Ráby's arms fell helplessly at his side. It was as if he had suddenly been stung by a cobra.

His own wife was the traitor who had betrayed him to his enemies! A dagger-thrust in the dark does not hurt one so much as such a discovery.

Ráby distrusted his senses; he would not, could not believe it; he thought he must be dreaming.

"Sit down, comrade," said the captain. "You are a bit upset, and small wonder too. The bolt didn't strike me quite so nearly, yet I too was fairly staggered when I read the letter. Then I called up my two comrades here, and sent my challenge over to Szent-Torony, where Mr. Michael von Karcsatáji was in the courtyard, engaged in marking his newly born lambs. In such a harmless fashion is he wont to spend his leisure! My second presented him with my message: 'This letter which we have intercepted proves that you have an intrigue with a lady to whom Captain Lievenkopp is also paying court. Captain Lievenkopp will not tolerate this sort of thing, and calls upon you to meet him to-morrow at nine o'clock, by the ruined church of Zsámbék, to settle the matter there in proper fashion.'

"The highwayman did not deny that between us there lay ground for quarrel, and he would be at the rendezvous at the time appointed. It is now eight o'clock. We can get to the ruins in half an hour, and there await my opponent. You, my friend, can remain here in my lodgings for an hour longer, and follow on after us. From nine to ten I am at Mr. Karcsatáji's service. As soon as I have finished with him, we two will fire at each other till only one of us remains to tell the tale. But if the highwayman kill me, then you and Karcsatáji will fight till one or the other is a dead man. Is that in order?"

"Perfectly," cried the seconds; "it could not be better arranged!"

Ráby had nothing against this settlement. When the captain had gone he stretched himself on his host's camp-bed, and was fast asleep in a few minutes, completely exhausted by his recent experiences.

The Zsámbék ruins are a remarkable relic of the Gothic period. The nave of the church, thickly over-grown by juniper-bushes, is an admirable place for a duel, where two men, unseen by any outsider, can fire at one another to their hearts' content.

The officers tethered their steeds to a birch stem, and withdrew inside the ruins so that their presence should not be remarked by the people working in the fields.

Meantime, Ráby had awakened and was making his way to the ruins. Nor did he need a guide, for they had been well known to him since his boyhood.

It was yet half an hour to the promised rendezvous, so he just wandered round through the brushwood, which surrounded the church, listening for shots. Perhaps the masonry dulled the sound, but surely he would see the smoke, yet he could neither see nor hear anything.

At last the remaining five minutes were up, and he strode into the ruins. So well had he calculated time and distance, that the hand of his watch pointed close on ten, as he pushed aside the juniper-bushes which hid the entrance to the ruins, and went in.

"Karcsatáji has not yet appeared," said Lievenkopp. "Punctuality is not his strong point."

"I fancy he doesn't mean to come."

"Surely that is not thinkable! In that case we will just go for him in his own house."

"Now, meantime, what do you propose doing?"

"Well, I think that we might get on with our own business and not wait for him. By delay he has lost his right of precedence, and must take the second place. I propose, gentlemen, therefore, that we take the second appointment first."

After a short discussion, the seconds agreed, and since the nature of the quarrel barred all idea of reconciliation, they staked out the barriers, and placed the opponents against the two opposite walls.

The weapons which the seconds handed to them, were a pair of rough old riding pistols, which were so constructed that the bullets fired into a group of ten men, would have probably perforated the cloak of one of the party, provided he had one on. The combatants shot at first at five-and-twenty paces; they were honestly bent on hitting one another, yet neither succeeded. At the second attempt they took aim at twenty paces, again without result.

"Wretched weapons, these pistols!" growled the captain, "if I haven't brought down the vulture's nest in that wild pear-tree."

"Perhaps mine are better," suggested Ráby. "My uncle Leányfalvy gave them to me, and they are already loaded."

So the seconds accepted Ráby's weapons. One of them remarked, however, that the pistols were loaded to the muzzle, so that both of them, in this case, would do well to stand behind a pillar, seeing if one exploded, they would all be dead men, combatants and seconds alike.

"It's quite safe," said Ráby, "the powder is good, and the charge is not too strong; there are only three bullets in each charge."

