These last words Apafi pronounced with as majestic an intonation as possible.
Olaj Beg thereupon folded his hands together.
"Oh, my dear son!" said he, "the princely dignity is indeed a heavy burden. I see that quite well, nor am I in the least surprised that thou wishest to be relieved of it; but be of good cheer, the blessing of Heaven will come upon us when we are not praying for it; when thou dost least expect it the Sublime Sultan will have compassion upon thee, and will deliver thee of the heavy load which presses upon thy shoulders."
Apafi wrinkled his brows. The exordium was bad enough; he hastened towards the end of the business.
"Perchance, you have heard, gracious Olaj Beg! that the unfortunate Mariska Sturdza has taken refuge with us."
"It matters not," signified the Beg, with a reassuring wave of the hand.
"She took refuge in my palace without my knowledge," observed Apafi apologetically, "and what could I do when she was all alone? I couldn't turn her out of my house."
"There was no necessity. Thou didst as it became a merciful man to do."
"If you had seen her you would yourself have felt sorry for her—sick, half-dead, desperate, she flung herself at my feet, imploring compassion, and before I could reply to her she had fainted away. Perhaps even now she is dead."
"Oh, poor child!" cried Olaj Beg, folding both his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven.