"And now let me go first," said the odalisk, when all was ready; "if the branches of the creeper do not break beneath me, then thou canst come boldly after me, for thou and the child together are not heavier than I am."

The sky was dark and obscured by clouds; no one saw a white shape descending from one of the black windows of the fortress down the wall, lower and lower, till at last it got to the bottom and vanished in the depths of the ditch.

Mariska was waiting above there with a beating heart till the odalisk had descended; a tug at the gobæa-rope informed her that Azrael was already below, and Mariska could come after her.

A supplicating sigh to God ascended from the anxious bosom of the Princess at that supreme moment of trial; then she fastened to her breast with the folds of her garment the little one, who, fortunately, was still sound asleep, and stepping from the window entrusted herself to the yawning abyss below.

And, indeed, she had need of the most confident trust in God during this hazardous experiment, for if the child had awoke, the Komparajis pacing the bastions would have heard his tearful little wail at once, and it would have been all over with the fugitives.

Nothing happened. Mariska reached the ditch in safety, together with her child. Azrael assisted her to descend, and then they began to creep along among the trenches on the river's bank. It was not advisable to clamber upon the trenches, as there they might have encountered a sentinel at any moment.

At last they came to the end of the ditch where two bastions joined together, forming a little oblique opening, through which one could look down on the town of Pesth.

Before the little opening stood a Komparaji leaning on his long lance. As his back was turned towards them, he did not notice the women, while they started back in terror when they saw him. The man stood right in front of the opening completely barring their way, and was gaping at Pesth, facing the steep declivity.

Azrael quickly caught Mariska's hand and whispered in her ear:

"Remain here! Sit down with the child, and see that he does not make a noise."

And with that, quitting her companion and pressing against the wall of the bastion, she slowly and noiselessly began creeping along behind the back of the Komparaji.

The sentinel remained standing there, as motionless as a statue, gazing at the Danube flying in front of him, when suddenly, like the panther leaping upon its prey, the odalisk leaped upon the Komparaji, and before he had time to call out, pushed him so violently that he plunged over into the abyss.

Then quickly seizing Mariska's hand, the odalisk exclaimed:

"And now forward quickly!"

Like two spirits the forms of the women flitted across the bastions. In Azrael's hand was the key of the castle garden; in a few moments they reached the subterranean staircase, and when Azrael had locked the door behind her she turned to Mariska and said:

"Now thou canst pray, for thou art saved."

The report had already spread through the two towns that early at dawn someone would be executed, and here and there people whispered that it would be the Princess of Moldavia.

The population living outside the town were able to give full reins to their imagination, for the gates of the fortress, by Hassan Pasha's command, were already locked fast at six o'clock in the evening, and after that time nobody was allowed to enter out or in except the sentinels outside, and these only by the Szombat gate.

The later grew the hour the more numerous became the crowd assembled in front of the gates thus unwontedly bolted and barred, consisting for the most part of people who lived inside the town of every rank, who thus waited patiently for the chance of reaching their houses again. Knocking at the gates was useless, the guards had been ordered to take no notice of such demonstrations.

The darker grew the night, the more numerous became the throng before the gate, and the more closely they pressed together the plainer it became to them all that they would have to sleep outside.

The largest concourse was in front of the Fejérvár gate, for that was the chief entrance.

It was already close upon midnight, when some dozen horsemen, in the uniforms of Spahis, arrived at the gate, forcing their way through the throng, led, apparently, by a handsome youth (it was too dark to distinguish very clearly), who thundered at the gate with the butt-end of his lance.

"You may bang away at it till morning," said a cobbler of Buda, who was lying prone, chawing bacon at his ease, "they won't let you in."

"Then why are you all here?" cried the youth in the purest Hungarian.

"Because they locked us out at six o'clock in the evening, and would not let us in."

"Why was that?"

"They say that at dawn of day someone in the fortress is to be executed."

"Who is it?" said the youth, visibly affected.

"Why, the Princess of Moldavia, of course."

"Oh, that cannot be in any case," exclaimed the leader of the Spahis. "I have just come from the Sultan, and I have brought with me his firman, in which he summons her to Stambul; not a hair of her head is to be crumpled."

"Then it will be just as well, sir, if you try to get into the fortress, for it may be you have come with the sermon after the festival is over, and that letter may remain in your pocket if once they cut off her head."

The youth seemed for a moment to be reflecting, then, turning to those who stood around, he said:

"Through which gate do they admit the soldiers on guard?"

"Through the Szombat gate."

The youth immediately turned his horse's head, and beckoned to his comrades to follow him.

But at the first words he had uttered, a figure enwrapped in a mantle had emerged from a corner of the gate, and when he began to talk about the Princess and the firman, this figure, with great adroitness, had crept quite close to him, and when he turned round had swiftly followed him till, having made its way through the throng, it overtook him, and, placing its hand on the horseman's knee, said in a low voice: "Tököly!"

"Hush!" hissed the horseman, with an involuntary start, and bending his head so that he might look into the face of his interlocutor, whereupon his wonder was mingled with terror, and throwing himself back in his saddle, he exclaimed: "Prince! can it be you?"

