So it went on all day till late in the evening, when suddenly the news spread that the Archbishop was coming back, but—with only three or four of his men with him! And while the people in the streets were talking together with bated breath, a man rushed into their midst, covered with blood and dust.
"What has happened? Where are you from?" they asked, not at first recognising the furrier, a man belonging to Pest, and well known there.
"Water!" whispered the new-comer, bowing his head on his breast. "Water! I don't know how I got here! Water, quick!"
Several of the crowd hurried off for water, and when he had quenched his thirst, some of them began to wash the blood from his face and to bind up his wounds.
"Ah! they are no matter!" he gasped, "one may get such cuts as these any day in a tavern brawl, but—I'm—done for!"
By the help of a wooden flask of wine the man presently revived enough to satisfy the curiosity of the bystanders, though he still looked terrified.
"I have come straight from Vácz—my horse fell down under me. I was pursued by Tartars—a score of arrows hit the poor beast—three went through my cap and tore the skin off my head!"
"But what is going on in Vácz? they have beaten off the Tartars, eh?"
"There is no Vácz!" said the man, with an involuntary shudder through all his limbs.
All were too dumfounded to utter even an exclamation. They had believed that their troops had but to show themselves, and the Mongols would be scattered.