Chapter 8. The Polish Woman

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_ CHAPTER VIII. THE POLISH WOMAN

"Who is at home here?" inquired a strong sonorous voice at the door of the headsman's dwelling, and immediately afterwards a shape huddled up in a grey mantle passed through the kitchen door.

By the hearth were sitting Ivan and the woman of the house, it was a dark tempestuous night outside; it might have been about ten o'clock and every door was closed.

The youth and the woman gazed stupidly at the stranger and said nothing.

"Who is at home here?" repeated he, drawing nearer to the fire, in whose flickering light his smooth handsome young face seemed transparent with its sharply defined eyebrows, soft but masterful lips and courageous eagle eyes which gazed fixedly before them.

The youth and the woman exchanged glances. Instead of answering, Ivan fell to questioning:

"How could anyone possibly enter here?"

"I leaped over the fence," replied the stranger, sitting down beside the fire without the least ceremony. "The door was bolted and barred; twice, thrice did I knock, but nobody opened to me. I was forced to get in somehow."

"How about the dog?" inquired the woman of the house much perplexed.

"I didn't mind him. I know how to talk to dogs. It is a way I have. There's a plaguey bad tempest roaring outside, the rain is falling in torrents. I could not wait outside any longer."

"But what do you want here?" inquired the woman, looking into the face of the stranger with some timidity.

"That is just what I am going to tell you, my dear! But first give me a glass of water, for I am perishing with thirst."

The woman was involuntarily constrained to obey without more ado.

"And you, my friend, spread out my mantle before the fire!" said the stranger turning towards Ivan, and stripping from his neck and shoulders the heavy mantle which was dripping with rain.

The youth and the woman incontinently obeyed his commands as if they were under a spell.

The mantle was removed, the slim, muscular figure of the stranger was clearly visible, it seemed too soft for a man's. His hands as they grasped the beaker seemed white and delicate.

"That is certainly a woman," murmured the headsman's wife to Ivan, staring suspiciously at the stranger from beneath her thick contracted bushy eyebrows. Then approaching him and looking him full in the face she said: "My Dovey! It seems to me that you are in no good way. Whom do you seek?"

"The master," replied the stranger curtly, resting his elbows on the hearth.

"Possibly you may suppose this house to be an inn because it lies at the extreme end of the town?"

"I think nothing of the sort, my pretty mistress. I know that here dwells Master Zudár, the worthy ferry-master."

"Ferry-master?"

"Yes, ferry-master! Does he not transport men from this world to the next?"

"How come you to know the master?"

"I have never seen him, yet I know him well for all that. It is not possible to speak to him now because he is a-praying. He prays regularly for a whole hour at a time, and then it is not well then to disturb him. That is why you two are crouching in the kitchen here. You, my pretty mistress, are Master Zudár's wife, and this young man is his 'prentice. I know you very well also."

"But who are you yourself then? Speak! What do you want?" asked the woman much puzzled.

"I shall tell that to the master himself, inside there, when he has quite finished his devotions. It is his habit every night, before he lies down, to fire off his gun, then I will approach him. Meanwhile sit down beside me! Look ye, this bench can very well hold the pair of us, let us have a little talk together."

The stranger thereupon doffed his little round furred cap and his long black trussed-up locks fell in curling ringlets about his shoulders.

"'Tis a woman, a woman indeed!" whispered Ivan and the dame of the house to each other.

The latter now approached the enigmatical shape a little more boldly, and sitting down beside him, opened a conversation with him.

"What, pray, is your business with my husband?"

"Come, come, my dear creature! You have no right to put such questions to me. You ought rather to ask me whether I am hungry and would like some supper. You would not have to ask me that twice I can assure you."

The woman, at this hint, arose sullenly and took from a wainscot cupboard a plate of hearth cakes which she set before the stranger.

"I suppose, sir, you don't mind eating off the headsman's platter?" said she.

"Stuff! What if I am of the same profession!"

"Oh, of course! I can see that from those soft white little hands of yours which are not such as the hands of a man ought to be."

But the words were scarce out of her mouth when the virago uttered a loud scream, for the little white paws she had just tapped suddenly pressed her huge fleshy palm so vigorously that every bone in it cracked.

"Satan take him!--'tis a man, not a doubt of it!" whispered the woman to Ivan. "He has a hand like an iron vice."

The stranger had an excellent appetite. There was absolutely nothing at the bottom of the platter when he had finished eating.

"Pardon!" cried he at last, "perhaps I ought not to have gobbled up everything. Perchance this was set aside for someone who does not happen to be at home just now."

"Oh, don't be uneasy on that score, we have all had our suppers."

"But this is not the whole family I suppose? Have you no children?"

"Yes," replied the woman, and as she spoke she durst not lift her eyes to the stranger's face. "I have a daughter."

"Really your own child?"

The woman looked hesitatingly at the stranger, twice she attempted to speak and twice the words seemed to stick in her throat.

"Yes, my own child," she said at last.

"And have you no other 'prentice but this one, Dame Zudár?"

"No, why should I?"

"And are you two able to carry on the business?--for I suppose there are all sorts of things to be done?"

"Good heart alive! The less you say about the headsman's trade the better."