For Prince Ghyka stood before him.

"Could I be anywhere else when they want to kill my wife?" he said mournfully.

"Do not be cast down, there will be plenty of time till to-morrow morning. I have plenty of confidence in my good star. When I really wish for a thing I generally get it even if the Devil stand in the opposite camp against me, and never have I wished for anything so much as to save Mariska."

The Prince, with tears in his eyes, pressed the hand of the youth, and did not take it at all amiss of him that he called his wife Mariska.

"Well, of course, you have brought the firman with you, and if you come with the suite of the Sultan——"

"Firman, my friend? I have not brought a bit of a firman with me, and those who are with me are my good kinsfolk in Turkish costumes, worthy Magyar chums everyone of them, who have agreed to help me through with whatsoever I take it into my head to set about; but I have got something about me which can make firmans and athnamés, and whatever else I may require, whether it be the key of a dungeon, or a marshal's bâton, or a prince's sceptre—a golden knapsack, I mean."

"And what are you going to get with that?"

"Everything. I will corrupt the sentinels so that they will let me into the fortress; and once let me get in, and I'll either make Hassan Pasha sell Olaj Beg, or Olaj Beg sell Hassan Pasha. If a good word be of no avail I will use threats, and if my whole scheme falls through, Heaven only knows what I won't do. I'll chop Hassan Pasha and his guards into a dozen pieces, or I'll set the castle on fire, or I'll blow up the powder magazine—in a word, I won't desist till I have brought out your consort."

"How can I thank you for your noble enthusiasm?"

"You mustn't thank me, my friend; you must thank Flora Teleki, who is your wife's friend, and expects this of me."

"Then you are re-engaged?"

"No, my friend. Helen is my bride. Ah, that is the only real woman in the whole round world. I should be with her now if I were not engaged in this business, and as soon as I have finished with it, the pair of us will give you a wedding the like of which has never yet been seen in Hungary."

The Prince sadly bowed his head. He means well, he thought, but there is a very poor chance of his succeeding. The mercurial youth seems to have no idea that within an hour he will be jeopardizing his head by engaging in a foolhardy enterprise which runs counter to the whole policy of the Turkish Empire. But Tököly's mind never impeded his heart. His motto always was: "Virtus nescia freni."

"Then what do you intend to do?" Tököly casually asked Ghyka, just as if he considered it the most extraordinary thing in the world to find him there.

"I also want to save Mariska, and I have hopes of doing so," said the Prince.

"How? Tell me! Perchance we may be able to unite our efforts."

"Scarcely, I think. My plan is simply to give myself up instead of my wife. They would execute her for my fault; it is only right that I should appear on the scaffold and take her place."

"A bad idea!" exclaimed Tököly, "a stupid notion. If you deliver yourself up, they will seize you as well as your wife and do for the pair of you. I know a dodge worth two of that. Take horse along with us, and let us make our way into the fortress sword in hand; we shall do much more that way than if we went hobbling in on crutches. Luck belongs to the audacious."

"You know, Tököly, that I do not much rely on Turkish humanity; and I am quite prepared, if I deliver myself up, for them to kill both me and her; but at least we shall die together, and that will be some consolation."

"It is no good talking like that," cried the young Magyar impatiently. "Stop! A good idea occurs to me. Yes, and it will be better if you come with us and we all act in common. We will say openly at the gate that we bring with us the fugitive Prince of Moldavia as a captive. At the mere rumour of such a thing they will instantly admit us, not only into the fortress, but into the presence of Hassan likewise. The Pasha knows me pretty well, and if I tell him that I bring you a captive, he will believe me, or I'll break his head for him. He will be delighted to see you. But I will not give you up. I am responsible for you, and must mount guard over you. This will make it necessary to postpone the execution, for we shall have to write to Stambul that the husband has fallen into our hands, and inquire whether the wife is to be sacrificed, and we shall have time to elope ten times over before we get a reply."

The Prince hesitated. If this desperate expedient had been a mere joke, Tököly could not have spoken of it with greater nonchalance. The Prince gave him his hand upon it.

"The only question now is: which is the easiest way into the fortress. Let us draw near the first sentinel whom we find on the bridge or in the garden and wait until they change guard."

The horsemen thereupon surrounded the Prince as if he was their captive, and escorted him along the river's bank.

It was late. On the black surface of the Danube rocked the shapeless Turkish vessels, their sails creaking in the blast of the strong south wind.

It was scarce possible to see ahead at all, nevertheless the little band of adventurers, constantly pushing forward, kept looking around to see where the sentinels were, keeping very quiet themselves that they might catch the watchword.

Suddenly a cry was heard, but a cry which ended abruptly, as if the mouth from which it proceeded had been clapped to in mid-utterance.

On reaching the walls of the palace garden, however, one of them perceived that an armed figure was standing in the little wicket gate.

"There's the sentinel!" said Tököly.

"The rascal must certainly be asleep to let us come right up to him without challenging us," said Tököly; and he approached the armed man, who still stood motionless in the gate, and addressed him in the Turkish tongue:

"Hie, Timariot, or whoever you are! Are you guarding this gate?"

