Among the ruins, however, he discovered old Moses, Jakó, and a servant or two, all in a famishing condition. From them he learnt how Dora had left the house only just in time to escape the second attack; but as to what had befallen her since, they could, of course, tell him nothing. She had intended to join him in Dalmatia, and she had never arrived there. So much only was certain, and when he thought of the perils she must have encountered, and the awful sights he had himself seen by the way, his heart sank within him. And, worst of all, there was nothing to be done, nothing! but to wait, wait, wait, in a state of constant anxiety as to what he might any day hear.
But supposing that she should have been preserved through all, and were only waiting till she heard news of him, or perhaps until she were able to travel! She would certainly hear in time, wherever she might be, of the King's return—she would go to him for news of her father—she would hear that he was alive, and she would come back to the old home to find him; so there he must stay!
Master Peter was sufficiently practical to reflect that if his daughter appeared one day without warning, he would want a roof to shelter her, and to work he set making preparations accordingly, though with a heavy heart.
Yet the work did him good. It cheered him to see the labourers repairing the walls and roofing in what had been her own room, for sometimes it beguiled him into thinking that Dora must certainly be coming, would be there perhaps before the place was ready for her, and then he would urge the workmen to greater speed.
He was watching and superintending as usual one day, growing more and more down-hearted as he reckoned the many weeks, the months which had slipped past since he had left Dalmatia, when the clatter of horse-hoofs roused him. Most people were finding enough to do at home just now, and Master Peter was never more ready to welcome anyone—anyone who might bring him the tidings he longed for, and yet dreaded, or at least tell him news of some sort which would divert his thoughts for the time.
He hurried forward to meet the visitor as he clattered into the courtyard, and—did his eyes deceive him? or was it indeed his old page who was bowing before him?
Talabor the page! Talabor! Any old face was welcome, but—suddenly he remembered! Talabor had left the castle with Dora, he had come back without her!
Master Peter could do nothing but look at the young man, for his lips refused to utter a word; and he put up his hand with an imploring gesture, as one who would ward off an expected blow.
What was it Talabor was saying? That she was alive, safe, well! Dora was alive and well! Then—where was she? and why was she not with him?
It was a minute or two before he could take it in; for, his tongue once loosed, he poured forth his questions so fast that Talabor had no chance of replying to them. But, when at last he did understand that Dora was with "Aunt Orsolya," that she had wanted to set out with Talabor as soon as ever the roads were considered safe, that in fact she had begged and prayed her hostess to let her go, but that the old lady would not hear of her doing so, and had insisted on sending Talabor first—why then, with a good-humoured "Just like Aunt Orsolya!" Master Peter hastily decided that Talabor must set out with him again that very day, and take him to her.