'NEATH THE HOOF OF THE TARTAR

'Neath the Hoof of the Tartar
OR
THE SCOURGE OF GOD

BY
BARON NICOLAS JÓSIKA

Abridged from the Hungarian by
SELINA GAYE
WITH PREFACE BY R. NISBET BAIN

And Photogravure Portrait of the Author

LONDON
JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.
[All Rights Reserved]
1904

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

Baron Miklós Jósika, the Walter Scott of Hungary, was born at Torda, in Transylvania, on April 28th, 1796. While quite a child, he lost both his parents, and was brought up at the house and under the care of his grandmother, Anna Bornemissza, a descendant of Jókai's heroine of the same name in "'Midst the Wild Carpathians." Of the young nobleman's many instructors, the most remarkable seems to have been an emigré French Colonel, who gave him a liking for the literature of France, which was not without influence on his future development. After studying law for a time at Klausenberg to please his friends, he became a soldier to please himself, and in his seventeenth year accompanied the Savoy dragoon regiment to Italy. During the campaign of the Mincio in 1814, he so distinguished himself by his valour that he was created a first lieutenant on the field of battle, and was already a captain when he entered Paris with the allies in the following year. In 1818, at the very beginning of his career, he ruined his happiness by his unfortunate marriage with Elizabeth Kalláy. According to Jósika's biographer, Luiza Szaák,[1] young Jósika was inveigled into this union by a designing mother-in-law, and any chance of happiness the young couple might have had, if left to themselves, was speedily dashed by the interference of the father of the bride, who defended all his daughter's caprices against the much-suffering husband. Even the coming of children could not cement this woeful wedding, which terminated in the practical separation of spouses who were never meant to be consorts.

[1] Baró Jósika Miklós élete és munkai.

Jósika further offended his noble kinsmen by devoting himself to literature. It may seem a paradox to say so, yet it is perfectly true, that in the early part of the present century, with some very few honourable exceptions, the upper classes in Hungary addressed only their servants in Hungarian. Latin was the official language of the Diet, while polite circles conversed in barbarous French. These were the days when, as Jókai has reminded us, the greatest insult you could offer to an Hungarian lady was to address her in her native tongue. It required some courage, therefore, in the young Baron to break away from the feudal traditions of his privileged caste and use the plebeian Magyar dialect as a literary vehicle. His first published book, "Abafi" (1836), an historical romance written under the direct influence of Sir Walter Scott, whom Jósika notoriously took for his model, made a great stir in the literary world of Hungary. "Hats off, gentlemen," was how Szontagh, the editor of the Figyelmezö, the leading Hungarian newspaper of the day, began his review of this noble romance. Jósika was over forty when he first seriously began to write, but the grace and elegance of his style, the maturity of his judgment, the skilfulness of his characterization—all pointed to a long apprenticeship in letters. Absolute originality cannot indeed be claimed for him. Unlike Jókai, he owed very much to his contemporaries. He began as an imitator of Scott, as we have seen, and he was to end as an imitator of Dickens, as we shall see presently. But he was no slavish copyist. He gave nearly as much as he took. Moreover, he was the first to naturalize the historical romance in Hungary, and if, as a novelist, he is inferior to Walter Scott, he is inferior to him alone.

In Hungary, at any rate, his rare merits were instantly recognised and rewarded.

Two years after the publication of "Abafi," he was elected a member of the Hungarian Academy, four years later he became the President of the Kisfaludy Társaság, the leading Magyar literary society. All classes, without exception, were attracted and delighted by the books of this new novelist, which followed one another with bewildering rapidity. "Zolyomi," written two years before "Abafi," was published a few months later, together with "Könnyelmüek." Shortly afterwards came the two great books which are generally regarded as his masterpieces, "Az utolsó Bátory" and "Csehek Magyarországon," and a delightful volume of fairy tales, "Élet és tündérhón," in three volumes. In 1843 was published "Zrinyi a Költö," in which some critics saw a declension, but which Jókai regards as by far the greatest of Jósika's historical romances. Finally may be mentioned as also belonging to the pre-revolutionary period, "Jósika István," an historical romance in five volumes, largely based upon the family archives; "Egy kétemeletes ház," a social romance in six volumes; and "Ifju Békesi Ferencz kalandjai," a very close and most clever imitation of the "Pickwick Papers," both in style and matter, written under the pseudonym of Moric Alt. It is a clever skit of the peccadilloes and absurdities of the good folks of Budapest of all classes, full of genuine humour, and was welcomed with enthusiasm.

On the outbreak of the War of Independence in 1848, Baron Jósika magnanimously took the popular side, though he was now an elderly man, and had much to lose and little to gain from the Revolution. He was elected a member of the Honvéd Government; countenanced all its acts; followed it from place to place till the final collapse, and then fled to Poland. Ultimately he settled at Brussels, where for the next twelve years he lived entirely by his pen, for his estates were confiscated, and he himself was condemned to death by the triumphant and vindictive Austrian Government, which had to be satisfied, however, with burning him in effigy.

Jósika was to die an exile from his beloved country, but the bitterness of banishment was somewhat tempered by the touching devotion of his second wife, the Baroness Julia Podmaniczky, who also became his amanuensis and translator. The first novel of the exilic period was "Eszter," written anonymously for fear his works might be prohibited in Hungary, in which case the unhappy author would have run the risk of actual want. For the same reason all the novels written between 1850 and 1860 (when he resumed his own name on his title-pages) are "by the author of 'Eszter.'" In 1864, by the doctor's advice, Jósika moved to Dresden, and there, on February 27th, 1865, he died, worn out by labour and sorrow. He seems, at times, to have had a hard struggle for an honourable subsistence, and critics, latterly, seem to have been neglectful or unkind. Ultimately his ashes were brought home to his native land and deposited reverently in the family vault at Klausenberg; statues were raised in his honour at the Hungarian capital, and the greatest of Hungarian novelists, Maurus Jókai, delivered an impassioned funeral oration over the remains of the man who did yeoman's service for the Magyar literature, and created and popularized the historical novel in Hungary.

For it is as the Hungarian historical romancer par excellence that Jósika will always be remembered, and inasmuch as the history of no other European country is so stirring and so dramatic as that of Hungary, and Jósika was always at infinite pains to go direct to original documents for his facts and local colouring, he will always be sure of an audience in an age, like our own, when the historical novel generally (witness the immense success of Sienkiewicz) is once more the favourite form of fiction. Among the numerous romances "by the author of 'Eszter,'" the work, entitled "Jö a Tatár" ("The Tartar is coming"), now presented to the English public under the title of "'Neath the Hoof of the Tartar," has long been recognised by Hungarian critics as "the most pathetic" of Jósika's historical romances. The groundwork of the tale is the terrible Tartar invasion of Hungary during the reign of Béla IV. (1235-1270), when the Mongol hordes devastated Magyarland from end to end. Two love episodes, however, relieve the gloom of this terrific picture, "and the historical imagination" of the great Hungarian romancer has painted the heroism and the horrors of those far distant times every whit as vividly as Sienkiewicz has painted the secular struggle between the Red Cross Knights and the semi-barbarous heroes of old Lithuania.

R. Nisbet Bain.

'Neath the Hoof of the Tartar.

CHAPTER I.
RUMOURS.

"Well, Talabor, my boy, what is it? Anything amiss?" asked Master Peter, as the page entered the hall, where he and his daughter were at breakfast.

It was a bare, barn-like apartment, but the plates and dishes were of silver.

"Nothing amiss, sir," was the answer, "only a guest has just arrived, who would like to pay his respects, but—he is on foot!"

It was this last circumstance, evidently, which was perplexing Talabor.

"A guest?—on foot?" repeated Master Peter, as if he too were puzzled.

"Yes, sir; Abbot Roger, he calls himself, and says you know him!"

"What! good Father Roger! Know him? Of course I do!" cried Peter, springing from his chair. "Where is he? Why didn't you bring him in at once? I am not his Grace of Esztergom to keep a good man like him waiting in the entry!"

"The servants are just brushing the dust off him, sir," replied the page, "and he wants to wash his feet, but he will be ready to wait upon you directly, sir, if you please!"

"By all means! but he is no 'Abbot,' Talabor; he is private chaplain to Master Stephen, my brother!"

Talabor had not long been in Master Peter's service, and knew no more of Master Stephen than he did of Father Roger, so he said nothing and left the room with a bow.

"Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus, Father Roger!" cried Master Peter, hurrying forward to meet his guest, as he entered the dining-hall.

"For ever and ever!" responded the Father, while Dora raised his hand to her lips, delighted to see her old friend again.