"You see that I am."

"Then why don't you challenge those who approach you?"

"That's none of my business."

"Then what is your business?"

"To stand here till I am relieved."

"And when will they relieve you?"

"Any time."

"Does the relief watch come by this gate?"

"Not by this gate."

"And by which gate can one get into the fortress?"

"By no gate."

"You give very short answers, my friend, but we must get at Hassan Pasha this very night without fail."

"You must learn to fly then."

"Don't joke with me, sir! I have very important tidings for the Vizier; you may possibly find it easier to get into the fortress than we could. You shall receive from me a hundred ducats on the spot if you inform the Pasha that I, Emeric Tököly, bring with me as a captive the fugitive Prince of Moldavia, and the Vizier himself will certainly reward you for it richly."

The Count had no sooner mentioned his name, and pointed at the captive prince, than the Turkish sentinel quickly came forth from beneath the archway, and Tököly and Ghyka, in astonishment, exclaimed with one voice:

"Feriz Beg!"

"Yes, 'tis I. Keep still. You want to save Mariska, so do I."

"So it is," said Tököly. "I promised the woman I do not love that I would do it, and I will keep my promise. You need have no secrets from us, for we shall require your assistance."

"Your secrets are nought to me."

The Prince listened with downcast head to the conversation of the two young men; then he intervened, took their hands, and said with deep emotion:

"Feriz! Tököly! Once upon a time we faced each other as antagonists, and now as self-sacrificing friends we hold each other's hands. I don't want to be smaller than you. A scaffold has been put up in the courtyard of the fortress of Buda, that scaffold awaits a victim, whoever it may be, for the sword which the Sultan draws in his wrath will not remain unsatisfied. That scaffold was prepared for my wife, you must let me take her place. I am well aware that whoever liberates her must be prepared to perish instead of her. Let me perish. You, Feriz, can easily get into the fortress. Tell Hassan that the scaffold shall have the husband instead of the wife—let him surrender the wife for the husband."

"Leave the scaffold alone, Prince. He who deserves it most shall get to the scaffold."

"Don't listen to the Prince!" said Tököly to Feriz; "he has lost his head evidently, as he wants to make a present of it to Hassan. All I ask of you is to let me into the fortress; once let me get inside, and no harm shall be done. I was born with a caul, so good-luck goes with me."

"Good. Wait here till the muezzin proclaims midnight, which will not be long, I fancy, as the night is already well advanced; meanwhile, keep your eye on those horsemen below there."

The men fancied Feriz wanted to join the sentinels when the watch was relieved, and taking him at his word, hid themselves and their horses behind the lofty bank.

The night was now darker than ever, only here and there a lofty star looked down upon them from among the wind-swept clouds.

Hassan had a restless night. Horrible dreams awoke him every instant, and yet he never wholly awoke, one phantom constantly supplanted the other in his agitated brain.

The raging blast broke open one of the windows and beat furiously against the wall, so that the coloured glasses crashed down upon the floor.

Aroused by the uproar, and gazing but half awake at the window, he saw the long curtain slowly approaching him as if some Dzhin were inside and had come thither to terrify him.

"Who is that?" cried Hassan in terror, laying his hand on his sword.

It was no one. It was only the wind which had stiffened out the curtains, expanding them like a banner and blowing gustily into the room.

Hassan seized the curtain, pulled it away from the window, fastened it up by its golden tassels, and laid him down again. The wind returned to torment him and again worried the curtain till it had succeeded in unravelling the tassels, and again blew the curtain into the room.

And then the tapestries of the door and the divans began fluttering and flapping as if someone was tugging away at their ends, and the flame of the night-lamp on the tripod flickered right and left, casting galloping shadows on the wall.

"What is that? Have the devils been let loose in this palace?" Hassan asked himself in amazement.

The closed doors jarred in the blast as if someone was banging at them from the outside, and every now and then the bang of a window-shutter would respond to the howling of the blast.

Men have curious supernatural faculties through which their minds are suddenly illuminated. At that moment the idea flashed through Hassan's brain that, in the apartments of the wing beyond, a window must needs be open, which was the cause of the unwonted current of air which fluttered the curtains of his palace and made the doors rattle, and this window could be none other than Azrael's, and if it were open, then the two women must have escaped.

At this horrible idea he quickly leaped out on to the floor, seized his sword, which was lying at his bedside, and, bursting open the door, rushed like a madman through all the apartments to Azrael's dormitory.

At the instant of their escape Azrael had turned over the long divan and placed it right across the room in such a way that one end of it was jammed against the door, whilst the other end pressed against the wall, so that when Hassan tried to open the door, he found it impossible to do so.

Everything was now quite clear to him.

He called to nobody to open the door; he knew that they had escaped. In the fury of despair he snatched a battle-axe from the wall and began to break open the hard oaken door, so that the whole palace resounded with the noise of the blows, and the guards and the domestics all came running up together.

Having beaten in the door at last, Hassan rushed into the room, cast a glance around, and even his eyes could see that his slave had flown.

