Feriz Beg reeled backwards. The word "impossible" hung upon his lips, and he nearly let it escape. It was impossible.
"Let them come in!" said Ajas Pasha viciously. He would have preferred to carry out the Sultan's conditional command, seize the Principality, and conduct the campaign personally.
Feriz Beg fancied he was dreaming when he saw the forty or fifty selected rascals who, led by Martin Pók, drew up before Ajas Pasha; the rogues were dressed up as soldiers but thief, criminal, was written on the face of each one of them.
Master Martin Pók exhibited them to the Pasha and Feriz Beg, and very wisely stood aside from them. Feriz Beg clapped his hands together in astonishment. He knew better than anyone that these fellows had never seen the Spahis, and he waited to hear what they would say.
Ajas Pasha sat on his sofa with a countenance as cold as marble, and at a sign from him a file of Janissaries formed behind the backs of the rascals, who tried to look as pleasant and smiling as possible before the Pasha to gain his favour.
"Ye are Master Ladislaus Székely's men, eh?" inquired the Pasha of the false heroes.
"We are—at thy service, unconquerable Pasha," they replied with one voice, folding their hands across their breasts and bowing down to the very ground.
The Pasha beckoned to the Janissaries to come softly up behind each one of them.
"Ye were at Élesd at midnight on the day of St. Michael the Archangel, eh?" he asked again.
"We were indeed—at thy service invincible Pasha!" they repeated striking their knees with their foreheads.