"Now then, fire! One, two, three."

At "three" Ráby's pistols cracked.

Pistols loaded with three bullets have very often this peculiarity of not hitting the man they are fired at.

After the two first terrible detonations everyone looked round extremely amazed that he and the rest were still alive.

"Re-load your pistols," cried one of the seconds, and they did so. But when they were ready, an idea struck the other second.

"Gentlemen, you have fired three times, and such being the case, honour is entirely satisfied. It is my duty to suggest a reconciliation."

The two antagonists looked at each other.

Was it worth while to fight to the death over this matter? So without more ado, they shook each other by the hand, and were friends.

Now it would be Gyöngyöm Miska's turn, and he would have to reckon with two adversaries instead of one.

So they waited on; yet he came not. What could be the reasons of his delay? Had a wheel come off? Could he not find the ruins?

But these were a landmark, and even if he had gone astray, he must have heard the shots.

"He surely cannot be a coward," muttered Ráby between his teeth, for his national pride was piqued by sundry contemptuous remarks the Austrian officers began to let fall.

At last they heard the trotting of horses' hoofs. He was coming then!

The men rose from the sward whereon they had been lying, and listened expectantly.

The trotting stopped at the ruined wall, and it was obvious that it belonged to one horse only.

Was it possible he would come alone, without seconds, thinking to find them here in the village?

After awhile there was the sound as of several horses' hoofs, but these seemed as if they were going away, rather than nearing the ruins.

"Friends," shouted Lievenkopp, "someone is stealing our horses!"

And all four dashed out of the ruins.

The captain had guessed rightly, their horses had been stolen.

And the thief was Gyöngyöm Miska himself, who, mounted on his own fiery courser, was driving before him the officers' three horses tethered together by their bridles.

"Stop you scoundrel," cried the captain and Ráby in unison.

But he evidently had not the intention to run away. Fifty paces ahead he pulled up and let his horse caracole.

His two grim adversaries subjected him now to a cross fire, for each of them had two pistols. First on one side, and then from the other they fired, but not one of the shots so much as grazed the robber, for his horse pranced about and turned round and round in such a bewildering way while his master was being aimed at, that all four shots missed their mark.

When the firing ceased the horse remained standing at a sound from his rider, as if cast in bronze.

Then Gyöngyöm Miska, raising his musket with one hand to his face, took aim at both, and one bullet whistled through the captain's helmet and the other sent Ráby's cap flying from his head. Whereupon the highwayman raised his tufted hat and cried, "So fights Gyöngyöm Miska!"

And with that he switched his whip, cracking it right and left over the tethered horses, and galloped away with his prey.

CHAPTER XX.

"We can accuse him on the ground of seduction." And the old gentleman proceeded to quote to Ráby a law dating from the year 1522 which provided for the decapitation of such misdemeanants. So it was plain that Ráby might obtain the condemnation of Petray, and succeed in having Fruzsinka restored to him. But the legal proceedings were very complicated, and it was difficult to determine to which court the case should be taken.

At last they came to the conclusion it would be wise to carry it before the higher court, since it was a question of a capital crime, though much care would have to be exercised in quoting the law under which they prosecuted, as the least difference in the wording might upset their case.

When the eventful day arrived for instituting the suit before the higher court, Ráby was punctually in his place. Petray was also present, but Fruzsinka was only represented by counsel.

Ráby determined he would have no mercy on Petray. If the severe Hungarian law prescribed that the man who seduced the wife of another should lose his head, it should be satisfied.

Petray, the defendant, heard the impeachment out to the end, without once turning pale. He followed with his defence.

He began by quoting old formularies and attacking certain technical defects in the indictment, which, he maintained, should have been carried to the spiritual consistory, as the tribunal for matrimonial disputes. Also he maintained that the action of the plaintiff was not valid, seeing that he demanded the restitution of his runaway wife, and the punishment of the man who had given her an asylum, yet was himself open to the charge of bigamy, since he now had three wives alive.

"What in the world do you mean?" cried Ráby indignantly.

"That you were already twice married before you took Fräulein Fruzsinka to wife."

"I twice married!" exclaimed Ráby. "What do you mean?"

