When the simple folk saw that their over-lord was in a bad humor they hesitated to enter until the castle steward pushed them in.
"We ought to have brought the tithe," began the oldest peasant, with eyes downcast and in tearful voice, "but we really could not. It was not possible."
"Why could you not?" said Banfy, harshly.
"Because we have nothing, gracious lord,—the rain has failed, crops have gone to ruin, we have not harvested enough corn for the sowing; the people in the village are living on roots and mushrooms, so long as they last. After that God knows what will become of them!"
"There it is," said Banfy. "A new blow of fortune and we are still longing for war. Here, steward, you must have the storehouses opened at once and furnish grain for sowing; and the poor must be provided with sufficient food for the winter."
The poor peasant wanted to kiss Banfy's hand but he would not allow it. The tears stood in his eyes.
"That is what I am your master for—to lighten your fate if I see you in need. My agents will carry out my orders; if my own granaries become empty they must order grain for you from Moldavia for cash," and with that he went away.
Banfy's wife listened with throbbing heart as the familiar footsteps came nearer. There she sat among the fragrant jasmine and quivering mimosa, as tremulous as the mimosa and as pale as the jasmine. Everything about her shone with splendor. On the walls hung polished Venetian mirrors in gold frames, portraits of kings and princes, the most beautiful of which was John Kemény's, painted when he was still attached to the Turk, with smooth shaven hair and a long beard, at that time quite fashionable with Hungarian gentlemen. On one side of the room was an artistic cabinet with countless drawers, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli and tortoise-shell. In the middle of the room stood a beautifully painted table with wonderfully wrought silver candelabra; in glass cases the family jewels were displayed to view, beakers covered with precious stones; stags enameled in gold, their heads made to unscrew; several large silver baskets of flowers, marvels of filagree work, hardly worth a dollar in weight; the bouquets in these baskets were of various-colored jewels; a gold butterfly alighted on an emerald leaf, so cunningly made that everything gleamed through its wings as it swayed gracefully. From the high windows heavy red silk curtains hung down to the ground and the sills were covered with the most beautiful flowers of those times. Amid all these flowers only the quivering mimosa and the pale jasmine seemed suited to the lady, so melancholy a contrast did her face make to the splendor of her house.
The delicate little figure was almost lost in the high-vaulted room, in which she could with difficulty move one of the heavy armchairs or lift one of the huge candelabra or push aside a hanging. Every noise, every footstep set her nerves quivering. When the familiar step touched her threshold all the blood streamed into her face. She wanted to jump up to meet him but after the door opened she turned pale again and was unable to rise from her seat. Banfy hurried toward his trembling wife whose voice was too stifled for words, clasped both her hands, delicate as dewdrops, and looked kindly into the dreamy eyes.