Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 370, August 1846

by Various

Chapter II

"Underneath the grove of sycamore, That westward rooteth from the city's side— So early walking did I see your son: Towards him I made; but he was ware of me And stole into a covert of the wood."— ****** "Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her— O teach me how I should forget to think."—Shakspeare. "Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch!"—Idem.

On the following afternoon, the sun shone brightly; and the whole atmosphere, in spite of the slight haze which faintly silvered the distant hills, was imbued with that exhilarating freshness and lightness, which sheds a poetic charm of animation, vividness, and—did it not appear a paradox—it might be added, youth also, over an Hungarian autumn, unknown in other European countries.

The streets of Presburg were thronged by the crowds whom the approaching opening of the Diet, convoked by Maria Theresa, had attracted to that city; and highly picturesque and varied was the scene composed by the multifarious parties, pushing and thrusting along, or gathered in groups and knots, discussing the momentous events of those troubled times, between the rows of antique houses, which bestow upon Presburg the aspect rather of an old town of the German Empire, than of less civilized Hungary.

In the middle space pranced upon their richly caparisoned steeds, glittering with the hanging trappings of that semi-oriental taste which, although somewhat modified, still forms a striking characteristic of the country, several of the Hungarian magnates, already attired in the national costumes—the richly embroidered attila, or long frock-coat, loaded with ornament—the furred cloak, clasped with glittering jewels to the shoulder—the high flat cap of fur or velvet, displaying an egret of rare feathers, which dashed upwards from the diamond broach—the tight gold-braided pantaloons—the tasselled boots—their powdered hair alone displaying, in some instances, their submission to the fashion of the day in other countries. Thronging among them were many of the lesser nobles, either on horseback or on foot, all dressed in the same characteristic style, with less of richness and embroidery, according to their lesser ranks or lesser means—each dress cut, and fashioned, and braided, according to the taste or whim of the wearer. Now and then rumbled along a cumbrous gilded and fantastically painted coach, swinging heavily between its monstrous gilded wheels, and sometimes adorned upon the four corners of its broad projecting roof with clumps of feathers, not unlike an ancient tester-bed—the coachman in richly-laced Hungarian livery, or in the silver-buttoned vest, hanging white sleeves, and broad white trowsers of the peasant; but of finer stuff, gayer embroidery, and richer fringe to the trowsers' edge, than the humbler of his class, as befitted the elevation to which he had been raised—the six horses, loaded with studded sparkling harness, and hanging strips of metal-behung leather, which streamed down the flanks and shoulders. Within them sat alone the proud dames of the Hungarian magnates, in even costlier dress than was the wont of that period of costly and cumbrous attire—their powdered heads adorned with the bejewelled caps of the national costume; for in those days a man, who really deemed himself a man, disdained to show himself the lazy tenant of these moving houses; and more especially the Hungarian, who considered the name of horseman as synonymous with that of man, and himself as born to be "a tamer of horses." Amidst these heavier vehicles, the light wooden carts of the peasant-noble, ignorant of all attempt at springs, of all harness but the rudest cords, endeavoured in vain to advance rapidly, in obedience to the impatience of the small, meagre, but impetuous horses of Tartar race which were lightly attached to them.

Among the crowded pedestrians was the scene still more checkered with kaleidescope variety. Here the embroidered pantaloons, the braided dolmans, and the feathered bonnets, were mingled with the long-fringed, full white trowsers, the large hanging shirt-sleeves, the broad-brimmed upturned hats—from beneath which streamed long black shaggy mane-like locks, over dark swarthy countenances, adorned with immense hanging moustaches—and the huge sheepskin cloaks, decorated on the exterior with fancifully embroidered flowers, and patches of bright cloth; the jaunty, dancing, bold, easy air of the Hungarians, all booted and spurred even to the very children, contrasting with the slouched gait of the Sclavonians, with their curiously sandled feet—the Croat, still attired like the Dacian of old, thronging along with the demi-brigand of the southern provinces, whose savage bandit aspect would have struck terror in the streets of any more civilized land—the purple talas, and long flowing beard of the followers of the Greek Pope, sweeping against the dark robe of the bald monk from the neighbouring convent—the smoother, finer gown of the richer Catholic priest brushing past the white uniform of the Austrian grenadier, with his conical headpiece, and long powdered pigtail.