"But how is this, Father Roger?" Peter asked in high good humour, after some inquiry as to his brother's welfare; "how is this? Talabor, deák announced you as 'Abbot.' What is the meaning of it?"

"Quite true, sir! Thanks to his Holiness and the King, I have been 'Abbot' the last month or two; but just now I am on my way to Pest by command of his Majesty."

"What! an abbot travel in this fashion, on foot! Why, our abbots make as much show as the magnates, some of them. Too modest, too modest, Father! Besides, you'll never get there! Is the King's business urgent?"

"Hardly that, I think; though—but, after all, why prophesy evil before one must!"

"Prophesy evil?" repeated Dora.

"Prophecies are in the hands of the Lord!" interposed her father quickly. "Good or bad, it rests with Him whether they shall be fulfilled. So, Father Roger, let us have it, whatever it is."

"The King's commands were that I should be at Pest by the end of the month," answered Roger, "so I shall be in time, even if I do travel somewhat slowly. As for the prophesying—without any gift of prophecy I can tell you so much as this, that something is coming! True, it is far off as yet, but to be forewarned is to be forearmed, and I fancy the King is one who likes to look well ahead."

"But what is it, Father Roger? do tell us!" cried Dora anxiously.

"Nothing but rumours so far, dear child, but they are serious, and it behoves us to be on our guard."

"Oktai and his brethren, eh?" said Master Peter, with some scorn. "Oh, those Tartars! The Tartars are coming! the Tartars are coming! Why, they have been coming for years! When did we first hear that cry? I declare I can't remember," and he laughed.

"I am afraid it is no laughing matter, though," said Father Roger. "I daresay you have not forgotten Brother Julian, who returned home only two or three years ago."

But here Dora interposed. She remembered Father Roger telling her a story of the Dominican brothers, who had gone to try and find the "old home" of the Magyars and convert to Christianity those who had stayed behind, and she wanted to hear it again, if her father did not mind.

Father Roger accordingly told how, of the first four brothers, only one had returned home, and he had died soon after, but not before he had described how, while travelling as a merchant, he had fallen in with men who spoke Hungarian and told him where their home, "Ugria," was to be found.[2] Four more brothers had been despatched on the same quest by King Béla, who was desirous of increasing the population of his country, and particularly wished to secure "kinsmen" if he could. Two only of the brothers persevered through the many perils and privations which beset their way. One of these died, and Julian, the survivor, entering the service of a wealthy Mohammedan, travelled with him to a land of many rich towns, densely populated.[3] Here he met a woman who had actually come from the "old home," and still farther north he had found the "brothers of the Magyars," who could understand him and whom he could understand.

[2] Ugria extended from the North Sea to the rivers Kama, Irtisch, and Tobol, west and east of the Ural Mountains. The Ugrians had come in more ancient times from the high lands of the Altai Mountains. Hungarian was still spoken in Ugria, then called Juharia, as late as the beginning of the sixteenth century.

[3] Great Bulgaria, lying on both sides of the Volga, at its junction with the Kama.

They were, of course, heathen, but not idolaters; they were nomads, wandering from place to place, living on flesh and mare's milk, and knowing nothing of agriculture. They were greatly interested in all that Julian told them, for they knew from old traditions that some of their race had migrated westwards.

But at the time of his visit they were much perturbed by news brought to them by their neighbours on the east. These were Tartar, or Turkish, tribes, who, having several times attacked them and been repulsed, had finally entered into an alliance with them. A messenger from the Tartar Khan had just arrived to announce, not only that the Tartar tribes were themselves on the move and but five days' journey away, but that they were moving to escape from a "thick-headed" race, numerous as the sands of the sea which was behind them, on their very heels, and threatening to overwhelm all the kingdoms of the world, as it had already overwhelmed great part of Asia.

Brother Julian hastened home to report his discoveries and warn his country, which he had reached between two and three years before our story begins; but nothing more had come of his pilgrimage, no more had been heard of the "Magyar[4] brothers."

[4] Europeans called them Ugrians-Hungarians, but they called themselves "Magyars"—"children of the land," as some think to be the meaning of the word.

"But why, Father Roger?" asked Dora, with wide eyes.

"Because the 'thick-headed people' have not only overrun nearly the whole of Central Asia as far as Pekin, covering it with ruins and reducing it to a desert, but have streamed westward like a flood, a torrent, and have submerged nearly the whole of Eastern Europe."

"Then they are not Tartars?"

"No, Mongolians[5]; but they have swallowed up many Tartar tribes and have forced them to join their host. Tartars we have known before, but Mongols are new to us, so most people keep to the name familiar to them, which seems appropriate too—Tátars, Tartari, you know, denizens of Tartarus, the Inferno, as we Italians call it; and their deeds are 'infernal' enough, Heaven knows!"

[5] Temudschin was but thirteen when he became chief (in A. D. 1175) of one horde, consisting of thirty to forty thousand families. After some vicissitudes, he entered upon a career of conquest, and, between 1204 and 1206, he summoned the chiefs of all the hordes and tribes who owned his sway to an assembly, at which he caused it to be proclaimed that "Heaven had decreed to him the title of 'Dschingiz' (Highest), for he was to be ruler of the whole world." From this time he was known as Dschingiz, or Zenghiz Khan.

"And are they coming, really?"

"As to whether they will come here, God alone knows; but Oktai, son of Dschingiz, who is now chief Khan, has sent a vast host westward, and, as I said, they have overrun great part of Russia; it is reported that they have burnt Moscow."

"Come, come, Father," interrupted Peter, who had been growing more and more restless, "you are not going to compare us Magyars with the Russians, I hope, or with the Chinese and Indians either. If they show their ugly dog's-heads here, they will find us more than a match for such a rabble."

"I hope so!" said Father Roger. But he spoke gravely, and added, "You have heard, of course, of the Cumani, Kunok, you call them, I think."

"To be sure! Peaceable enough when they are let alone, but brave, splendid fellows when they are attacked, as Oktai has found, for I know they have twice defeated him," said Master Peter triumphantly.

"Yes, there was no want of valour on their part; but you know the proverb: 'Geese may be the death of swine, if only there be enough of them!' And so, according to the last accounts, the brave King has been entirely overwhelmed by Oktai's myriads, and he, with 40,000 families of Kunok, are now in the Moldavian mountains on the very borders of Erdély" (Transylvania).

"Ah, indeed," said Master Peter, a little more gravely, "that I had not heard! but if it is true, I must tell you that my chief object would be to prevent the report from spreading and being exaggerated. If it does, the whole country will be in a state of commotion, and all for nothing! There is hardly any nation which needs peace more than ours does, and we have quite enough to do with sweeping before our own door, without going and mixing ourselves up in other people's quarrels."

But Father Roger went on to say that the rumour had spread already, and that was why the King was wishing to call his nobles, and, in fact, the whole nation, together to take measures of defence in good time.

"Defence!" cried Peter; "defence against whom? Why, we have no enemies on any of our borders, unless you mean the Kunok, and they are far enough off at present; besides, we don't look on them as foes. It is always the way, Father Roger! always the way! We go conjuring up spectres! and though I am his Majesty's loyal and devoted subject, I may say here, just between ourselves, that I do think him too quick to take alarm."

"You think so, sir?" returned the Abbot; "well, of course, it is a mere opinion, but to my mind the King is not far wrong."

And then the good Father reminded his host that Oktai had already overthrown the Russians, great numbers of whom had been forced to join his army; and now that he had driven out the Kunok was it to be supposed that he would stop short? Dschingiz Khan, his father, had been a conqueror; conquest was his sole object in life, and he would have conquered the whole world if he had lived. His sons, especially Oktai, took after him; they, too, considered themselves destined to conquer the world, and now that Kuthen had shown him the way into Transylvania he would be forcing a passage across the frontier before they knew where they were. His rapidity was something marvellous, unheard of!

Again Master Peter only laughed. Where was the use of alarming the country? and would not a call to arms look as if they were afraid, and actually tempt the Mongols to come and attack them?

Father Roger shook his head, as he replied in Latin:

"If you wish for peace, prepare for war, as the old Romans used to say, and it is wise not to despise your foe."

The two went on arguing. Master Peter, like many another noble in those days, would not see danger. Though valiant enough, he was always an easy-going man, and, again like many another, he was quite confident that Hungary would be able to beat any enemy who might come against her, without worrying herself beforehand. Father Roger did not know the Hungarians, though he had lived so long among them!

"Well, well," he concluded, "you go to Pest, Mr. Abbot; but think it well over by the way, and when you see the King, you tell him plainly that Peter Szirmay advises his Majesty not to give the alarm before it is necessary."

Roger shook his head but said nothing. Italian though he was, he understood the Hungarian nobility very well. He knew how they disliked being turned out of their ordinary course; but he knew too that once roused, they would not hesitate to confront any enemy who threatened them, and that though they might be hot-headed, foolhardy, over-confident, they were certainly not cowards!

"Well," thought the Abbot, "you are no wiser, I am afraid, than others; but when the King does succeed in routing you out of your old fastness and getting you down into the plain, you will give as good an account of yourself as the rest!"

Master Peter was glad to drop the subject, and to feel that there was at all events no immediate prospect of his being disturbed; yet he was so far an exception to the majority of his fellow-nobles that he determined to ascertain the truth about these rumours, and, if necessary, not to delay placing himself and his daughter beyond the reach of danger.

Father Roger's gravity had impressed Dora much, but she was young, and she had such entire confidence in her father, that she could not feel any actual anxiety.

"What do you think, Father Roger?" she said presently, "if Oktai Khan really should want to fight us, about how long would it take him to get here?"

"That no one can say, dear child," answered the Italian. "He might reach the frontier in three years, or it might be in two, or—it might be in one!"

"In one year!" Dora repeated in a startled tone.

"It is impossible to say for certain, my dear. It all depends upon how long our neighbours can keep back the flood. One thing is certain, that, as they retreat in our direction, they will draw the enemy after them, and what is more, unless we are wise and prudent we may make enemies of the fugitives themselves; that is if we give them reason to suppose us not strong enough, or not trustworthy enough, to be their friends. Well, God is good, and we must hope that the danger will be averted."

"Come, come, Father Roger," said Master Peter, "that is enough, that's enough! Let us eat, drink, and sleep upon it, and time will show! There is not the least reason for worrying at present at all events, and if this disorderly crew does pour across our frontiers at last, well, we shall be there to meet them! And it won't be the first time that we have done such a thing."

And then, by way of entertaining his guest, he proposed to take him all over the house, stables, and courtyard.

Master Peter was not wealthy as his brother Stephen was, but for all that he was sufficiently well off. Stephen, the younger brother, had had a large fortune with his wife; Peter, a much smaller one with his. The family mansion, or castle,[6] belonged equally to both; and, being both widowers, and much devoted to one another, they had agreed to share it, and had done so most amicably for several years.

[6] Any country house was a castle, or château, as the French would say.

Without being covetous, Stephen had a warm appreciation of this world's goods; and of all the forty male members of the Szirmay family living at this time, he was certainly the most wealthy. He was devoted to his children, and gave them the best education possible at the time of which we are speaking, the first half of the thirteenth century. His son, Akos, now one of the King's pages, had learnt to read and write; he had, too, a certain knowledge of Latin, and sometimes in conversation he would use a Latin word or two, with Hungarian terminations. In fact, he knew somewhat more than most of his class, and, needless to say, he was a good horseman and a good marksman, and well-skilled in the use of arms and in all manly exercises.

Stephen's daughter and niece, Jolánta and Dora, were as good scholars as his son; and all three owed their secular as well as religious knowledge to Father Roger, in later years the famous author of the "Carmen Miserabile," and already known as one of the most cultivated men of the day. He was making his home with the Szirmays, and acting as chaplain, merely for the time being; and Stephen was glad to secure his services for the children, who loved the gentle Father, as all did who came in contact with him.

Learning was held in such high honour in Hungary in these days, that many a man coveted, and had accorded to him, the title of "Magister"—Master—(borne by the King's Notary and Chancellor) if he had but a little more scholarship than his neighbours, though that often of the slenderest description, and sometimes but few degrees removed from ignorance itself. A man such as Roger was not likely therefore to be overlooked by a King such as Béla; and his advancement was certain to come in time, notwithstanding the fact that he was an Italian.

It was when Dora was about eighteen that her father had resolved to go and live on his own property, in one of the northernmost counties of Hungary.

Now Peter had never been a good landlord; from his youth up his pursuits and interests had not been such as to make him take pleasure in agriculture. Accounts and calculations were not at all in his way either, and accordingly, no one was more imposed upon and plundered by his stewards than himself. He was generous in everything, open-handed, a true gentleman, delighted to help or oblige anyone, and much more thoughtlessly profuse than many who were far richer than himself.

The dwelling-house on that one of his estates to which he had decided to go, was, it is hardly needful to say, very much out of repair, almost a ruin in fact. It had never been handsome, being, in truth, but a great shapeless barn, or store-house, which consisted merely of a ground floor nearly as broad as it was long. The original building had been of stone, built in the shape of a tent, and, of course, open to the roof; for ceilings, except in churches, were long looked upon as luxuries.

The first inhabitants had slept and cooked, lived and died, all in this one great hall, or barn; and their successors, as they found more space needed, had made many additions, each with its own separate roof of split fir-poles, straw, or reeds. By degrees the original building had been surrounded by a whole colony of such roofs, with broad wooden troughs between them to carry off the rain water. Most of these additions had open roofs, and were as much like barns as the first; but some were covered in with great shapeless beams; and in a few there were even fireplaces, built up of logs thickly coated with plaster.

Various alterations and improvements had been made before Master Peter's arrival, the most important of which was that the openings in the walls which had hitherto done duty as windows, had been filled in with bladder-skin, and provided with wooden lattices. The floors were not boarded, but the earth had been carefully levelled, and was concealed by coarse reed-mats, while the walls had been plastered and whitened.

Altogether, the place was not uncomfortable, according to the ideas of the time, and Dora was not at all disgusted with its appearance, even coming from her uncle's house, where she was accustomed to a good deal of splendour of a certain kind.

Hungarians, even in those days, could make a splendid appearance upon occasion, as they did at the King's wedding, when all the guests wore scarlet, richly embroidered with gold. But their chief luxuries at home took the form of such articles as could be easily converted into money in case of need.

They had, for instance, plates and dishes of gold and silver, precious stones, court-dresses, not embroidered and braided in the present fashion, but adorned with pearls and stones of great value, as well as with plates of beaten gold and silver. Master Peter's great dining-hall contained many valuables of this description. Huge, much-carved oak chests were ranged along the bare walls, some open, some closed, these latter being laden with silver plates and dishes, gold and silver cups, tankards and numberless other articles required at table. Here and there, the statue of a saint, a piece of Grecian or Roman armour, and various antique curiosities were to be seen.

Seats had not been forgotten, and the high-backed chairs and broad benches were supplied with comfortable cushions of bright colours. Similar gay cushions were in use throughout that part of the house inhabited by Peter and his daughter; and whatever deficiencies there were, everything at least was now in good order and scrupulously clean.

As for Dora's own room, her father had done all that he could think of to make it pleasant and comfortable; and though many a village maiden in these days would look on it with disdain, Dora was well satisfied. There were even a few pictures on the bare white walls, though of course they were not in oil; but the special luxury of her little apartment was that the window was filled with horn, which was almost as transparent as glass, and was, moreover, decorated with flowers and designs, painted in bright colours.

Window glass was not unknown at this date, but it was too precious to be commonly used, and was reserved for churches and the palaces of kings and magnates. Bladders and thin skins were in ordinary use, or, where people were very wealthy, plates of horn; but there were plenty of gentlemen's houses in which the inhabitants had no light at all in winter but such as came from the great open hearths and fireplaces, for the windows were entirely closed up with reeds or rush mats.

One of the additions made to the original building had been what was called a "far-view" or "pigeon tower," much higher than the house itself, and the top of which could not be reached without the help of a ladder. This tower, which was more like a misshapen obelisk in shape, was roofed in with rough boards. In the lower storey there was a good-sized room, with a door opening from it into the large hall. It contained a wooden, four-post bedstead, clean and warm, and a small table; and all along the walls were clothes-pegs and shelves, such necessaries as we call "furniture" being very uncommon in the days we are speaking of. Dora's chests had been placed here, and served the purpose of seats, and there were also a few chairs, a praying-desk, and a few other little things. The walls were covered with thick stuff hangings, and the lower part of them was also protected by coarse grey frieze to keep out the cold and damp. This was Dora's own room.

Like all gentlemen of the time, even if they were reduced in means, Peter had a considerable train of servants, and these were lodged in the very airy, barn-like buildings already mentioned.

The courtyard was enclosed by a wall, high and massive, provided with loopholes, parapet, bastions, and breastwork; and the great gate, which had not yet been many weeks in its place, was so heavy that it was as much as four men could do to open and close it.

Master Peter had been anxious to have his horses as well lodged as they had been at his brother's; but, after all, the stables, which were just opposite the house, were not such as horses in these days would consider stables at all. They were, in fact, mere sheds with open sides, such as are now put up to shelter the wild horses of the plains.