"That they are still alive," answered Petray with a perfectly serious face. "They both are here," he added, "and I beg that they may be confronted with Mr. Ráby."

"Well, I should like to see them."

And thereupon through a side door they admitted two women into the court. One was a pretty young Rascian in her picturesque national costume, the other was a coquettishly clad peasant from the Alföld, of imposingly tall stature. They were each cited by name, though Ráby had never heard either before.

"So these are my wives, are they?" he cried, half amused, half angry.

"They are indeed," answered Petray unabashed, "and pray do not attempt to deny it, for they are both ready to prove it."

"Why, when have either of you ever seen me before?" demanded Ráby sternly of the two women.

The little Rascian was obviously ashamed of herself, for though the paint on her cheeks effectually hid her blushes, she buried her face in her handkerchief to suppress her confusion. But her companion was not so easily daunted. Her arms akimbo, she placed herself in front of Ráby and began to abuse him roundly.

"So you mean to say you don't remember me, do you, my fine sir?" And she forthwith began a string of voluble reminiscences which Ráby in vain strove to stem, beside himself with indignation, but he could not get in a word edgeways.

At last the judge intervened. Till then he had contented himself with pulling his moustache the better to control his ill-suppressed amusement.

"That will do, woman, we have had enough of your tongue. We must have documentary evidence. Have the parties marriage-certificates to produce?"

The little Rascian drew out the desired document from her pocket, whilst the rival claimant in great haste dived into a huge bag she carried, and produced the certificate wrapped up in a coloured handkerchief.

They were to all appearances genuine enough. One was drawn up by the registrar at Szent-Pál, the other dated from the commune of Belovacz on the military frontier. Both documents were countersigned by the parish priests, and bore the official seal of the ecclesiastical authorities.

"But I have never in my life even been in the neighbourhood of these places," cried Ráby in desperation, fairly trembling with rage. "These registered formulas are falsified; I charge the man who produces them with forgery."

The little Rascian girl here began to wring her hands and weep, but her Hungarian rival gave her tongue its rein, and she poured forth such a flood of abuse on Ráby that his every fibre thrilled with indignation.

With much trouble the heydukes restored order, and the judge called on the court to be quiet.

"Silence, his honour is speaking; the judgment will now be given, so let the litigants retire from the court," was the order.

It was hardly five minutes before the contending parties were recalled and the verdict given.

"The case as heard by us is very complex. It lies between two parties who prefer counter-accusations against each other. The one says his opponent has robbed him of his wife, whilst the accused becomes plaintiff in his turn, and incriminates his accuser as a bigamist, and therefore incapacitated for demanding the restoration of his runaway spouse. Therefore, we beg to refer the case to the united courts of the provinces of Pesth, Pilis, and Solt, that they may adjust the relations between the contending parties satisfactorily. Meantime the case is dismissed." And herewith followed in legal phrase the reasons why the said courts should be pressed to institute an inquiry into the whole suit between Ráby and Petray, and its complications, and the parties were adjured to leave the court.

Ráby was sorry enough he had ever come, for what had it all availed him?

Scarcely had the door of the court closed behind him than he heard the end of it all, the horrible mocking laughter which burst forth from the whole room, directly he had left it—a sound which followed him out into the corridor.

He was completely staggered. The shame, the exasperation, the deception of it all, and this persistent persecution—how powerless he was against them! His very senses seemed deserting him. So distracted was he in his bewilderment, that when he reached the end of the passage, instead of going straight out, he took the flight of steps which led down to the cells. Through the prison doors came the sound of merriment. Even the criminals were mocking him. And that was likely enough, seeing that the two women who had impersonated his wives, had been requisitioned from the ranks of the prisoners.

For three days did Ráby remain in hiding at his inn, not daring to show his face. He fancied all Pesth and Buda were making merry over his fall.

Only on the evening of the third day did he venture to set out for home. And even then he muffled himself up in his mantle so that he might pass unrecognised.

But as soon as he reached the open country, the fresh air exhilarated his drooping spirits and he saw things in a different light. It was certainly very impolitic to betray his vexation, for in this case he was sure to get the worst of it. It would be far wiser to disguise his real feelings.

The first person he sought out was his uncle.