Amidst the hum of the many voices, the salutations of friends, the laughter of some of the squeezing throng, the oaths of others, the cries of the coachmen and the shouts of the horsemen to those who obstructed the streets, arose, nevertheless, one unwearied and endless sound—the sound of ringing metal—from the rattling of the universal spurs, and the clashing of the many sabres.

But if the scene was varied, more varied still were the emotions of the crowd—among those, at least, who were more deeply interested in the result of the event which had called together a great part of the nation within the walls of the city of Presburg; according as their party feelings or private interests led them to desire that resistance should be shown to the appeal made by her whom the Hungarians styled their "King," to her faithful subjects of Hungary, for succour under her distresses; or as their enthusiasm or attachment to the House of Austria induced them to wish that every assistance should be bestowed to enable her to restore her fallen fortunes.

The situation of Maria Theresa was indeed desperate. Her right to the countries inherited by her from her father Charles VI., emperor of Germany, were contested by almost all the other states of Europe. Her friends and allies were few; and those few seemed to have deserted her at this critical juncture. And yet with what confidence, with what a well-assured prospect of a glorious reign, had she mounted the throne secured to her!

As early as the year 1713, the Emperor Charles VI. had issued, in his privy council, a solemn ordinance, by which the female succession was secured throughout his states, in case of the failure of male issue—an ordinance well known in history, under the name of the "Pragmatic Sanction." It was published throughout the Austrian states as inviolable law, was made known to all the European courts, and by degrees guaranteed by all, forming the ground and basis of all their treaties and alliances with the House of Austria, and was moreover confirmed by oath by the princes allied to the family by their intermarriage with Austrian princesses. It was this ordinance, which only afterwards came into effect upon the death of the Archduke Leopold, the only son of Charles VI., that secured the right of succession to his daughter Maria Theresa, who at his decease, which occurred in October 1740, and closed the male succession of the House of Hapsburg, succeeded him, with the title of Queen of Hungary and Bohemia, in these and all the other Austrian States, including, Milan, Parma, Placentia, and the Netherlands. All these lands gave in their oath of adherence.

In spite of the triple right, however, which gave the States of Austria to Maria Theresa—the right of nature, the law of the Pragmatic sanction, and the sureties given by all the European states—several powers shortly afterwards rose to contest her heritage. The Elector of Bavaria laid claim to the succession, in virtue of a will of the Emperor Ferdinand the First, dated in the year 1543; Augustus of Poland, in virtue of the earlier rights of his wife, Maria Josepha, daughter of the Emperor Joseph, the elder brother of Charles the Sixth. The King of Spain, Philip the Fifth, went back as far as the rights of the wife of Philip the Second, a daughter of the Emperor Maximilian the Second, from whom he was descended in the female line. The King of Sardinia, Charles Emmanuel, laid claim to the duchy of Milan; and Louis the Fifteenth of France supported the Elector of Bavaria and the King of Spain. All Europe was quickly in flames upon the subject of the succession. Not only princes, but many private individuals, took an eager and active part in the quarrel. But the war, at last, broke out from an unexpected quarter. Frederic the Second of Prussia now laid claim to four duchies in Silesia, in spite of the renunciations of these lands frequently made by his predecessors in favour of the House of Austria, and suddenly, in December 1740, invaded the country, which, being almost entirely undefended, was soon completely overrun by the Prussian army. Maria Theresa, in spite of the alliance offered her by the King of Prussia against her other enemies, in case Silesia should be yielded up to him, stoutly and valiantly refused all compromise, declared herself noways disposed to dismember, in the least degree, the States left her by her father, and bade defiance to Frederic. Her enemies now took this opportunity to attack her. Bavaria declared war, and was supported by France, Spain, Savoy, and Saxony. In spite of the opposition of Cardinal Fleury, the French minister, who was favourable to the cause of the young Queen, Louis the Fifteenth placed under the command of Marshal Count de Belle-Isle, a large French army, which crossed the Rhine in August 1741; whilst the Chevalier de Belle-Isle was sent from court to court in Germany, to rouse the powers against Maria Theresa; and numerous spies and agents were dispatched, in every direction, to undermine the last support she might have to hope for from her few remaining allies. Linz quickly fell into the hands of the enemy, who approached upon Vienna. Utter ruin lay before the persecuted Queen, who was obliged to leave her capital, and seek refuge in Hungary. And under these circumstances it was, that she had convoked at Presburg the Diet of the four orders of the kingdom, the opening of which now caused the city to throng with crowds of Hungarians from all quarters of the country.