When all this was done there still remained the digging of a broad, deep ditch or moat, in which the master himself and all his servants took part, assisted by some of the neighbouring peasants; and in about three months' time all was finished, and the curious assemblage of irregular buildings was more or less fortified, and capable of being defended if attacked by any wandering band of brigands.

It merely remains to add that Master Peter's castle stood in a contracted highland valley, and was surrounded by pine-woods and mountains. Behind it was the village, of which some few straggling cottages, or rather huts, had wandered away beyond it into the woods. The inhabitants were not Hungarians, except in so far as that they lived in Hungary; they were not Magyars, that is, but Slovacks, remnants of the great Moravian kingdom, who had retired, or been driven, into the mountains, when the Magyars occupied the land. The Magyars loved the green plains, the lakes—full of fish, and frequented by innumerable wild fowl—to which they had been accustomed in Asia; the Slovacks, whether from choice or necessity, loved the mountains.

These latter were an industrious, honest people, no trouble to anyone, and able to make a living in spite of the hard climate. They had suffered in more ways than one by the absence of the family; for the gentry at the great house had as a rule been good to them; and when they were away, or coming but seldom, and then only for sport with the bears, boars, and wolves which abounded, the poor people were treated with contempt and tyranny by those in charge of the property. They no doubt were glad when Master Peter came to live among them, and as for their landlord, time had passed pleasantly enough with him in spite of his being so far out of the world.

What with looking after the estate, in his own fashion, hunting, riding, sometimes going on a visit or having friends to stay, he had found enough to occupy him; but being a hospitable soul, he was always delighted to welcome the rare guests whom chance brought into the neighbourhood, and considered that he had a right to keep them three days—if they could be induced to stay longer, so much the better for him!

As for companionship, besides Dora, who could ride and shoot too, as well as any of her contemporaries, he had Talabor the page, who had come to him a pale, delicate-looking youth, but had gained so much in health and strength since he had been in service that his master often pitied him for not having parents better able to advance his prospects in life. They were gentry, originally "noble," as every free-born Magyar was, but they were poor gentry, and had been glad to place their son with Master Peter to complete his education, as was the custom of the time. The great nobles sent their sons to the King's court to be instructed in all manly and courtly accomplishments; the lower nobility and poor gentlefolk sent theirs to the great nobles, who often had in their households several pages. These occupied a position as much above that of the servants as beneath that of the "family," though they themselves were addressed as "servant," until they were thought worthy the title of "deák," which, though meaning literally "Latinist," answered pretty much to "clerk" or "scholar," and implied the possession of some little education.

Master Peter was so well satisfied with Talabor that he now always addressed him as "clerk" in the presence of strangers. He was growing indeed quite fond of him, and was pleased to see how much he had gained in strength and good looks, and how well able he was to take part in all the various forms of exercise, the long hunting excursions, the feats of arms, to which he was himself devoted.

CHAPTER II.
GOOD NEWS OR BAD?

Father Roger had been shown all over the house, had seen all the additions and improvements, inside and out, and now felt as much at home in Master Peter's castle as he had done in Master Stephen's.

It had been finally settled that he should start for Pest the next morning, and Master Peter insisted on supplying him with a horse and an armed escort.

"And then," said he, unconsciously betraying the curiosity which was devouring him, in spite of his assumed indifference, "then, when you send the horses back, you know, you can just write a few lines and tell me what the King wants to see you about."

Peter was quite anxious for him to be off that he might hear the sooner; but it struck him that, as Father Roger would be in Pest long before the end of the month if he made the journey on horse-back, and yet could not present himself at Court until the time appointed, he might perhaps be glad of a lodging of his own, though, of course, there were monasteries which would have received him. He offered him, therefore, the use of an old house of his own (in much the same condition, he confessed, as his present dwelling had been in), but in which he knew there were two habitable rooms, for he had lived in them himself on the occasion of his last visit to the capital.

All was settled before supper-time, and Master Peter was just beginning to wonder when that meal would make its appearance, when the sharp, shrill sound of a horn gave him something else to think of.

"Someone is coming! They are letting down the drawbridge," he exclaimed, with much satisfaction at the prospect of another guest; and shortly after, ushered in by Talabor, there entered the hall a young man, somewhat dusty, but daintily apparelled. His black hair had been curled and was shining from a recent application of oil, and in his whole appearance and demeanour there was the indescribable something which tells of the "rising man."

"Ah, Clerk, it is you, is it?" said Peter, without rising from his seat. "My brother is well, I hope?"

"Master Stephen was quite well, sir, when I left him three days ago," returned the youth, as he made an elaborate bow to the master, another less low, but delivered with an amiable smile to Dora, and bestowed a careless third upon Father Roger.

"Well, and what is the news?"

"Both good and bad, Mr. Szirmay," was the answer, with another bow.

"Out with the bad first then, boy," said Master Peter quickly, knitting his brows as he spoke. "Let us have the good last, and keep the taste of it longest! Now then!"

"You have heard, no doubt, sir, what rumours the land is ringing with?" began the clerk with an air of much importance.

"We have!" said Peter, shrugging his shoulders; "let them ring till they are tired! If that is all you have jogged here about, gossip, you might as well have stayed quietly at home."

"Matters are more serious than you are perhaps aware, sir," said the clerk; and with that he drew from his breast a packet done up in cloth, out of which he produced a piece of parchment about the size of his first finger. This he handed proudly to Master Peter, who snatched it from his hand and passed it on to Father Roger, saying:

"Here, Father, do you take it and read it! I declare if it does not look like a summons to the Diet! There, there! blowing the trumpet, beating the drum in Pest already, I suppose!"

"Quite true, sir, it is a summons to the Diet," said Libor. "His Majesty, or his Excellency the Palatine, I am not certain which of the two, was under the impression that you were still with us, and so sent both summonses to Master Stephen."

"With you!" laughed Master Peter. "All right, kinsman, we shall obey his Majesty's commands, and I hope it may not all prove to be much ado about nothing."

With kindly consideration for his host's imperfect Latin, Father Roger proceeded to translate the summons into Hungarian.

The King never made many words about things, and his order was plain and direct. The Diet was to be held on such a date, at such a place, and it was Master Peter's bounden duty to be present; that was all!

"Ah, didn't I tell you so, Father?" said he gravely; "we shall be lighting our fires before the cold sets in, and pitching our tents before there is any camp! People are mad! and they are hurrying on that good King of ours too fast. Well, kinsman," he went on sarcastically, "tell us all you know, and if there is any more bad news let us have it at once."

"Bad news? it depends upon how you take it, sir; many call it good, and more call it bad," returned Libor, a trifle abashed by Master Peter's mode of address.

"And pray what is it that is neither good nor bad? I don't like riddles, let me tell you, and if you can't speak plainly you had better not speak at all!"

"Sir," said Libor, "I am only telling you what other people say——" and then, as Master Peter made a gesture of impatience, he went on, "Kuthen, King of the Kunok, has sent an embassy to his Majesty asking for a settlement for his people——"

"Ah! that's something," interrupted Peter, "and I hope his Majesty sent them to the right-about at once?"

"His Majesty received the ambassadors with particular favour, and in view of the danger which threatens us, declared himself ready to welcome such an heroic people."

"Danger! don't let me hear that word again, clerk!"

"It is not my word," protested Libor, with an appealing glance at Dora, intended to call attention to Master Peter's injustice.

"It's a bad word, whosesoever it is," insisted Peter. "Well, what more? are we to be saddled with this horde of pagans then?"

"Pagans no longer! at least they won't be when they come to settle. They are all going to be baptized, the King and his family and all his people. The ambassadors promised and were baptized themselves before they went back."

"What!" cried Father Roger, his face lighting up, "forty thousand families converted to the faith! Why, it is divine, and the King is almost an Apostle!"

The good Father quite forgot all further fear of danger from the Kunok, and from this moment took their part. He could see nothing but good in this large accession of numbers to the Church.

"New Christians!" said Peter, shaking his head doubtfully, as he saw the impression made upon Roger. "Are such people Christians just because the holy water has been poured upon their faces? They are far enough from Christianity to my mind. Who can trust such folk? And then, to admit them without consulting the nation, by a word of command—I don't like the whole thing, and so far as the country is concerned, I see no manner of use in it."

"You see, Mr. Szirmay," said Libor, with a little accession of boldness, "I was quite right. There are two of you here, and while one thinks the news bad, the other calls it 'divine.'"

"Silence, gossip!" said Peter haughtily, "you are not in your own house, remember. Be so good as to wait till your opinion is asked before you give it." Then, turning to Roger, he went on: "Well, if it is so, it is, and we can't alter it; but there will be a fine piece of work when the Diet does meet. It must be as his Majesty wills, but I for one shall not give my consent, not though the Danube and Tisza both were poured upon them. One thing is clear, we are called to the Diet and we must go, and as for the rest it is in God's hands."