Howling with rage he rushed to the window, and when he saw the dependent branches of the gobæa, he beat his forehead with his fists and laughed aloud as if something had broken loose inside him.

"They have run off!" he yelled; "they have escaped, they have stolen their lives, and they have stolen my life, too. Run after them into every corner of the globe, pursue them, bring them back tied together, tied together so that the blood may flow through their fingers. Oh, Azrael, Azrael! How have I deserved this of thee?"

And with that the old man burst into tears, and perceiving the odalisk's girdle on the window-frame, to which the plant was attached, he took it down, kissed it hundreds of times, hid his tearful face in it, and collapsed senseless on the floor.

"Hasten, Princess, hasten!"

The odalisk pressed her companion's hand, and dragged her down along the bushy hillside. And now they had reached the hollow forming the entrance to the underground passage which terminated at the gates of the garden on the banks of the Danube.

The odalisk had succeeded in filching the keys of the door of this secret passage from Hassan. While she was trying which of the two it was that belonged to the lock of the inner door, a cry resounded through the stillness of the night. "Hassan!" exclaimed the two girls together. They had recognised the voice.

"They have discovered our escape," said Azrael.

"Oh, God! do not leave me!" cried Mariska, pressing her hands together. "My child!"

Azrael quickly opened the grating door. It took a few moments, and during that time a commotion was audible in the town, no doubt caused by the cry of Hassan. Cries of alarm and consternation spread from bastion to bastion, the whole garrison was aroused, and there was a confused murmur within the fortress.

"Let us hasten!" cried Azrael, quickly opening the door and dragging after her the Princess into the blind-black corridor.

At that moment a cannon-shot thundered from the fortress as an alarm-signal.

Mariska, at the sound of the shot, collapsed in terror at Azrael's feet, and lay motionless in the corridor, still holding her child fast clasped in her arms.

"Hah! the woman has fainted," cried the odalisk in alarm; "we shall both perish here," she cried in her despair.

The din in the fortress grew louder every instant, from every bastion the signal-guns thundered.

"No, no, we must not perish!" exclaimed the heroine, and with a strength multiplied by the extremity of the danger, she caught up the moaning woman and child in her arms, and raising them to her bosom began making her way with them along the covered corridor.

Pitch darkness engulfed everything around them; the odalisk groped her way along by the feel of the wet, sinuous walls, stumbling from time to time beneath the burden of the dead weight in her arms, but at every fresh shot she started forward again and went on without resting.

Onwards, ever onwards!—till the last gasp! till the last heart-throb! The awakened child also began to cry.

Azrael's knees tottered, her bosom heaved beneath the double load, her staring eyes saw nothing; and the world was as dark before her soul as it was before her eyes.

Heavy was the load upon her shoulder; but heavier still was the thought in her heart that this woman whom she was saving at the risk of her own life was the darling of him whom she loved herself, yet save her she must, for she had promised to do so.

At every step she felt her strength diminishing; with swimming head she staggered against the wall, the steps seemed to have no end; if only she could hold out till she reached the door with her, and then for a moment might see Feriz Beg and hear from his lips the words: "Well done!"—then Israfil, the Angel of Death might come with his flaming sword.

For some time she had gathered from the hollower resonance of the steps in the darkness that she was approaching the door; rallying her remaining strength, she tottered forward a few paces with her load, and when the latch of the door was already in her hand, her knees gave way beneath her, and along with the Princess and the child, she fell in a heap on the threshold, being just able to shove the key into the lock and turn it twice.

Feriz Beg, with the Magyar nobles, plunged again beneath the shade of the deep arch of the gate of the fortress garden and with wrapt attention listened for the muezzin to proclaim midnight. It was then that Azrael had said she would come.

It never occurred to him that the woman could not come, so deeply had he looked into her heart that he felt sure she would fulfil her promise.

If only the muezzin would proclaim midnight from the mosque.

At last a cry sounded through the stillness of the night, but it was not the voice of the muezzin from the mosque, but Hassan's yell of terror from the fortress window and the din which immediately followed it, proclaiming that there was danger.

Feriz's heart was troubled, but he never moved from the spot. He knew right well what that noise meant. They had tried to help the Princess to escape and her escape was discovered.

"What is that noise?" asked the Prince apprehensively, sticking up his head.

Feriz did not want to alarm him.

"It is nothing," he answered. "Some one has stolen away on the bastions, perhaps, and they are pursuing him."

Then the first cannon-shot resounded.

Feriz, for the first time in his life, was agitated at the sound of a cannon.

"That is an alarm-signal," cried Tököly, drawing his sword.

"Keep quiet!" whispered Feriz, "perhaps they are shooting at the people who are thronging the gates."

Nevertheless the shots were repeated from every bastion; the tumult, the uproar increased; a tattoo was beaten, the trumpets rang out and a whole concourse of people could be seen running along the bastions with torches and flashing swords in their hands.

"They are pursuing someone!" cried the Prince, and unable to endure it any longer, he leaped upon the bank.