Among the mass of persons that thus swarmed in the main street of Presburg, like ants upon the chief passage to the anthill, in seeming confusion in which each individual atom has, nevertheless, its own purpose and design, was a young man, whose striking personal appearance continually attracted attention among those who crossed his path, and caused many a head to turn and gaze after him, even in that favoured land where beauty of the most romantic kind is common among all classes. He was a youth of scarcely more than twenty years, as might be seen by the fresh bloom upon his cheek, and the first down of dark moustaches which faintly painted his upper-lip. His figure was slim, but yet his carriage had all the bold ease of Hungarian youth; his features were regularly and beautifully fashioned, although not of that extreme symmetry which mars expression by its coldness; his dark-grey eyes, shaded by long black lashes, which bestowed on them an Oriental cast, wore a look of hardihood and languor combined, which spoke of a romantic temperament; and his dark-brown hair, unconcealed by the fashion of the times, streamed free and unfettered on to his neck and temples. He was attired in a sombre dress, which well became his figure and poetic look. His braided attila and pantaloons were of black cloth slightly relieved with velvet of the same colour upon the cuffs and collar; and a black velvet Hungarian cap, surmounted by a plume of black eaglet's feathers, sat boldly upon his head. The silver-mounted belt and chains of his sabre were the only ornaments that glittered on his dress.

Whatever the purpose of the seemingly capricious wanderings of the young man, as he thrust obstinately and somewhat rudely through the crowds which opposed his progress, he was not to be diverted from it by the objurgations of some of those whom he thus elbowed on his passage, or the commendatory remarks of others, who noticed his good mien. His eye roved perpetually to every window at which a female form appeared; and, upon the approach of each coach that passed, he pushed boldly forward, to obtain as near a view as possible of its fair inmates. But he evidently sought some one particular form, which he found not in his unwearying scrutiny; for, as often as some fresh female face had been narrowly examined, followed sometimes with a moment's doubt, and then abandoned, he gently shook his head, with knitted brow, and an expression of disappointment, and, falling back, uttered an impatient sigh.

At a short distance from the youth followed a tall old man, in the hussar dress of an Hungarian domestic, who, in turn, pushed sturdily after him, never losing him entirely from his sight, and utterly heedless of the exclamations of those thrust aside, who, however they might spare their angry comments to the handsome young noble, bestowed them with double wrath upon his rude attendant. The look of the old man was one of discontent, as he thus pursued the capricious movements of the youth; and he gave vent to a continued string of muttered rough Hungarian oaths, whilst he pushed on, and muttered such phrases as, "he is distraught—he is utterly distraught with this silly boyish fancy!"

At length, as the dusk of approaching evening began slowly to fall upon the streets, as the crowd gradually lessened, as no more carriages rumbled heavily along the causeway, and as no more faces appeared at the windows, the young man paused in his hurried walk, uttered a still deeper sigh of disappointment, and leaning himself wearily against a doorway, sank his head downwards, and seemed lost in painful meditation.

His old attendant approached him, and after a time, seeing that his presence was unnoticed, and that the gloomy reverie of the young man continued, he addressed him in a tone in which rude familiarity and respect were strangely combined—

"Is my lord's young blood so hot, then, that he seeks to cool it by taking up his night-quarters under this airy gateway?" But seeing that the young man heeded him not, he muttered an inpatient "Teremtette!" between his teeth, and then, plucking at his master's dress, he continued—

"Have you no orders to give me, Master Otmar?"