So saying, Master Peter began to pace up and down the room, and no one ventured to interrupt him. But presently he came to a standstill in front of the clerk, and said gloomily, "You have told us ill news enough to last a good many years; so, unless there is more to come, you may go on to the next part, and tell us any good news you have."

"I can oblige you with that, too," said the clerk, who evidently felt injured by Peter's contemptuous way of speaking; "at least," he added, "I hope I shall not have to pay for it as I have done for my other news, though I am sure I am not responsible, for I neither invited the Kunok nor summoned your Honour to the Diet."

"Stop there!" said Peter, with some little irritation. "It seems to me, young man, that you have opened your eyes considerably since you left my brother; you talk a great deal and very mysteriously. Now then, let us have any good news you can tell us!"

"His Majesty has appointed Father Roger to be one of the Canons of Nagyvárad (Grosswardein), and Master Peter's long suit has terminated in a favourable judgment. The land in dispute is given back, with the proceeds for the last nine years."

"That is good news, if you will," cried Peter, both surprised and pleased; and without heeding a remark from Libor that he was glad he had been able to say something which was to his mind at last, he went on: "Now, Dora, my dear, we shall be able to be a little more comfortable, and we will spend part of the winter in Pest. Young ladies want a little amusement, and you, my poor girl, have had to live buried in the woods, where there is nothing going on."

"The Hédervárys are in Pest too," the clerk chimed in, "and you will have a delightful visit, my dear young mistress. His Majesty's Court was never more brilliant than it is now; the Queen likes to see noble young dames about her."

Dora and Peter both looked at the clerk in amazement. He had been four years in Master Stephen's house, without ever once venturing to make Dora such a long speech as this.

"What has come to this man?" and "How very odd!" were the thoughts which passed through the minds of Peter and his daughter.

But, forward as she thought him, Dora would not quite ignore the young man's remark, so she turned to Father Roger, saying, "I know it is a very gay life in Pest, and no doubt there is plenty of amusement at the Court, but I am not at all anxious to leave this place. It is not like a convent after all, and we have several nice people not far off who are glad to see us."

But having made a beginning, Libor had a great desire to prolong the conversation.

Roger and Peter were now both walking up and down the room, while Dora was standing at one of the windows, so the opportunity seemed to be a favourable one, and he proceeded to say gallantly that Dora was wronging the world as well as herself by shutting herself out from amusement—that there was more than one person who was only waiting for a little encouragement—that her many admirers were frightened away—and so on, and so on, until Dora cut him short, saying that she was sorry he should oblige her to remind him of what Master Peter had just said about not giving his opinion until it was asked for; and with that she left him and joined her father.

"What a haughty little thing it is for a forest flower, to be sure," said Libor to himself; but he felt just a little ashamed nevertheless, as he was well aware that he had taken an unheard-of liberty. Conversation of any sort between the pages and the daughters of the house was not "the thing" in those old days; and, quite apart from the turn which Libor had been so little respectful as to give to his remarks, Dora had felt uncomfortable at being forced into what she considered unbecoming behaviour.

"Ah! well," Libor reflected, "if she never moves from here she will find herself left on the shelf, and then—why then she won't be likely to get a better castle offered her than mine!"

And thereupon Libor (whose eyes had certainly been "opened," as Master Peter said) walked up to the two gentlemen, as if he were quite one of the company, and joined in their conversation at the first pause.

"Thunder and lightning! something has certainly come to this fellow. Let us find out what it is," was Master Peter's inward comment. He was beginning to be as much amused as irritated by the young gentleman's newly acquired audacity; but it annoyed him to have him walking beside him, so he came to a standstill and said, "Well, Libor, you have talked a good deal about one thing and another, according to your lights; now tell us something about your worthy self. Are you still in my brother's service and intending to remain permanently? or have you other and more brilliant prospects? A youth such as you, clerk, may do and be anything if he sets about it in the right way. Let us hear something about yourself."

"Sir," replied Libor, "it is true that I have been so fortunate as to share with many noble youths the privilege of living in Mr. Stephen's household, and of winning his confidence; also I have enjoyed your own favour in times past, Master Peter. 'Service' you call it, and rightly too; but to-day I have discharged the last of Mr. Stephen's commissions. He has treated me with a fatherly kindness and marked consideration beyond my deserts, but I am now on my way to Pest to see Mr. Paul Héderváry, who has offered me the post of governor of one of his castles."

"Governor! at four or five and twenty! That is remarkable, Mr. Libor," said Peter, with evident surprise. "A governor in the service of the Hédervárys is a very important person! I can only offer my best congratulations—to yourself, I mean."

Libor was no fool, and he perfectly understood; but he made answer, with his nose well in the air, "I can only thank you, sir, but I hope the time may come when Mr. Héderváry also will be able to congratulate himself on the choice which does me so much honour."

"Ah! I hope so, I hope so," laughed Master Peter cheerily. He was pleased with himself for finding out how the clerk had been promoted, and he reflected that true, indeed, was the old Latin proverb: Honores mutant mores.

As for Libor, though he felt injured, as much by Master Peter's manner as by his words, he lost nothing of his self-complacency. Self-confidence, self-esteem, his new title, and his brilliant prospects were enough to prevent his being put out of countenance for more than a moment by the snubs he had received both from father and daughter. As for Canon Roger, he, good man, was just as humble now as before his advancement, and either did not, or would not, see the young man's bumptiousness; he continued to treat him, therefore, in the same friendly way as when they were house-mates.

"And so you are on your way to Pest," said Peter; "Father Roger is also on his way thither. It is always safer to travel in company when there are so many ruffians about, so I hope you will attend him."

"I shall be very willing if Father Roger has no objection; we can travel together."

"The Canon of Grosswardein, remember," said Peter a little sharply.

"And Mr. Héderváry's governor," concluded Libor boldly and without blinking.

"Well, Mr. Governor, in the meantime you may like to look round the place a little before it is too dark; I may perhaps ask you to do a commission or two for myself by-and-by, but for the present will you leave us to ourselves?"

This was such an unmistakable dismissal that Libor actually lost his self-possession. Hesitatingly, and with a bad grace enough, he advanced towards the door, but there he stopped, recovered himself, and exclaimed:

"Dear me! how forgetful I am! But perhaps the reception I have met with may account for it."

"Reception!" burst forth Peter, whose gathering wrath now boiled over at this last piece of insolence. "I don't know, gossip, or rather Mr. Governor, I don't know what sort of reception you expected other than that which you have always found here! Hold your greyhounds in, clerk. If Mr. Stephen and Mr. Héderváry are pleased to make much of you, that is their affair. For my own part I value people according to their worth, and the only worth I have as yet discovered in you, let me tell you, is that at which you rate yourself."

Master Peter was not the man to be trifled with, and for a moment Libor felt something of the old awe and deference usual with him in the presence of his superiors. But a deep sense of injury speedily overcame his fear, and after a short pause he made answer:

"As you will, sir. Since you assign Héderváry's governor a place among the dogs, I have nothing further to do save to take my leave."

With that he again turned to the door.

"If there is any message which you have forgotten, boy, you don't stir from here until you have given it. That done, you may go when you like, and where you like, and no one will detain you."

Master Peter spoke as one who intended to be obeyed, and Libor was impressed, not to say cowed. He was very well aware that, as they would say in these days, it was "not well to eat cherries from the same dish" as the Szirmay nobles. (At the time of which we are writing a dish of cherries was a sight rarely to be seen.) He held it, therefore, wiser to yield, and mastering himself as well as he could, he said:

"Mr. Stephen wished me to inform you that Bishop Wáncsa has been inquiring whether you would be disposed to let your house in Pest to his Majesty."

"The King? Let it? Is Mr. Wáncsa out of his mind? Do their Majesties want to hire a great heap of stone like that, where even I have never been comfortable!"

"That is my message, but I can explain it. His Majesty wants the house prepared for the King of the Kunok and his family. You are at liberty to agree or not, but in any case Mr. Stephen will expect your answer by messenger, unless you are pleased to send it direct to the Bishop by myself, or the Canon, as we shall find him in Pest and it will reach him the sooner."

"What! Matters have gone so far that they are getting quarters ready for Kuthen, and the nation is still left in ignorance."

Libor merely shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, as the question was not particularly addressed to himself.

"Hem!" said Peter thoughtfully. "I should have liked to spend part of the winter in my own house in Pest, but it is in a bad state, very bad, and if the King is willing to repair and put it in order, he shall have it free for three years. It will be time enough to talk about rent after that."