"I know not what it is," stammered Feriz, and a cold shudder ran through his body.

Ghyka grasped his sword, and would have rushed up the hill as if obeying some blind instinct.

"What would you do?" whispered Feriz, grasping the hand of the Prince, and pulling him back by force under the gate.

For a few moments they stood there in a dead silence, the tumult, the uproar seemed to be coming nearer and nearer—if it were to overtake them?

"Hush!" whispered Feriz, holding his ear close to the door. He seemed to hear footsteps approaching from within and the plaintive wail of a child.

A few moments afterwards there was a fumbling at the latch and a key was thrust into the lock and twice turned. Feriz hastened to open the door and the senseless forms of the two women fell at his feet.

The youth quickly dragged the Prince after him, and recognising Mariska, who still lay in the embrace of Azrael, he placed her in her husband's arms together with the weeping child.

"Here are your wife and child," said he, "and now hasten!"

"Mariska!" exclaimed the Prince, beside himself; and embracing the child whom he now saw for the first time, he kissed the rosy face of the one and the pallid face of the other again and again.

That voice, that kiss, that embrace awoke the fainting woman, and as soon as she opened her eyes, she quickly, passionately, flung her arms round her husband's neck while he held the child on his arm. No sound came from her lips, all her life was in her heart.

"Quick! quick!" Feriz whispered to them. "Get into this skiff. When you get to the other side it will be time to rejoice in each other; till then we have cause to fear, for the whole of the Buda side of the river is on the alert. But I'll look after them here. On the other bank my servant is awaiting you with the swift horses; mention my name, and he will hand them over to you. On the banks of the Raab you will find another of my servants with fresh relays. Choose your horses, and then to Nógrád as fast as you can. Thence it will be easy to escape into Poland. Do not linger. Every moment is precious. Forward!"

With that he conducted the fugitives to the skiff which was ready waiting for them, and at the bottom of which two muscular servants of his were lying out of sight. These helped them in, Feriz undid the rope, and at a few strokes of the oars they were already some distance from the shore.

Then only did Feriz breathe freely, as if a huge load had fallen from his heart.

"May they not pursue them?" inquired Tököly anxiously.

"They may," returned Feriz; "but they cannot transport the horses in boats, as the fugitives now sit in the only boat here; the bridge, too, has been removed and they will hardly be able to build another in time on such a night as this."

The fugitives had now reached the middle of the Danube, when Mariska, who had scarce been herself for joy and terror in her half-unconscious state, suddenly bethought her of her companion who had saved her with such incomprehensible self-sacrifice and energy, and standing up in the skiff waved her handkerchief as if she would thereby make up for the leave-taking which she had neglected in her joy and haste.

"What are they doing?" cried Feriz angrily, seeing that they were attracting attention in consequence.

Fortunately the night was dark and the people rushing down from the bastions could not see the skiff making its way across the Danube; presently its shape even began to vanish out of sight of the young eyes that were watching it.

Feriz looked up to the sky with a transfigured face. Two stars, close together, looked down very brightly from amidst the fleeting clouds. Did he not see Aranka's eyes in that twin stellar radiance?

Tököly took the hands of the young hero and pressed them hard.

"Once before we stood face to face," he said with a feeling voice, which came from the bottom of his heart, "then I prevailed, now you prevail. God be with you!"

Then the young Count mounted his horse, and beckoning to his comrades, galloped off in the direction of Gellérthegy.

Feriz stood there alone on the shore with folded arms and tried to distinguish once more the shape of the skiff already vanishing in the darkness.

Nobody thought of the poor odalisk who had saved them.

All at once the youth felt the contact of a burning hand upon his arm. Broken in mind and body, the odalisk dragged herself to his knees, and seizing his hand drew it to her breast and to her lips. She could not speak, she could only sob and weep.

Feriz looked at her compassionately.

"Thou hast done well," he said gently.

The girl embraced the youth's knees, and it was well with her that he suffered her to do so.

"I thank thee for keeping thy word," said Feriz; "look now! that woman was not my beloved. She has a husband who loves her."

Indescribably sweet were these words to the damsel. In them she found the sweetest reward for her sufferings and self-sacrifice. Then it was not love after all which made Feriz save this woman through her!

The uproar meanwhile was extending along the shore, the pursuers could see that they were on the track of the fugitives.

"We must be off," said Feriz; "wouldst thou like to come with me?"

"Come with him!" What a thought was that for Azrael! To be able to live under the same roof with him!

Yet she answered: "I will not come."

It occurred to her that if she were found with the dear youth he would perish because of her. And besides, she knew that the invitation was due not to love but to magnanimous gratitude.

"I want to go over to the island," she said in a faint voice.

"Then I'll help thee to find thy skiff," said the youth, extending his hand to the odalisk to raise her up.

She was still kneeling on the ground before him.

She fixed upon him her large eyes swimming with tears, and whispered in a tremulous voice:

"Feriz! Thou wert wont to reward those damsels who sacrificed themselves for thee, who died nobly and valiantly because they loved thee. Have not I also won that reward?"

Feriz Beg sadly lowered his head as if it afflicted him to think of the significance of these words; then softly, gently, he bent over the damsel, and drawing her lovely head towards him, pressed a warm, feeling kiss on her marble forehead.

The odalisk trembled with rapture beneath the load of that more than earthly sensation of pleasure, and leaping up and stretching her arms to Heaven, she whispered:

"I am happy!—For the first time in my life. Now I may go—and die."

Feriz, tenderly embracing her, led the damsel to her skiff. Then she stopped suddenly, and leaning her head against the shoulder of the youth, murmured in his ear:

"When thou reachest thy kiosk, lie not down to sleep! Sit at thy window and look towards the island in the direction of sunrise. The night will be over ere long, and the dawn will come sooner than at other times. When thou seest this portent think of me and say for me the prayer which is used before the cold dawn, and say from thy heart: 'That woman does penance for her sins!'"

The odalisk felt two tear-drops falling upon her cheek. They fell from the eyes of the youth.

She could never feel happier in this world than she felt now.

A few minutes later the skiff was flying over the rocking waves.

CHAPTER XX.
THE VICTIM.

The boatman did not understand much about it; but, anyhow, he understood that he could not give the damsel a lift up there, so he drew back his canoe and departed.

Azrael remained alone on the island, quite alone; for that day everyone had been withdrawn by command of the Vizier; the damsels, the guards, and the eunuchs had all migrated to the fortress, the paradise was empty and uninhabited.

Azrael strolled the whole length of the shore of the island. The mortars were still thundering down from the fortress, the horsemen were still shouting on the river's bank, the signal fires were blazing on the bastions, the night was dark, the wind blew tempestuously and scattered the leaves of the trees—but she saw neither the beacon fires, nor the darkness; she heard neither the tumult of men nor the howling of the blast; in her soul there was the light of heaven and an angelic harmony with which no rumour, no shape of the outer world would intermingle.

She came to the kiosk in the centre of the island. Wandering aimlessly she had hit upon the labyrinthine way to it unawares. The sudden view of the summer-house startled her, and it awoke a two-fold sensation in her heart, it appealed equally to her memory and her imagination. She bethought her of the resolve she had made on coming to the island. She remembered that when she parted from the youth of her heart she had said: "When thou comest to thy kiosk, do not lie down to sleep; sit down at thy window, and look towards the island in the direction of the dawn. This night will be soon over, and the dawn will dawn more quickly than at other times. When thou seest it think of me and say for me the prayer of direction for the departing."

She reflected that the youth must now be sitting at the window, looking towards the island, with his fine eyes weary of staring into the darkness. She would not weary those fine eyes for long.

She hastily opened the door with her silver key and entered the hall. A hanging lamp was burning in the room just as the servants had left it in the morning. She drew forth a wax taper, and having lit it, proceeded to the other rooms, which opened one out of another, and whose floors were covered by precious oriental carpets, whose walls were inlaid with all manner of woods brought from foreign countries, and covered with tapestries, all splendid masterpieces of eastern art; the atmosphere of the rooms was heavy with intoxicating perfumes.

All this was frightful, abominable to her now. As she walked over the carpets, it was as if she were stepping on burning coals; when she inhaled the scented atmosphere, it was as though she were breathing the corruption of the pestilence; everything in these rooms awoke memories of sin and disgust in her heart—costly costumes, porcelain vases, silver bowls, all of them the playthings of loathsome moments, whose keenest punishment was that she was obliged to remember them.

But they shall all perish. And if they all perish, if these symbols of sin and the hundred-fold more sinful body itself become dust, then surely the soul will remember them no more? Surely it will depart far, far away—perchance to that distant star—and will be happy like the others who are near to God and know nothing of sin, but are full of the comfort of the infinite mercy of God, who has permitted them to escape from hence?

With the burning torch in her hand she went all through the rooms, tearing down the curtains and tapestries, and piling them all on the divan; and when she entered the last of the rooms she saw a pale white figure coming towards her from its dark background. The shape was as familiar to her as if she had seen it hundreds of times, although she knew not where; and its face was so gentle, so unearthly—a grief not of this world suffused its handsome features and the joy of heaven flashed from its calm, quiet eyes—its hair clung round its head in tiny curls, as guardian-angels are painted.

The damsel gazed appalled at this apparition. She fancied Heaven had sent her the messenger of the forgiveness of her sins; but it was her own figure reflected from a mirror concealed in the dark background—that gentle, downcast, sorrowful face, those pure, shining eyes she had never seen in a mirror before; the cut-off hair increased the delusion.

Tremblingly she sank on her knees before this apparition, and touching the ground with her face, lay sobbing there for some time; and when she again rose up, it appeared to her as if that apparition extended towards her its snow-white arms full of pity, full of compassion; and when she raised her hands to Heaven it also pointed thither, raising a face transformed by a sublime desire. No, she could not recognise that face as her own, never before had she seen it so beautiful.

Azrael placed her hands devoutly across her breast and beckoned to the apparition to follow her, and raising the curtain she returned into that room where she had already raised a funeral pyre for herself.