"None, Farkas. No, leave me!" was the only reply vouchsafed.

"Look you, Master Otmar," pursued his attendant—"You are observed here—you are an object of attention, perhaps of mockery, to the passers-by."

"What mean you, Farkas?" cried the young man, in a tone of displeasure.

"Nay! if my lord is angry, I have no more to say," replied Farkas, drawing back.

"Perhaps you are right," said the young man, with a sigh; "although your words were rude." And without further comment, he removed himself from his reclining position, and walked away with hurried steps.

The old domestic followed rapidly, and, as they approached the St Michael's gate, evidently expected that his young master would enter his lodging close by; but, seeing that he still walked on, Farkas paused for a moment, and murmured the words, "He bade me leave him. But he is utterly distraught. He knows not what he says; he has forgotten his command ere now; and who knows what may happen to the poor foolish boy!" And having thus reassured his conscience upon his act of disobedience, he pursued the young man's footsteps at a respectful distance, through the gateway, over the bridge, and along the suburb.

Beyond lay a more open road, skirted by gardens, and enlivened here and there by summer pavilions, belonging to some of the wealthier nobles; and, at about a quarter of a mile from the town, stood, to the left of the wanderers, a stately palace, built in the heavy but ornamented style of the commencement of the same century, and backed by gardens, that stretched out behind it to the foot of that richly wooded and romantic ridge of low mountains which gives so peculiar a charm to the environs of the fine old city of Presburg.

Passing through a side entrance of the court of this palace, which served as a summer residence to the Archbishop Primate of Hungary—at that period the Prince Immeric Esterhazy—and entering the gardens beyond, which the liberality of the wealthy primate opened to public recreation, but which were now empty, the young noble sauntered on, lost in meditation, through statues of heathen divinities, which seemed ill in accordance with the abode of a Christian bishop; and tritoned fountains, and stiff parterres, and huge incommodious stone benches; until, reaching an alley of shady planes and clustering chestnut-trees, he flung himself listlessly down on the mossy bench of a shell and pebble-studded niche. The glow of the last rays of the setting sun faintly penetrated the entrance of the avenue, adding a still richer colour to the rich green shades of the trees, as yet untouched by the influence of autumn; while, in the distant opening of the dark vista, framed, as it were, by the circling trees, appeared a hazy landscape of calm vine-covered hills, dotted with white cottages. It was a spot peculiarly adapted to meditation and repose, the solitude of which was enhanced, rather than disturbed, by its sole occupant—a misanthropic stork, that with its wings folded on its back, like a sulky old gentleman with his arms behind him, placed slowly and deliberately one foot before the other, as it stepped on in lonely thoughtfulness.

For a time the young man sat lost in reflection; and it was not until he at length raised his head to gaze upon a scene congenial to his feelings, that he became aware of the form of old Farkas, standing erect against a tree, like a sentry in his box, at no great distance from him.

"This is a persecution to which I cannot submit," he murmured to himself; and then rising, and calling angrily to his attendant, he cried,

"Did I not bid you leave me, Farkas?"

"Leave you, my lord?" said the attendant, advancing with an air of surprise.

"Yes, leave me. Do you hear now?"

"My duty"—continued the old man, in an expostulatory tone.

"Is to obey me."

"My attachment"——

"Becomes importunate," broke in his master, "if my footsteps are to be thus dogged, and my solitude to be disturbed, fellow."

Farkas tossed his head, with a sigh, that perhaps might be more appropriately termed a grunt, and moved a few steps backwards; but then, as if unable to obey, he again lingered and returned.

"Master Otmar," he said, "call me rude, unmannered, disobedient. Bid me leave you—yes, leave you for ever, if you will. But, out it must, teremtette! in spite of all. I cannot see you thus, and quit you, without a word—you, your father's son. You, Master Otmar, whose heels I was the first to spur, whom I first set on horseback to gallop alone over the Puszta, whom I first taught a good round Hungarian oath. I could not do it, were I to know it were the last word I spoke."