"May I take the answer to Mr. Wáncsa?" inquired Libor, who was still standing at the open door.

"Yes, Governor, you may!" answered Peter, really at heart one of the best-natured men, who was always and almost instantly sorry when he had lost his temper and "pulled anyone's nose."

"You may, Libor, and we will not let the sun go down upon our wrath, so you will remain here, if you please, sup well and sleep well. Talabor will see that you have all you want, and then you will travel on with the good Father and some of my men-at-arms."

Then turning, and giving his hand to Roger, he added:

"I am sorry, Father, that as things are you see I can't give you quarters in my house; but the King comes before all."

As for Libor, he chose to consider that Peter had made him some sort of amends by his last speech; it pleased him much to play the part of an injured person who has accepted an apology, and he therefore at once resumed his polite manners, and bowing and smiling he replied with all due deference:

"As far as I am concerned, sir, nothing can give me greater pleasure, and since you permit me to do so, I will remain."

With another bow he left the room, not the house, which indeed he had never intended to leave, if he could help himself.

CHAPTER III.
MASTER STEPHEN'S PAGE.

Libor, as already remarked, had never had the least intention of leaving Master Peter's house so soon after his arrival as he had threatened to do, if he could by any possibility avoid doing so.

The fact was he had a little business of his own on hand, as anyone observant might have found out from his air of mystery, and the fact that, if he was on his way to Pest, he had had to come so far out of it, that Master Stephen would certainly have employed another messenger had Libor not particularly desired to come.

Master Peter was not very observant, but even he wondered in himself once or twice what the fellow wanted, and came to the conclusion that his new dignity had turned his head.

Dora wondered a little also, and felt that the young man had been impertinent, not only in his remarks, but in the way in which he had followed her about with his eyes throughout the interview.

He was not a person of much consequence, however, and both father and daughter quickly dismissed him from their thoughts.

And here, by way of explaining matters, we must mention that many years ago, when Dora was quite a tiny child, it had been settled between her father and Héderváry the Palatine, that she should marry the latter's son Paul. Héderváry was Master Peter's oldest and closest friend, one to whom he was much attached; and Dora, though no heiress, was a daughter of one of the proudest and noblest houses in Hungary. The match was considered perfectly suitable, therefore, and the Hédervárys were much attached to their "little daughter," as they constantly called her. Paul himself admired and liked the bride chosen for him quite as much as was necessary, and it is needless to say that Dora's father thought him extremely fortunate in having a girl so sweet, so clever, so well-educated, so good-looking, so altogether charming, for his wife.

Dora herself no one thought of consulting. As a good, dutiful daughter, she would, of course, accept without question the husband approved by her father; and there was no denying that Paul was calculated to win any girl's admiration, for he was an imposing, gallant-looking personage, and accomplished withal. They would certainly make a handsome, even a striking pair.

Every time Paul came to stay he found Dora more attractive; and though he had never in any way alluded to his hopes, of which she was quite ignorant, he could not help feeling that she was the very bride he would choose, or rather, would have chosen for himself, but for one unfortunate defect—her small dowry! It was a very serious defect in his eyes, though his parents thought little of it, for he was ambitious. His great desire was to make a fine figure in the eyes of the world, to be admired, courted, looked up to; and though the Hédervárys were wealthy, more wealth never comes amiss to those who wish to shine in society.

Was it any wonder therefore that Paul should presently begin to reflect that Dora's cousin Jolánta would suit him better than herself? Not that he liked her as well, for, though a pretty, gentle girl, she had not much character, and she was not nearly so clever and amusing; but she was an heiress, a considerable heiress, and Paul was convinced that he liked her quite well enough to make her his wife.

Dora was now nearly eighteen, and very soon he would be expected to ask her father's consent to their marriage. To Dora herself he would of course not say a word until he had her father's leave.

He was in a most difficult position, poor fellow! He was fond of Dora; and he was fond of his parents, who would be greatly vexed if he disappointed them in this matter. It was a serious thing to vex one's parents, especially when they had it in their power to disinherit one! His father was a generous, hot-tempered soldier; he would warmly resent any insult put upon his old friend's daughter; Master Peter might resent it too, though no word had yet passed between himself and his intended son-in-law. Truly a difficult position! But for all that, he meant to please himself, if he could safely do so.

Paul was turning these things over in his mind, and was pitying himself and racking his brains to discover some way by which his parents might be induced to take a reasonable view of things, when it occurred to him that two heads were better than one.

He was staying just now with the Szirmays at their castle, where he was always made much of, and Master Stephen was constantly arranging hunting parties and other country amusements in his honour.

Somehow, he never quite knew how it was, he found himself, during a moment of leisure, near the room occupied by one of the pages; and just for the sake of talking to somebody he went in, and was received with obsequious delight by Libor, who murmured his thanks for the great honour done him by the visit of so high and mighty a gentleman.

The little room was of the plainest description, and not too light, but the unglazed windows were at least filled in with bladder-skin, and the bare walls were painted white; the furniture consisted of a small open stove of earthenware, a roughly-made, unpainted bedstead, a primitive wooden table, and two or three stools. It was bare enough for a monk's cell, and it was unceiled, open to the roof, which appeared to consist of old boards and lattice-work of a rough description.

Libor was attired in a pair of red trousers, rather the worse for wear, and fastened round his waist by a leather strap, a waistcoat of the same colour, and a coarse shirt with wide, hanging sleeves. He was wearing neither coat nor jacket, and he had a slender reed pen stuck behind his ear. There were writing materials and a book or two on the table, and the page was busy with his pen, when, to his immense surprise, there entered the haughty young noble, a tall handsome personage clad in a "dolmány" of bright blue woollen stuff which reached down to his ankles, and was not unlike a close-fitting dressing-gown.

Libor started to his feet, and bowed almost to the ground as he expressed his sense of the great man's condescension, while he wondered in his own mind to what it was due, and what was wanted of him—something, he felt pretty confident, and he was quite ready to serve such an one as Paul, who would be sure to make it worth his while. But what could it be?

After a little beating about the bush, and a little judicious flattery, which drew forth many humble thanks for his good opinion from Libor, coupled with an expression of his hope that Mr. Héderváry would find that opinion justified if ever he should need his services, Paul at once proceeded to business.

Some men would have been disgusted to see a fellow-man, bowing, bending, and cringeing before them, as Libor was doing, but to Paul it was merely natural, and it pleased him, as showing that the clerk had a proper respect for his "betters."

"I am going to tell you something, clerk, which I have not told to another soul," began Paul, and Libor bowed again and felt as if he were on hot coals.

"You have guessed, I daresay, that I don't come here merely to pay an ordinary visit?"

Libor said nothing, judging it more prudent not to mention any surmises if he had them.

"Well, the fact is that I am here this time by desire of my parents to ask the hand of Master Peter's daughter."

Libor smiled.

"Yes, Libor, deák, but—well, I have the deepest respect for my parents, and I would not willingly cross their wishes, but for all that, I am of age, I am four-and-twenty, and such matters as this I should prefer to manage in my own way."

"Most natural, sir, I am sure," said Libor, with another deep bow; "marriage is an affair which—which——"

"Which needs careful deliberation, you mean; just so! And the more I consider and weigh matters, the more I feel that it is Master Stephen's daughter Jolánta who is the one for me."

"A most charming young lady! and I quite understand Mr. Héderváry's choice; and, if I might hazard the remark, I would suggest, with all possible deference, that the fair Mistress Dora is not nearly as well provided for as Mr. Stephen's daughter; though her father has a quantity of gold and silver plate, his property is not large, and he cannot give her much."

"Say 'nothing,' Libor, and you will be nearer the mark! I know it, and I am glad to see you don't try to hide anything from me. Well, of course, property never comes amiss even to the wealthiest, and 'if the master provides dinner, it is well for the mistress to provide supper,' as they say. But I had rather take Jolánta empty-handed than Dora with all the wealth of the world. I like property, I don't deny it, who does not? But I don't care a straw for Dora, and I do for Jolánta."

"Ah, then of course that settles it! But suppose Master Peter should have suspected your intentions?"

"There is just the rub! He is an old friend of my father's, and I should be sorry to hurt him; but I have made up my mind to ask for Jolánta."

"H-m, h-m," murmured the page thoughtfully. "Rather an awkward state of things, sir."

"Of course it is! but look you here, Libor, if you can help me out of it, I will make it worth your while. I know how modest and unselfish you are, but I shall be able to find you something, something which will set you up for life."

Libor's eyes sparkled. This was even more than he had looked for.

