"In the name of my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, I put this question to thee, thou Prince of the Giaurs, why hast thou kept back for so long the tribute which is due to the Porte? Who hath caused the delay—thou, or the farmers of the taxes, or the tax-paying people? Answer me directly, and take care that thou liest not!"
The Prince looked around with wrinkled brows as if looking for something to fling at the head of the fellow. He regretted that the inkstand was so far off.
But Teleki handed a sheet of parchment to Sárpataky, the clerk of the council.
"Read our answer to the Pasha's letter," said he; "as for you—sir I will not call you—listen to what is written therein. 'Beneficent Hassan Pasha, we greatly regret that you bother yourself about things which are already settled. We do not ask you why you came so late to the battle of St. Gothard. Why do you ask us, then, why we are so late with the taxes? We will answer for ourselves at the proper time and place. Till then, Heaven bless you, and grant that misfortune overwhelm you not just when you would ruin others.' When you have written all that down, hand it to his Highness the Prince for signature."
The gentlemen present had fallen from one surprise into another. Michael Teleki, who a moment before, against the inclinations of his own heart and mind, had tried to compel the land to submit to the demand of Olaj Beg, could in the next moment send such a message to the powerful Vizier of Buda.
But Teleki knew very well that the storm which was passing over the country on account of the Princess of Moldavia was sure to rebound on the head of the Vizier of Buda. The Sultan was seeking for an object on which to wreak his wrath because of the lost battle, and if the Pasha of Buda did not succeed in making the Government of Transylvania the victim, he would fall a victim himself.
As for Yffim Beg, he did not quite know whether a thunder-bolt had plunged down close beside him, or whether he was dreaming. There he stood like a statue, unable to utter a word, and only looked on stupidly while the letter was being written before his very eyes, while Apafi's pen scraped the parchment as he subscribed his signature, while they poured the sand over it, folded it up, impressed it with an enormous seal, and thrust it into his palm.
Only then did he emerge somewhat from his stupor.
"Do ye think I am mad enough to carry this letter back with me to Buda?"
And with these words he seized the letter at both ends, tore it in two, and flung it beneath the table.