"Speak then! What have you to say?" cried Otmar, in a tone of vexed impatience; but then, as he saw the eyes of the old man fixed in such mournful earnestness and solicitude upon him, he seemed to repent his harshness, and stretched out his hand, which his attendant took and kissed with reverence, according to the custom of the country.

"Speak!" he said more mildly; "I know you love me, although sometimes you show your love after a strange rude fashion, Farkas!"

"Are you a man, Master Otmar," began the old attendant, bluntly, "that you should be thus cast down because you have seen a pretty face that smiled upon you?" The young man showed evident marks of impatience at these words; but Farkas had seized his advantage, and continued, "Is a chitfaced woman's glance, seen only once, to break a man's bold spirit thus? You are in love, you will tell me. That's a boy's answer to all; but"—

"Peace, foolish man! what do you know of love?" said Otmar, impatiently.

"Foolish!" echoed the old man, with a toss of the head, as if he were for a moment inclined to argue which were the more foolish, he or his master. "Be that as it may. Perhaps I understand little of this love, at least now. But I remember the time I understood it better; and, teremtette! that was another sort of thing. When I was in love, I danced and sprang, and drank and swore, and flung up my cap on to the very horns of the young moon! There was some spirit in love then! But you have saved a fair lady from danger, as her unruly devils of horses were about to plunge her travelling coach from the bank into the broad stream of the Danube, and you are as cast down about it as if you had caused her death, instead of saving her from destruction. Eb adta! it is for her to whine and pine, and lament that she sees the bright eyes of her handsome deliverer no more; not for you, boy!"

"And with how sweet a smile! with what a dignity and grace! with what a look of angel brightness, did she hold out her hand to thank me!" muttered the young man to himself, as he again sank down upon the bank.

"Be a man, Master Otmar!" pursued Farkas, with more animation and earnestness. "Call back again your energy and spirit! Where is the bold young fellow, now, who challenged that cursed outlandish rascal, who not long since strove to tamper with his loyalty, and throw doubts upon the rights of our King—God bless her!—and pricked him, too, right through the sword-arm, and did it well, right well?"

"And would again, Farkas!" said Otmar, raising his head proudly.

"Although, to be sure, you would not allow me to cudgel him soundly, and beat his treacherous brains out afterwards," continued the man, with a grim smile; "but, no matter for that, he had half his deserts, and shall have the other half one of these days. An honest man pays his just debts."

"Leave the villain to his fate!" cried the young man with a look of scorn.

"That's right!" pursued his attendant. "Now, you are yourself again. Look you, Master Otmar! I cannot bear to see you thus unhappy and cast down, and all for the look of a bright eye. It goes nigh to break my heart, I tell you." And the old man's voice began to falter with emotion.

"But I am not unhappy," said Otmar, smiling; "I am happy, very happy. Let that re-assure you, Farkas. You tell me, be a man. Can I be a man, and not indulge grave thoughts in these times of strife and trouble?"

The old man shook his head.

"You love me, Farkas," continued the young noble. "Let, then, the assurance that I am far from unhappy suffice you. Now leave me, in all earnest. I shortly will return home—Home!" he murmured to himself, "have I a home now?"

The old attendant still lingered; but, as his master stretched forth his hand, he again kissed it reverently, and, turning up the alley, disappeared from sight.

"No! I am not unhappy," muttered Otmar, when he found himself alone. "Why should I not be happy, when she smiled upon me so sweetly? But should I not see her again? Oh no! Fate cannot be so cruel. And who was he that sat by her side, and took her hand in his, as she again entered the coach? Her husband—her lover, perhaps. I will not believe it. Her brother, may be. No! I am not unhappy. I should be happy that I can place between myself and the dark realities of life a bright barrier of fancy, of poetry, of love—like unto those glorious painted windows in the old cathedral, which spread out, between the inclemencies of the atmosphere without, and the mysteries of the calm sanctuary within, the thousand glories of a thousand colours, a radiant curtain of purple, and crimson, and gold, in such wise that the passing cloud, with all its variations of shade, only develops fresh treasures of harmony and beauty; and if a ray of sun bursts forth—oh then!—it might almost seem as if, in those dazzling showers of light and radiance, a whole celestial choir of angels descended upon the altar! Thrice happy should I be, that, on the sanctuary of my heart, shines such a ray of light! Yes, in the midst of the darkness of my life," pursued the young man to himself, still following up the same images of his poetic fancy, "my thoughts should be as the thousand particles of dust that may be seen to turn, and whirl, and gambol in the golden shaft of light which streams through a peephole into a darkened prison! No, I should not be—I am not unhappy!" And yet Otmar sighed, as he bent his head again to the earth.