But Paul was growing rather impatient; this long interview with a person so far beneath him was distasteful to him, and he cut short the page's servile protestations of devotion and gratitude. What was to be done? that was the question.

"First make sure of Mistress Jolánta herself, before anything was said to her father," suggested Libor, "and then finish his visit and take his leave without proposing for either. Visits were not always bound to end with a proposal, and Master Peter could not possibly be hurt therefore. As for Mr. Stephen, when the time should come to ask his consent, he would certainly not refuse such a son-in-law as the son of the Palatine. Mr. Héderváry's parents"—Libor hesitated a little—"they could not blame him if—suppose—disappointed they might be, but they could not blame him—if he were able to say that Dora had another suitor, and one whom she preferred to himself, though Master Peter was not aware of the fact."

"H-m!" said Paul, "that would settle it, of course; but—there is none."

"No, there is not," said the clerk thoughtfully, with one of his deferential laughs, "but—we might find or invent someone."

"Find someone! Who is there?"

"Well, let us see—if—if we can invent no one else, there is myself!"

"You!" cried Paul, with evident and intense disgust, "you! But how? in what way?" and he broke into a laugh.

"That is my affair, sir; and if you have confidence in me——"

"Hush! I hear footsteps. Not another word now, I will contrive to see you again privately before I go from here. Just one thing more. I wonder whether you would undertake to do me a small service without telling the Mr. Szirmays, and without leaving this house."

"What am I to understand, sir?" asked the page, with marked attention.

And Paul explained that if he succeeded in arranging matters with Mistress Jolánta, he should want someone on whom he could depend, to keep him informed of all that went on in the house, in case, for instance, Master Stephen should be thinking of another match for his daughter, and—in fact, there might be many things which he ought to know; and then if he came again himself during the winter, he should want someone to see that he had comfortable quarters prepared for him on the road, and so on.

Libor was only too delighted to serve such a magnificent gentleman, a gentleman who was so open-handed and so condescending moreover, and the bargain was struck. Paul handed the page a well filled purse, telling him to keep a fourth part of the contents for himself, and to use the remainder to cover any expenses to which he might be put in sending messengers, etc.

"And look you here, Libor, from to-day you are in my service, remember—one of my honourable pages; and if ever you should wish to try your fortune elsewhere, there will be a place ready for you in my establishment."

Libor bowed himself to the ground as he answered, "With heart and soul, sir."

Meantime the footsteps had drawn nearer, and a tap at the door put a stop to the conversation.

"The gentlemen are waiting, sir," said the governor, or seneschal, of the castle, a dignified-looking man clad in a black gown, and wearing at his girdle a huge bunch of keys; for the governor of such a castle as that of the Szirmays, was keeper, steward, seneschal, as well as captain of the men-at-arms.

"In a moment," replied Paul, and as soon as the old man's back was turned, he whispered hurriedly, "If anyone should happen to ask what I came to your room for, you can say that I wanted a letter written."

Paul stayed yet a few days longer, and was so well entertained with hunting, horse-races, foot-races, feats of arms, and banquets that he could hardly tear himself away from the cordial hospitality of his hosts. He and Libor met but once again in private; but when he was gone Libor held his head higher than he had ever done before. Up to this time he had been the least well off of the pages, and had been deferential to his companions, but now all this was changed. To the Szirmays, on the other hand, and especially to Master Peter, he was more deferential, more attentive, than ever before.

Weeks, months passed, and if Master Peter was somewhat surprised that his old friend's son had not yet declared himself, he was much too proud to show it. And he was far too proud also to show how much hurt he was when he presently learnt that Paul was a suitor for the hand of his niece, and had been accepted by her father and herself.

Master Peter was deeply hurt indeed, and he felt too that his brother had not behaved well to him, knowing, as he did, the arrangement between himself and his friend.

Stephen also felt guilty; and the end of it was, that, though the brothers were sincerely attached to one another, and though no word on the subject passed between them, both felt a sort of constraint. The old happy intercourse was impossible; and for this reason Master Peter came reluctantly to the conclusion that he should be wiser to set up a home of his own again, and leave his brother in possession of the family-dwelling.

Paul had had considerable trouble with his parents, however. They would not hear a word in depreciation of Dora, and at the first insinuation of anything to her actual discredit, Héderváry had flown into a rage, denounced it as idle, shameless gossip, and declared hotly that Paul ought to be ashamed of himself for giving a moment's heed to such lying rumours.

When Paul went a step further and obstinately asserted his belief that Dora was carrying on a secret flirtation with Libor the page, the old warrior's fury was great, and he vowed that he would ride off instantly and tell his friend everything.

Yet, after all, he did nothing of the sort! (Paul and Libor perhaps could have told why.) So far from taking any step of the kind, he held his peace altogether, and finally acquiesced in his son's choice. He gave his consent, very unwillingly, it is true, but he gave it!

Master Peter came to him on a visit not long after, and was so far from betraying any annoyance that he joked and congratulated his friend on having a rich daughter-in-law instead of a poor one, and was full of praise of Jolánta, whom he declared to be a dear girl whom no one could help loving. If Dora's father did not care, why should Paul's?

All difficulties in Paul's way seemed to have been removed; but it would be necessary, as he reminded Libor, to keep up the fiction of Dora's attachment for some little time to come, or he would be found out, and his father's anger in that case would be something not easily appeased. It hurt his pride to employ the clerk in such a matter, and to have it supposed that a girl who might have married his honourable self could possibly look with favour upon such a young man as Libor, but there seemed to be no help for it. He was already in Libor's power.

And Libor was more than willing to play the part assigned to him. He had as keen an eye to the main chance as Paul, and Paul had not only been liberal in money for the present, but had held out brilliant hopes for the future.

If he stayed on with Master Stephen, argued Libor with himself, he would be called "clerk" all the days of his life, and end by marrying some little village girl. If, on the other hand, he obliged young Héderváry, made himself necessary to him, and, above all, entered into a partnership with him of such a nature as Héderváry would not on any account wish to have betrayed—why then he might kill two birds with one stone! He had already had a few acres of land promised him; if, in addition to this, he could obtain some gentlemanly situation such as that of keeper, or governor, or perhaps even marry a distant connection of the family, an active, sensible man such as himself might rise to almost anything! Young Héderváry might be to him a mine of wealth.

This settled the matter, and no sooner had Master Peter left his brother's house than Libor found reasons without end for going to see him. There were various articles to be sent after him in the first place; then there were settlements, arrangements to be made, letters or messages from Jolánta to be carried; and Libor was always ready and eager to be the messenger. The other pages had not a chance now, for he was always beforehand with them; so much so indeed that both they, the servants, and at last even Master Stephen, could not help noticing that, whereas formerly Libor had been a stay-at-home, now he seemed never to be so well pleased as when he was on the move.

Master Stephen wondered what he could want with his brother Peter, and the young pages, and sometimes the servants, joked him and tried to find out what made him so ready to undertake these more or less adventurous journeys. Libor said nothing, but looked volumes; and they noticed, too, that the old red trousers and waistcoat had quite disappeared, and that the page now thought much of his appearance and came out quite a dandy whenever he was going on his travels.

Master Stephen held it beneath his dignity to joke with his inferiors, but Jolánta had been more condescending to Libor of late than she had ever been before; and naturally so, as he was in Paul's confidence, and every now and then had news of him, or even a message from him to give her. It brought them nearer together, and, innocently enough, Jolánta once asked him merrily what it was that made him like to go on such long-expeditions, when it would have been just as easy to send someone else. Whereupon Libor assumed such an expression of shamefaced modesty that Jolánta, who had spoken in the merest jest, began to fancy that perhaps the page really had a reason, and might be courting one of Dora's maids. That it could possibly be Dora herself, never crossed her mind for a moment.

But others saw matters in a different light. The servants had their gossip and their suspicions; the young pages jested, and looked on Libor with eyes of envy; and Libor, though careful not to commit himself, managed somehow to encourage the idea that he and Dora were deeply attached to one another.

Of course, neither servants nor pages held their tongues, and soon people were whispering about Dora Szirmay in a way that would have horrified herself and all her family had they known it. But those chiefly concerned are the last to be reached by such rumours. Whether in any shape they had reached Paul's parents it is impossible to say; but, at all events, he had married Jolánta with their consent, and Libor had continued his visits to Master Peter whenever he could find or devise a pretext.

On the occasion of his present visit, when he had been the bearer of the summons to the Diet, "on his way to Pest," he availed himself of Master Peter's suggestion that he should take a look round the place, to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the ins and outs of the court-yard, stables, and other out-buildings; for, as he reflected, such knowledge never came amiss, and one could never tell when it might be useful. He even noticed absently that one part of the outer wall had not been repaired. More than this, while prowling about in the dusk, he had accidentally fallen in, not for the first time, with Dora's maid, Borka, whose favour he had won long ago by a few pretty speeches, not unaccompanied by some more solid token of his goodwill.