There, piled up together, lay cushions of cloth of gold, Indian feather-stuffs, divans filled with swansdown, light, luxurious little tables, harps of camphor-wood adorned with pearls, lutes with the silvery voices of houris, a little basin filled with fine fragrant oils composed from the aroma of a thousand oriental flowers; this she everywhere sprinkled over the heaped-up stuff, and also saturated the thick carpets with it, the volatile essence filled the whole atmosphere.

Then she pressed her hand upon her throbbing heart, and said: "God be with me!"

And then she fired the heaped-up materials at all four corners, and, as if she were ascending her bridal bed, mounted her cushions with a smiling, triumphant face, and lay down among them, closing her eyes with a happy smile.

In a few moments the flames burst forth at all four corners, fed freely by the light dry stuff, and combining above her like a wave of fire, formed a flaming canopy over her head. And she smiled happily, sweetly, all the time. The air, filled with volatile oil, also burst into flame, turning into a sea of burning blue; white clouds of smoke began to gather above the pyre; the strings of the harp caught by the flames burst asunder one by one from their burning frame, emitting tremulous, woeful sounds as if weeping for her who was about to die. When the last harp-string had burnt—the odalisk was dead.

The night was now drawing to a close. Feriz Beg, quietly intent, was sitting at the window of his kiosk, as he had promised the odalisk. He had not understood her mysterious words, but he did as she asked, for he knew instinctively that it was the last wish of one about to die.

Suddenly, as he gazed at the black waves of the Danube and the still blacker clouds in the sky, he saw a bright column of fire ascend with the rapidity of the wind from the midst of the opposite island, driving before it round white clouds of smoke. A few moments later the flames of the burning kiosk lit up the whole region. The startled inhabitants gazed at the splendid conflagration, whose flames mounted as high as a tower in the roaring blast. Nobody thought of saving it.

"No human life is lost, at any rate," they said quietly; "the harem and its guards were transferred yesterday."

The wind, too, greatly helped the fire. The kiosk, built entirely of the lightest of wood, was a heap of ashes by the morning, when Feriz, accompanied by the müderris in his official capacity, got into a skiff and were rowed across to the island. Not even a remnant of embers was to be found, everything had been burnt to powder. Nothing was to be seen but a large, black, open patch powdered with ashes. The fire had utterly consumed the abode of sin and vice. Nothing remained but a black spot. In the coming spring it will be a green meadow.

In the afternoon of the following day we see a familiar horseman trotting up to the gates of the fortress—if we mistake not, it is Yffim Beg.

All the way from Klausenburg he had been cudgelling his brains to find words sufficiently dignified to soften the expression of the insulting message which the Estates of Transylvania had sent through him to his gracious master. On arriving in front of Hassan's palace he dismounted as usual, without asking any questions, and gave the reins to the familiar eunuchs that they might lead the horse to the stables.

There was no trace of the scaffold that had been erected in front of the gate the day before. Yffim Beg entered and passed through all the rooms he knew so well, all the doors of which were still guarded by the drabants of Hassan as of yore; at last he reached Hassan's usual audience chamber, and there he found Olaj Beg sitting on a divan reading the Alkoran.

Yffim Beg gazed around him, and after a brief inspection, not discovering what he sought, he addressed Olaj Beg:

"I want to speak to Hassan Pasha," said he.

Olaj Beg looked at him, rose with the utmost aplomb, and approached a table on which was a silver dish covered by a cloth. This cloth he removed, and a severed bloody head stared at Yffim Beg with stony eyes.

"There he is—speak to him!" said Olaj Beg gently.

CHAPTER XXI.
OTHER TIMES—OTHER MEN.

It was, of course, a dangerous game to risk one kingdom in order to gain another, for both might be sacrificed. There was even a party in Transylvania itself which was indisposed to risk the little Principality for the sake of the larger kingdom, and though the most powerful arm of this party, Dionysius Banfy, had been cut off, it still had two powerful heads in Paul Béldi and Nicholas Bethlen.

So one fine day at the Diet assembled at Fogaras, the Prince's guard suddenly surrounded the quarters of Paul Béldi and Nicholas Bethlen, and informed those gentlemen that they were State prisoners.

What had they done? What crime had they committed that they should be arrested so unceremoniously?

Good Michael Apafi believed that they were aiming at the princely coronet. This was a crime he was ready to believe in at a single word, and he urged the counsellors who had ordered the arrest at once to put the law into execution against the arrestants. But that is what these gentlemen took very good care not to do. It was much easier to kill the arrestants outright than to find a law which would meet their case.

In those days worthy Master Cserei was the commandant of the fortress of Fogaras, and the castle in which the arrestants were lodged was the property of the Princess. As soon as Anna heard of the arrest she summoned Cserei, and showing him the signet-ring on her finger, said to him: "Look at that ring, and whatever death-warrant reaches you, if it bears not the impression of that seal, you will take care not to execute the prisoners; the castle is mine, so you have to obey my orders rather than the orders of the Prince."