From this poetic reverie he was roused, however, by the noise of footsteps; and, as he lifted up his head, he saw that the entrance to the alley was darkened by the forms of three persons who were advancing towards him. That which immediately attracted his attention, and caused him to spring up from his seat as if struck by an electric shock which darted through his heart, was a young female, whose features and expression, as she approached nearer, might be seen, spite of the gathering darkness, to be of singular beauty. She was attired in a dark brocaded dress, the long and slim waist of which was set off by a small hoop, in accordance with the custom of the times; a thick veil, or rather Spanish mantilla, of similar stuff was fastened into the top of her powdered edifice of hair, and covered her neck and shoulders; and from beneath its folds protruded a small hand, the fingers of which rested gently upon the arm of a young man. This second personage was dressed in all the rich extravagance of the French fashion of the day—his long lappeted coat, hanging waistcoat, and breeches, all laced and spangled, and behung with knots of ribands—his three-cornered hat flung under the arm which did not serve as support to the lady—and an embroidered handkerchief, the perfumes of which scented the air even at a distance, ostentatiously flourished in his hand; and if Otmar's heart beat involuntarily at first sight of the female, it was twinged with an equally involuntary pang of painful emotion as his eye wandered to her companion. The group was completed by an aged man, in the plain costume of a Catholic ecclesiastic of the day, to whom the lady turned her head to address some remark, as he lingered somewhat behind the other personages.

The first instinctive movement of Otmar's heart had not deceived him. As the lady approached still nearer, the lingering doubt gave way to full conviction. It was she—she of whom he had dreamt so fondly-she whom he had sought all day so eagerly among the crowds that thronged the city streets! And now that she stood before him, his knees trembled, whilst his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground, and his tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Had she passed him unnoticed where he stood, he could not have moved to claim a look, or framed a word to address her. But, as she drew closer to him, she checked her steps with a slight exclamation of surprise, almost of alarm, at the sight of the half-concealed stranger in the dusk. Her companion moved forward hastily, and, dropping her arm, advanced his hand to his sword; but, before he could say a word, she had in turn come forward.

"Forbear, my friend!" she said; and then, advancing to Otmar, she continued, "I am not deceived. It is my noble rescuer. I have sought you, sir, in vain, to tender you my thanks for your good services, if my poor thanks, indeed, can be a recompense for service so beyond all price."

"Madam, I did but the duty of a gentleman," stammered Otmar; "and for you, who would not——?"

"I owe you, indeed, more than thanks can pay," interrupted the young female. "You left us so hastily, after accomplishing that deed of courage at the risk of your own life, that I had no time to learn who was my bold deliverer from peril. In the confusion and trouble of the moment, I allowed you to depart; and, believe me, my heart has not ceased to reproach me since for a seeming want of gratitude, that, the Saints of Heaven know, was far from it."

"Oh! I am repaid, fully repaid, fair lady, by these words," interrupted the eager youth in his turn.

"But I may still repair my error," resumed the lady. "Alas! I have little to bestow," she continued, with a sigh, "save empty words of gratitude. But the time may come. Let me know, at least, the name of him who has done me such essential service."

"It were unworthy of your ears, fair lady," stammered Otmar timidly

"Again, I reclaim the favour of your name, sir," said the young female. "You are noble; your mien proclaims it, did not the sabre by your side attest it." And her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon the figure of the handsome youth. "You have more—you have the true nobility of heart. You will not refuse your name to a lady who demands it."

