But the red-coated courier stood beating on the door of the Assembly House with the knob of his riding-whip, and calling, "Open, in the King's name!"
CHAPTER L.
At the sound of those few words, "In the King's name," the door of the Assembly House was immediately opened; the formula acted like magic.
There are two words which are often written down together, "Emperor" and "King," wherein the outer world sees little difference, but for Hungarians there is all the difference in the world. For the Magyar, the first means only the foreign yoke, and all that it stands for; but the second represents that rightful regal authority which in Hungary never fails to win the loyalty and love of those to whom it appeals. And it is a distinction which the world outside Hungary is sometimes slow to recognise.
And so it was that when the red-coated courier appeared before the Pesth tribunal he was received with the utmost respect. It was the office of the head notary to open and read the missive, which he did first to himself. When he had finished, tears stood in the strong man's eyes. And as he began to read it aloud, his voice trembled audibly, and he was visibly moved.
"Worshipful Citizens!
"His Majesty the King herewith, by this present royal rescript, withdraws all vexatious edicts hitherto issued, with the exception of his edict of tolerance and that for the freeing of the serfs. He revokes the compulsory order for the use of a foreign language, and rehabilitates your council and restores your constitution. He concludes a war carried on against the will of the nation by an honourable peace. He asks you, the members of the Pesth magistracy, to call a general council and promulgate the constitution in Pesth, and further orders that the holy crown of Hungary be brought from Vienna to Buda, after which he will summon Parliament and will be crowned there."
The last words were drowned by loud cries of "Long live the King!" while the council members sprang up from their places huzzaing and cheering. They seemed like changed beings. Even Tárhalmy, the grave phlegmatic man, generally as cold as ice and a slave to duty, was transformed, and his set, serious face flamed with a sudden enthusiasm.
"Now, gentlemen," he cried, "comes the new order, now we shall have justice done. And before God and men can I now say, 'Woe to those who have done this foul wrong to Mathias Ráby.' I will justify him at the bar of our country, and none who helped to persecute this brave man shall escape unpunished. The nation shall judge him."