The Prince and his wife then returned together to Fejérvár. On the day after their arrival the chief men of the realm met together in council at the Prince's palace, and it was Teleki's idea that only those should remain to dinner who were of the same views as himself. So they all remained at the Prince's till late in the evening, and thoroughly enjoyed the merry jests of the court buffoon, Gregory Biró, who knew no end of delightful tricks, and swallowed spoons and forks so dextrously that nobody could make out what had become of them.

Apafi had not noticed how much he had drunk, for every time he had filled his beaker from the flagon standing beside him, the flagon itself had been replenished, so that he fancied he had drunk nothing from sheer forgetfulness. But his face had got more inflamed and bloodshot than usual, and suddenly perceiving that the chair next to his was empty, he exclaimed furiously: "Who else has bolted? It is Denis Banfy who has bolted now, I know it is. What has become of Denis Banfy, I say?"

The gentlemen were all silent; only Teleki was able to reply:

"Denis Banfy is dead."

"Dead?" inquired Apafi, "how did he die?"

"Paul Béldi formed a league against him and he was beheaded."

"Béldi?" cried Apafi, rising from his seat in blind rage, "and where is that man?"

"He is in a dungeon at present, but it will not be long before he sits on the throne of the Prince."

"On the scaffold, you mean!" thundered Apafi, beside himself, in a bloodthirsty voice, "on the scaffold, not the throne. I'll show that crafty Szekler who I am if he raises his head against me. Call hither the protonotarius, the law must be enforced."

"The sentences are now ready, sir," said Nalaczi, drawing from his pocket three documents of equal size; "only your signature is required."

He was also speedily provided with ink and a pen, which they thrust into the trembling hand of the Prince, indicating to him at the same time the place on the document where he was to sign his name. The thing was done.

"Is there any stranger among us?" asked Teleki, looking suspiciously around.

"Only the fool, but he doesn't count."

The fool at that moment was making a sword dance on the tip of his nose, and on the sword he had put a plate, and he kept calling on the gentlemen to look at him—he certainly had paid no attention to what was going on at the table.

The three letters were three several commands. The first was directed to Cserei, telling him to put the prisoners to death at once; the second was to the provost-marshal, Zsigmond Boer, to the effect that if Cserei showed any signs of hesitation he was to be killed together with the gentlemen; the third was to the garrison of the fortress, impressing upon them in case of any hesitation on the part of the provost to make an end of him forthwith along with the others. All three letters, sealed with yellow wax, were handed over to Stephen Nalaczi, who, placing them in his kalpag, pressed his kalpag down upon his head and hastened quickly from the room. He had to pass close to the jester on his way out, and the fool, rushing upon him, exclaimed. "O ho! you have got on my kalpag; off with it, this is yours!" and before Nalaczi had recovered from his surprise he found a cap and bells on his head instead of a kalpag.

The magnate considered this jest highly indecent, and seized the jester by the throat.

"You scoundrel, you, where have you put my kalpag? Speak, or I'll throttle you."

"Don't throttle me, sir," said the jester apologetically, "for then you would be the biggest fool at the court of the Prince."

"My kalpag!" cried Nalaczi furiously, "where have you put it?"

"I have swallowed it, sir."

"You worthless rascal," roared Nalaczi, throttling the jester, "would you play your pranks with me!"

"Truly, sir, I shall not be able to bring it up again if you press my throat like that."

"Stop, I mean to search you," said Nalaczi; and he began to tear up the coat of the jester, whereupon the kalpag came tumbling out from between its folds. "You clumsy charlatan," laughed Nalaczi, "well, you hid it very well, I must say." Then he put on his kalpag again, in which were all three letters well sealed with yellow wax, but he now hastened outside as rapidly as possible in case the fool should spirit them away again.

The same night he galloped to Fogaras, though it cost him his horse to get there, summoned Cserei, and giving him the letter addressed to him said:

"You, sir, are to execute this strict command to the very letter."

The commandant took the letter, broke the seal, and then looked at the magnate in amazement:

"I know not, sir, whether you or I have been made a fool of—but there's not a scrap of writing in this letter."

Nalaczi incredulously examined the letter. It was a perfect blank. Hastily he broke open the other two letters. In these also there was nothing but the bare paper.

The fool, while the nobleman was throttling him, had substituted blanks for the letters sent, and sent the sentences the same evening to the Princess, who thereby had discovered all that the Prince and his councillors were doing.

In the morning the Princess went to Apafi with the three sentences in her hand, and reproached him for wanting to murder his ministers.

The worthy Prince was amazed at seeing these orders signed by himself. He knew nothing about it, and embracing his wife, thanked her for watching over him and not allowing him to send forth such orders. As for Nalaczi, the shame of the thing made it impossible for him to show himself at Court, and he could only nourish a grudge against the fool.

This accident greatly upset the worthy Prince, and he immediately rushed to release the captives. First of all, however, they had to sign deeds in which they solemnly engaged not to seek to revenge themselves on their accusers.

Paul Béldi was wounded to the heart, but he regarded this calamity as a just retribution for having been the first to sign the league18 against Denis Banfy; it was a weapon which now recoiled upon himself.