Otmar was about to speak, when the noise of several persons advancing into the alley with rapid steps, caused the heads of all parties to turn in that direction. A troop of five or six men, with drawn swords, and black masks upon their faces, rushed violently upon them.

"Seize her! It is she!" cried a tall man, who appeared the leader of the party, as he darted forward.

A violent scream issued from the mouth of the female—exclamations of alarm, and shouts of rescue from those of her companions. Otmar instinctively drew his sabre with cry of rage, and the next moment all was skirmish and confusion.

"Ruffian!" exclaimed the young Hungarian, attacking the taller mask, who had now seized with rude grasp the hand of the female, and causing him, by the violence of the onset, to let go his hold.

"Ha! he once more! God's curse on him!" cried the leader, parrying the attack as best he might, whilst he endeavoured to regain possession of the lady.

"Let her not escape! let her not escape!" he shouted again to his followers, finding himself hardly pressed upon. "I will dispatch this fellow, on whom I reckoned not." And he, in his turn, attacked Otmar with fury.

Even in the midst of the skirmish, the young man could not resist seeking the lady with his eye; and he could dimly perceive, in the darkness and confusion, that she had taken refuge with the ecclesiastic, whilst her companion was making desperate efforts with his French small-sword, to keep at bay the other assailants. But his unwary solicitude had wellnigh cost him his life. A plunge of his adversary's sword passed through his attila, and slightly grazed his side. The next moment his own sabre descended on to the shoulder of the man with whom he was engaged, with sufficient effect, although the blow was evaded, to disable him for the moment, and cause him to stagger back.

Profiting by this circumstance, Otmar rushed upon the other ravishers, and came up at the very instant when, overpowered by numbers, the companion of the lady had lost all power of any longer protecting her retreat, and preventing their object of seizing on her. Attacking then with fury, and dealing several severe wounds, he succeeded in turning their attention chiefly to himself.

Thus desperately engaged in a most unequal combat, he heard the step and voice of his first antagonist from behind. A dagger already gleamed over his head, when suddenly a heavy blow resounded, and his assailant staggered and fell to the ground. In a few moments more he had contrived to disperse the other ruffians, who, wounded and alarmed, now took to flight. When he turned, he found his old Farkas standing over the prostrate body of his first foe.

"I could not leave my lord," cried the old domestic, brandishing a stout stick: which he had snatched up. "And, teremtette! I was right, whatever you may say. But I have done for one of the rascals, eb adta! and just at the right nick too!"

"Leave him an follow me, Farkas!" cried the young man. "They may still again assail her." And he hurried up the avenue, followed by the old man who grunted with unwillingness at leaving the prize of his strong arm.

When they reached the open space beyond the alley, no one was visible in the dark. The lady and her companions had disappeared. Lights, however, were moving, in the archbishop's palace; and, at the same moment, a troop of servants, torches in hand, was seen to issue from the lower part of the building, attracted, probably, by the noise of the tumult.

"Where can she be? Again lost to me! Lost, perhaps, for ever!" exclaimed Otmar.

"Shall we not secure the fellow I knocked down?" said Farkas insinuatingly, with no small spice of pride at the thoughts of the capture. "He may be yet alive."

"You are right," replied his master. "He was the leader of this troop of bravoes. He may be compelled to divulge the mystery of this deed; and I knew that voice, methinks, although as yet my recollections are confused."

With these words he hurried back into the avenue. But when master and man had reached the spot where the body had lain, it was no longer visible. Marks of blood and of trampling feet, two broken swords and a ragged hat, were the only evidences that remained of the late combat.

"Gone!" cried Otmar.

"The other ruffians have returned and carried him off, eb adta!" exclaimed Farkas, with intense vexation.

"Let us follow on their traces!" said the young noble. "See here! This way through the thicket! There are marks of broken boughs." And pushing his way through the bushes, he entered the dark wood, followed by his attendant.

A moment afterwards the avenue was illuminated by the torches of the domestics from the archbishop's palace.