"Remember, my boy, it's just what I told you. Didn't I say that if you would insist on marrying Fruzsinka you would have wife enough. And, sure enough, here you have three! And by the time you have done, it may be a great many more."

"How do you mean, uncle?"

"Why, as soon as the news spreads that the marriage certificates of these women were forged, other 'wives' will be turning up from all parts, and a nice dance they will lead you."

Ráby, in spite of his real misery, could not forbear a grim smile.

"Where did you say the two marriage articles came from, eh?"

"One was from Szent-Pál, the other from Belovacz."

"So that's it, is it? Well, Szent-Pál was utterly destroyed by the insurrection of Hora-Kloska three years ago, and Belovacz is a haunt of freebooters. In neither place is there priest or sexton, church or register, as I happen to know, so seek all your life long, you'll never find proof of the forgery."

"Now I see why the witnesses came from so far afield; it was manifestly a part of the plot."

"By the way," said his uncle, "you'll want some one to look after your house, for in your absence your maid Böske has been locked up."

"Whatever do you mean?" demanded Ráby indignantly. "My servant locked up! why what is the meaning of it?"

"H'm, it was by order of the municipality."

"And pray what for?"

"That, no one can say. I only knew through the neighbours coming round to tell me that I ought to send my servant over, for your cows were standing at the gate, and that there was no one to let them in, seeing that poor Böske had been marched off between two officers to the police-station."

"The deuce she has!" cried Ráby, and he seized his sword. "But I won't stand that!"

And without another word he dashed out of the house and down the street at full tilt, in the direction of the police-station, which was close to the post office. He thrust open the door, without announcing himself, and shouted so furiously to the unlucky porter that the latter nearly died of fright.

"Where is the jailer? In heaven's name, tell me," thundered Ráby.

"He is drinking in there," said the man, pointing to a door.

Ráby dashed into the room and found the jailer, seized him by the lappet of his jacket, shook him, and yelled:

"You brute, you scoundrel, what have you done with my servant, I want to know?"

"Your worship, the judge had her locked up in 'the Hole.'"

"Let her out, then, at once, you hound! If you don't, I will slay you on the spot, and willingly pay up the forty gulden fine I shall be mulcted of for killing a peasant. Where is the cell, where are the keys? I tell you, you are to give them to me directly."

The frightened official said humbly that he would soon get the keys, but Ráby held him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him to the door of "the Hole," made him open it, and called out, "Come out directly, Böske!"

Directly she appeared he seized the girl by the hand, and led her out of her captivity. And he never let go her hand all the way home, in spite of her wish to withdraw it.

"You are a good, honest girl, Böske, who have only been persecuted on my account; there, there, don't cry, they shall pay for this, sure enough!"

And he flourished his sword so threateningly, that all who met them were quite scared and hastened to clear out of their path.

The gentry had robbed him of his wife, and now the burghers had stolen away his servant; it was truly "adding insult to injury!"

"And now just come in," said Ráby, "and tell me all about it."

"Oh, but I've no time to," exclaimed Böske, "besides, it's a long story. First of all I must run and look after my cows. I've not seen them for two days. They weren't milked either, and perhaps they are starving."

"Oh, it's all right, the postmaster's maid tended them."

"Ay, what does Susanne know about it, I should like to know? The dun cow, she won't give a drop of milk if anyone else milks her, and the dappled one, if she knows that a stranger is there instead of me, will kick over both pail and milking-stool. And no one can feed them as I can. Just listen, gracious master, how they begin to low when they hear my voice."

And away ran Böske into the cowhouse. Not for anything would she have told her own story till the cows were looked after. They recognised her also directly, and the dun cow licked her red arm affectionately, when she went to tether her, and Böske made them a nice turnip "mash," in a wooden bowl, and fed her favourites. Then she washed the pail clean, and when she had put everything in order, she sat down to her milking, and here Ráby found her.

"Now you can tell me, while you are at work, all that has happened," he said kindly.

"If the gracious master does not mind listening to me in the cowhouse. It was like this. When I was setting the yeast to rise the day before yesterday, for baking, in the kitchen, in came two police-officers, saying I must go with them to the police-court. I told them I had not stolen anything. Thereupon, one said, I was not to make a noise, and he threatened to lay his cane about my shoulders, and if I didn't go of my own free will, he'd make me. I told him my master was away. He said that would be all right, and that we could shut the door and leave the key under a beam outside, where I could find it again. So what could I do? I had to leave the yeast in the trough where it got all sour and mouldy, and go off to the police-station. When I got there, I saw lots of men sitting round a table, and they all looked at me and asked me questions, and told me I'd got to be sworn. I thought they meant being married, so said I didn't mind if there was anyone there I liked well enough to marry. Then one of them said it wasn't a question of marrying, but that I must swear to what I knew about the master."

"A regular inquisition," muttered Ráby.

"'I'll swear fast enough,' said I, 'that I know nought of him but what is good.'

"'Then,' says the notary, 'what about the peasants that he sets on to rebel against their landlords?'

"'Nothing of the kind,' says I; 'the man who says that ought to be hanged.'

"With that, he asks if my master did not throw Dacsó Marczi and the surveyor into the river. So I told them it was a wicked lie."

"That was quite true, Böske!"

"Then they asked me if you were not a sorcerer, and did not call up evil spirits at night-time."

"And, pray, what did you say to that?"

"Why I just laughed outright, and told them I had never even heard my master say 'the devil take them,' much less call up evil spirits. But they said the Devil himself would carry me off if I didn't tell the truth. And when they asked me to swear that the gracious master was a sorcerer, I just swore by the Crucifix it was not true. But they were so angry that they just packed me off to prison, then and there, and there I was left without food or drink till the gracious master himself came and fetched me out."

Poor Böske finished her story with a burst of weeping, for up till now she had not had the time for crying. But now she had got her tale over, and the milking done, she cried her heart out into the corners of her apron.

"That was quite enough for once," muttered Ráby to himself. But he deceived himself if he fancied it was enough, for there was yet more to come.

When they had recovered the key from its hiding-place under the beam, Böske went first to open the house, but she started back in horror, and dropped the pail of milk she was carrying, as she exclaimed,

"Gracious master, just look, thieves have been in! We have been robbed!"

Sure enough it was so; the whole house had been completely rifled of valuables. So thoroughly had the work been done that only the empty chairs and tables remained.

Böske broke into a wail of despair.

"Hush, be quiet," ordered Ráby sternly, putting his hand over her mouth.

"But they've broken into my trunk," she cried; "they have stolen my new petticoat, and best kerchief, and my shoes with the rosettes."

"Never mind," said her master consolingly, "to-morrow I'll take you to Buda, and buy you some fresh ones. These are trifles. The thieves probably came after my papers, but those I luckily had with me."

At this Böske was appeased, also she remarked it was a comfort the lady-mistress had taken the embroidered quilt with her, so the thieves were done out of that at any rate.

"But where is the house-dog?"

They found the poor beast, by the well, stiff and dead.

"The brutes!" cried Böske, horrified; "they have drowned him, they have not even left us the dog alive."

Ráby drove the weeping girl into the house and spoke earnestly to her:

"Now, Böske, listen to me. You must never tell anyone what has happened, and that the house has been robbed, for if you do, they may put you in prison again, and you may not get out for years."

With which piece of parting advice Ráby repaired to his uncle's. Here he collected his papers, and stowed them away in the pocket of his coat, he likewise donned his fur mantle, told his uncle shortly what had occurred, and then started to go back home.

It was already nightfall when he took his way down the street to his own home.

As he passed Peter Paprika's house he heard a curious whizzing noise near him, and at the same moment was conscious of having been struck a blow on the side, which so staggered him, it nearly made him lose his balance. He looked round; there was not a soul in sight in the street. He could not imagine from whence the mysterious report had come. But after he had got home, he found a little round perforation on the left side of his coat, which was plainly a bullet hole.

When he drew his papers out of his breast-pocket, out fell a leaden bullet which had evidently bored through so far and been turned aside by the packet of documents.

The whizzing sound our hero had heard had been the report of an air-gun, and had he not placed the papers in his breast-pocket, it would have been all over with him.

CHAPTER XXI.

"Why, what in the world have you got there?" asked Ráby, amazed, of the weeping maid-servant.

"What have I got?" cried Böske, "why, honoured master, don't you know your own furniture when you see it? These are all our things, and they have turned them out here, and me with them."

"What?" yelled Ráby, as he leapt from the coach.

But no answer was needed, for just then the door opened, and out came the notary.

He leaned with the utmost sang-froid against the door, while he filled with tobacco his clay pipe, from which he proceeded to puff eddies of smoke right into Ráby's face. He was quite drunk, and behind him stood a couple of boon companions.

"Pray what has happened here?" inquired the astonished master of the house.

"Only that I am taking possession of my own property," was the insolent answer.

"Your property, why it's mine, considering I paid the price for it in due form," retorted the puzzled Ráby.

"But I repent of having sold it, and I've taken possession again," rejoined the notary, as he re-lit his pipe. "And now since you, my fine gentleman, have nothing further to look for in this town, and are no longer the master here, you may just pack off and go!"

"But I paid you ready-money," remonstrated Ráby, his voice fairly shaking with rage and shame.

"You'd better bring it before the tribunal," sneered the notary, and he laughed so immoderately that the pipe dropped out of his mouth.

Ráby heard the laughter echoed in the yard without by a dozen other voices.

He strove no longer. He told Böske he would send a coach to fetch her and the furniture away, and till then, she must wait there. Then he hurried off to his uncle's and told his story.

"This is beyond a joke," said the old man. "We will not stand this sort of thing from these insolent wretches."

"But to whom can I complain?" asked Ráby. "To the judge, Petray, who is my personal enemy; to the county court where I am accused of bigamy and scoffed at?"

"To none of the lot! There is an edict which provides that whoso appropriates unlawfully the property of another, can himself be turned out by the lawful owner."

"But where can we procure the methods of force necessary to drive these people out?" demanded Ráby. "The whole township is in their pay. The municipality gives no formal help, and the military would not move in the matter. If I myself incite the people to act, I shall be accused of instigating to violence."

"Leave all that to me, my boy; we old folks know more than you young ones give us credit for. No need to go either to the tribunal or to the barracks. We'll just get the good people of Bicske and Velencze to help us. The gentry in these towns fight like dragons. But in all their history there is not a single case of either having ever taken their disputes before the county courts or the provincial tribunals. For, being of noble descent, there is a tradition among them that all quarrels which arise between them shall be settled by the military officer who happens, for the time being, to be in command of the defendant's town. They are satisfied with this judgment, and never do either judge or lawyer have a fee out of their pockets."

"That sounds quite patriarchal," remarked Ráby.

"Now why can't we acquire just such a right among our people here?" pursued his uncle. "In a fortnight's time there will be a fair at Stuhlweissenburg. During this time I will go round and discuss the matter with the heads of the departments. You yourself can remain here in the meantime and look after my work in the post office. In Velencze they are just electing Stephen Keö, Knight of Kadarcs, as the judge. You ought to propound your plan to him. He has a fine fighting record behind him, for he went through Rákóczi's campaigns with the great leader himself, and still wears the shabby wolfskin coat in which he used to parade in the old fighting days. He is very proud of his military record, as well as of his ancestors, who came from Asia with the horsemen of Arpád himself. Remember this point; it will be an excellent passport to his good graces, and don't forget to give him his full title, and always to address him as Knight of Kadarcs. As soon as I'm ready with the legal points we'll go to Stuhlweissenburg and set our scheme afoot. Meanwhile, have no fear, we'll soon drive those brutes out of your house, my boy, and send them packing!"

Ráby agreed to all of it. He was so exasperated that he positively yearned for a fight of some kind, whatever it might be.

So it was arranged he should stop and look after the post office, while his uncle went to collect materials for his campaign.

CHAPTER XXII.

Everything is paid for in ready money, so that if a well-to-do purchaser buys a herd of sheep and has not the price forthcoming, he leaves his silver knife and fork (which he carries about with him) as a pledge, and the seller knows well enough they will be redeemed in due course.

Towards mid-day, the "market-kitchen" becomes thronged. Here too the famous gipsy stew needs no advertising, for its savoury odour betrays its whereabouts, and it only wants good wine to wash it down to make it complete. But this same good wine is dear, and only for the gentry. The Velencze people have already annexed a table near the bar, and sit round it and listen to their favourite song: