"At your orders." That Timar certainly could not produce, but he could put on such an innocent, sheepish face, that the captain shook with laughter and clapped him on the shoulder.
"You are a splendid fellow, skipper. You have saved the young lady's property for her; for without her father I can do nothing to either her or her money. You can proceed, you clever fellow!"
With that he turned on his heel, and the last Tschaikiss, who had not swung round quick enough, got such a box on the ear that the poor devil all but fell into the water; and then he gave the word for departure.
When he was down below in the boat, he cast one searching look back; but the skipper was still looking after him with the same sheepish face.
The cargo of the "St. Barbara" was saved.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FATE OF THE "ST. BARBARA."
The "St. Barbara" could now pursue her way unmolested; and Timar had no worse misfortunes than the daily disputes with the leader of the towing-team. On the great Hungarian plains the voyage up the Danube becomes extremely wearisome; there are no rocks, no water-falls or old ruins, nothing but willows and poplars, which border both sides of the river. Of these there is nothing interesting to relate.
Timéa frequently did not come out of her cabin during a whole day, and not a word did her lips utter. She sat alone, and often the food they set before her was brought out again untouched. The days grew shorter, and the bright autumn weather turned to rain; Timéa now shut herself entirely into her cabin, and Michael heard nothing of her except the deep sighs which at night penetrated to his ear through the thin partition. But she was never heard to weep; the heavy blow which had fallen on her had perhaps covered her heart with an impenetrable layer of ice. How glowing must that love be which could melt it!
Ah, my poor friend, how came you by that thought? Why do you dream waking and sleeping of this pale face? Even if she were not so beautiful, she is so rich, and you are only a poor devil of a fellow. What is the good of a pauper like you filling all his thoughts with the image of such a rich girl? If only it were the other way, and you were the rich one and she poor! And how rich is Timéa? Timar began to reckon, in order to drive himself to despair, and turn these idle dreams out of his head. Her father left her a thousand ducats in gold and the cargo, which, according to the present market prices, must be worth, say, ten thousand ducats—perhaps she has ornaments and jewels besides—and might be counted in Austrian paper-money of that date as worth a hundred thousand gulden; that in a Hungarian provincial town is a very rich heiress. And then Timar asked himself a riddle whose solution he could not guess.
If Ali Tschorbadschi had a fortune of eleven thousand ducats, that would not weigh more than sixteen pounds; of all metals, gold has the smallest volume in proportion to its weight. Sixteen pounds of ducats could be packed in a knapsack, which a man could carry on his back a long way, even on foot. Why was the Turk obliged to change it into grain and load a cargo-ship with it, which would take a month and a half for its voyage, and have to struggle with storms, eddies, rocks, and shallows—which might be delayed by quarantine and custom-houses—when he could have carried his treasure with him in his knapsack, and by making his way cautiously on foot over mountain and river, could have reached Hungary safely in a couple of weeks?