It was always well to have a friend at Court.

But just as he turned away from Borka, he came face to face with Talabor; and Talabor actually had the impudence to cross-question him as to what he was about. He was not to be shaken off, moreover, and at last, apparently making a virtue of necessity, Libor confessed that he had given the maid a note for Mistress Dora; but he begged and implored Talabor not to betray him, for it would be the utter ruin of him if he did.

Of course he knew that it was most presumptuous that a poor young man like himself could ever aspire to the hand of a daughter of the Szirmays; they both knew that their attachment was hopeless, but—well, they had spent several years under the same roof, and had had opportunities of meeting, and—could not Mr. Talabor understand?

Mr. Talabor understood perfectly, inasmuch as his own admiration of Miss Dora had been growing ever since the first day he saw her. He had worshipped her as something far above him, as all that was good, upright, and honourable, and it was a shock to have it even suggested that she could condescend to underhand dealings with anyone. It was odd, too, if she really cared for Libor, that she should have received and behaved to him as she had done, and though Libor might protest that Master Peter had always shown him marked favour, Talabor was of opinion that he shared his own dislike to the young man, and had shown it pretty plainly.

"Master Peter ought to know what is going on," he said sturdily; but Libor thereupon became frantic in his entreaties. He implored, he positively writhed in his anguish, not for himself, oh no! what did it matter about a poor, insignificant fellow like him? it might ruin all his prospects with the Hédervárys, probably would, and he should not even be able to return to Master Stephen; he should be a vagabond, and beggar—but that was no matter of course compared with Mistress Dora! She would be ruined in the eyes of the world if it came abroad that she had stooped to care for such as he, and it was certain to get about if Talabor betrayed them. Whereas now no one but themselves and Borka knew anything about it; and she was faithful, she would not open her lips, for he had made it worth her while to keep silence.

"An odd sort of fidelity," it seemed to Talabor; but he was not quite clear as to whether it were his business to interfere; and, if it were, to injure Mistress Dora——

Libor saw his advantage and pressed it. He reminded Talabor that Master Peter was hasty, and so incautious when his wrath was aroused that some one would be sure to hear of it; he would certainly tell his brother, Master Stephen would dismiss himself, and—well, the whole thing would come out. Dora would be scorned by the world, and—besides, this was probably his last visit; he was going to a distance, and what was more, they had both realised that their attachment must be given up—it was hopeless.

"If it can't be, it can't!" said Libor, with a deep-drawn sigh.

He threw himself upon Talabor's mercy, and Talabor promised.

"But remember," said he, "it is only because speaking might do more harm than good, as you are not coming again, but if ever you do, and I catch you tampering with Borka, I go straight to Master Peter."

"If I come, and if you catch me, so you may!" said Libor, with a sneer.

"I understand all about it," he added to himself, as he turned away with the announcement that he was going to see Moses deák, the governor. "I understand! You would give your eyes to be in my shoes, Mr. Talabor, or what you suppose to be mine! And why shouldn't they be? The ball has been set rolling, and the farther it rolls the bigger it will grow. Borka will do her part with the servants, and they won't keep their mouths shut! So! my scornful little beauty, you are not likely to get many suitors whom Master Peter will favour, and who knows? Next time we meet—next time we meet—we may both sing a different song."

CHAPTER IV.
MISTAKE THE FIRST.

Father Roger was gone, and Libor the clerk was gone, but Dora and her father were not long left alone. More acquaintances than usual found it convenient to take the mountain castle "on the way to Pest," or elsewhere.

But what was more remarkable than this sudden influx of guests was the fact that so many of them made polite inquiry after Libor the clerk, "keeper," or "governor," as they began to call him.

"What on earth is the matter with the folk!" said Master Peter more than once. "What makes them so interested all at once in that raw, long-eared, ink-stained youth! They ask questions and seem to expect me to know as much about him as if he and I were twin-brethren!"

"I can't think!" returned Dora with a merry laugh, which might have re-assured Talabor had he heard it. "It is very odd, but they ask me too, and really I quite forgot the good man's existence from one time to another."

"Well," said Master Peter, "I suppose one ought not to dislike a man without cause, and I have nothing positively against the jackanapes, but I don't trust him, for all his deferential ways, and I fancy that when once he "gets hold of the cucumber-tree" we shall see a change in him. Your uncle has been kind to him, but not because he liked him, I know! I'll tell you what it must be! he has been boasting, and exaggerating what we have done for him," Master Peter went on in his simplicity, "making himself out a favourite, and counting up the number of visits he has paid us here, until he has made people think we have adopted him, and they will be taking him for my son and heir next, faugh! Ha! ha! A pushing young man! I never could think why he wanted to be coming here, but no doubt it gave him importance, and very likely Paul thought we had special confidence in him, otherwise I don't see what made him give such an appointment to a youth of his age. That must be it!"

And yet, while he said the words, Peter had a vague feeling that there was something behind which he could neither define nor fathom.

Delighted as he was to welcome guests, he had not enjoyed their society of late so much as was usual with him. Sometimes he told himself that it was all fancy, and then at another he would be annoyed by a something not quite to his taste in their manner to Dora, while the frequent reference to Libor was so irritating that he had more than once almost lost his temper, and he had actually told some inquiries with haughty dignity that if they wanted to know what the young man was doing they had better ask the servants.

This had had the desired effect; so far, at least, that Master Peter was not troubled again; but people talked all the same, and even more than before, for his evident annoyance and the proud way in which he had repelled them made the busy-bodies put two and two together and conclude that he really had some secret trouble which he wanted to hide from the world. And so, by way of helping him, they naturally confided their suspicions one to the other, and to their friends.

Gossip about people of such importance as the Szirmays naturally had a peculiar zest, and the fact that Dora was first cousin to Jolánta, one of the Queen's favourite attendants and wife of Paul Héderváry, of course gave it additional flavour.

Maids who came with their mistresses questioned Borka, who answered them as she had been instructed to do, with earnest injunctions as to secrecy. Talabor, being sent out with a message to Master Stephen, heard similar gossip from the pages of his household, gossip which distressed him greatly, though he vowed that he did not believe a word of it.

He could not get it out of his head during his lonely ride home, but as he thought over all that he had heard, it suddenly struck him that, supposing it to be true, Borka was not as "faithful" as Libor fancied. The story must have come abroad through her, unless—an idea suddenly flashed across his mind—Libor might have trumped the whole thing up by way of increasing his own importance. But then he had actually caught him with Borka! Talabor resolved to have a word with Miss Borka at the first opportunity.

In due time Master Peter set out for Pest, and thither we must now follow him.

Oktai, the Great Khan, found himself on the death of Dschingis at the head of a million and a half of fighting men, and at once determined to carry out his father's plans of conquest by sending his nephew Batu westward to attack the peaceful Kunok, the "Black Kunok," as the chronicles call them, who dwelt between the Volga and Dnieper in Great or Black Cumania.

Twice the Mongols had been beaten back, but in the end numbers had prevailed, and to save what remained of this people, their King had led them into Moldavia, then occupied in part by the Little, or White Kunok.

Meanwhile, alarming rumours of what had occurred had reached Hungary, but were credited by few, and as to being themselves in any real, still less immediate danger, that the Hungarians would not bring themselves to believe. Their King, Béla (Albert) took a very different view of the situation. One of the most energetic kings Hungary had ever had, and brave in meeting every difficulty, though he did not fear danger, he did not despise it, and while the great nobles spent their time in amusing themselves, he was following with the most careful attention all that was going on among his neighbours. He was kept well informed, and nothing of that which Oktai was doing escaped him. He knew how Russia had been conquered, how the Kunok had been hunted, and how the countless Mongol hordes were gaining ground day by day.

He knew, but he could not make others see with his eyes. More than once he appealed to the great nobles, urging them to make ready, while he himself strove gradually to raise troops and take measures for the defence of the kingdom. But it was all in vain; they heard, but they heeded not. And then one day they were quite surprised, when, after many perils and dangers, Kuthen's messengers appeared in Buda, having come, as they said, from the forests of Moldavia.

They were no brilliant train, but men who had fought and suffered, and endured many hardships; and they had come, as Libor told Master Peter, to ask for an asylum. Hungary was but thinly populated at this time, and the King was always glad to welcome useful immigrants. Knowing which, they asked him confidently, in their own king's name, to say where they might settle, promising on his part that he and his people would be ever faithful subjects, and more than this, that they would all become Christians.