akos had unearthed it and delivered it up to the King, or that the latter had made it over to the Queen. But why should the Queen have given everything to Mária, when her own stock of jewellery must surely have needed replenishing?

More surprised still would people have been, had they seen the Queen kiss the girl's still pale cheek, and heard her say, as she wished her all happiness, "Dear child, would that instead of giving you these, I could restore to you those who are gone! But we have all lost so many, we have all so many, many graves to weep over!"

Yet another circumstance attracted attention, though the fact that Akos had championed the cause of the Kunok was supposed to account for it. Many of these had returned to Hungary by invitation of the King, who was anxious to re-people the country, if only to keep down the wild animals.

On the first anniversary of Mária's marriage a deputation from these Kunok came to her and Akos. To him they presented a hundred arrows and one of their famous long-bows of dog-wood, beautifully ornamented with gold; and to her they gave a coronet of no small value.

After awhile some few of the Tartar-Magyars returned from the places where they had hidden themselves, and were re-Magyarised; but never, to the day of their death, were they reinstated in the good graces of their neighbours. The King, however, was more merciful than the populace. There were so few Magyars left that he was disposed to cherish lovingly the scanty remnants, and not only showed lasting gratitude to those who had shared with him the time of adversity, and rewarded all who had distinguished themselves by acts of courage or self-devotion, but he even became blind and deaf when any were denounced as turncoats.

Among the many who received the King's thanks for their loyalty, Talabor was not overlooked. How he had repulsed the Mongol attack upon Master Peter's castle, how loyal and devoted he had been to the Szirmay family, and especially how he had saved Father Roger from the wolves, was all known to the King, who gave him a considerable property, the renewal of his patent of nobility, and the surname of Védvár, i.e., castle-defender.

Father Roger became in time Archbishop of Spalatro, and in his "Lamentable Song" he left to future generations a full account of the time of terror and misery through which the nation had passed.

Hungary had learnt something from her trouble, and the next time the Mongols thought of invading her they were promptly driven back.

As for the treacherous Duke of Austria, he lived to see his neighbour more firmly established on the throne than any of his predecessors had been, and just five years after all the mischief he had done during the Mongol invasion, he lost his life in battle with the Hungarians, or rather with the vanguard of the army, which, by a singular nemesis, consisted mainly of Kunok; and the three counties which had been so unjustly obtained by him were again united to the fatherland.

The End.

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