"But why should I not talk about it? It is a regular profession, is it not, like any other? And just as respectable too, eh? Nay, it is more profitable than most trades, because there is less of competition in it. Now, as for me, I have a perfect passion for it. Why, the only reason why I am here is to come to some arrangement with Master Zudár. I want to buy of him, my pretty dame, the business which you loathe so much."

The headsman's wife regarded the stranger with eyes full of doubt and astonishment.

"You are a very young man for the business," said she suspiciously.

"Oh, as for that, my dear, pray don't imagine that I am going to put up with all the disagreeables of the profession for the fun of the thing. I mean to have lots of help I can tell you. I shall live in town and frequent the best taverns and coffee houses. I shall live like a gentleman and nobody will know who I am. I shall only appear on the scene officially when an execution worthy of my skill awaits me--a nice beheading or something of that sort, you know. Oh! I shall have a fine time of it I can tell you."

Dame Zudár felt a shudder run all down her back. She durst not look again at the stranger.

"It is a pity you have not more than one 'prentice now. It looks as if you had very much neglected the business. I am annoyed at that. It will be difficult to give it a fresh start. Had you not more than one apprentice a little time ago?"

"Yes, there used to be another," stammered Dame Zudár involuntarily.

"Then why did you pack him off?" inquired the unknown, picking from the fire with his delicate index-finger a burning ember, tossing it lightly on to his soft palm, and thence chucking it adroitly into the bowl of his little pipe.

The woman and Ivan exchanged a look as if deliberating together what answer they should give, and then the woman hastily replied:

"He went away of his own accord; the business is a pretty one, but he got disgusted with it."

"Oh--ho! what a rum 'un the fellow must have been. And has he a better time of it now?"

"I don't know," replied the virago defiantly. "It is not my business to find out what has become of my discharged apprentices. He got sick of this trade and took to another--that is the whole thing."

"You are quite right, my pretty dame, not everyone is fit for this business. A man must have a natural liking for it. I, for instance, would never take as an apprentice a man who had not spent some time in a dungeon, or cooled his heels in jail two or three times running in five or six years, for all the others are for ever wishing themselves back in polite society, and want to live in town. And then, too, they are always sighing and groaning and trying to make out that they are too good for the business. I don't like such people myself. Those who are likely to excel in this business show their teeth betimes. Those children who put out the eyes of birds, nail bats to barn doors, and love to shoot at little dogs, those are the sort of fellows from which apt pupils can be trained."

"That is quite true. Why you, yourself, must be the son of a headsman, or else you would not know all the conditions of the trade so well."

"You've hit it, that is just what I am. My father was an executioner and my grandfather before him, the business has steadily descended from father to son."

"Where do you live then?"

"In Poland. Rochow is where my father dwells. You must have guessed already from my accent that I was a Pole."

"Yes, and from your face too."

"My brother and I divided our heritage between us. He got the Rochow business and paid me out in cash that I might set up for myself elsewhere. I heard that the executioner of Hétfalu was getting sick of his office, for of course he is not growing younger, is he? Come, now! you silly little thing, you must not be angry with me for saying that! You know very well that your husband _is_ an old man, and there are lots of old men who have pretty young wives. There is no great harm in that. I only asked you whether he _was_ old, because in that case he would be more likely to seek for repose."

"Yes, young sir, my husband loathes the business with all his soul."

"But there's a great deal of fun in it too, if only you look at it properly. I have often gone to Lemberg togged up like a swell, with a fine jewelled pin in my scarf, a gold chain and a little whalebone stick in my hand. I have turned the heads of two or three fine ladies and insinuated myself into the best society--and what a joke it was when they found out who I really was. How pale they all went, and how their hair stood on end. Ha, ha, ha!"

"But didn't they make you pay for it afterwards?"

"Well, once I was called out by a young cadet. Officers of higher rank thought it beneath their dignity to fight with me, the utmost they did was to pitch me out of the window. The lad who challenged me was a Hungarian, and I promised to appear at the rendezvous. I am afraid, however, that he waited for me a very long time. I like to shed blood, but only when I run no risk myself."

All three laughed heartily at this witticism.

"But listen to the sequel of my story. My father has an amiable whim of his own--he always prefers to have deserters from the army as his assistants. He is well aware that men of that kidney have practically renounced the world. Now who do you think rushed into his house one evening all ragged and travel-stained? Why the very soldier-youngster who had wanted to fight a duel with me! To avenge his sweetheart he had shot his captain and had to make a bolt of it."

The woman and Ivan involuntarily looked at each other with terror.

"You may imagine how I laughed the poor youth out of countenance when I recognised him. Every time I met him I used to say to him: 'Well, what do you say to our fighting our duel now?' He could not stand such heckling long. On the third day he skedaddled, and I don't know what became of the poor fellow. I have little doubt, however, that since then he has been shot dead."

"If they have not done it yet it won't be very long before they do," observed Ivan.

"Hush!"--hissed the woman with a warning gesture.

The unknown did not seem, however, to have noticed this little piece of by-play.

At that moment the report of a gun was heard from the headsman's window. At night he used regularly to discharge his firearms and load them again immediately afterwards. He was afraid that someone might have got at them in the course of the day and either extracted the bullets or damped the powder. He did not feel himself safe in his own house, and always locked the door of his room before he lay down to sleep.

"Now you will be able to have a talk with him if you like," said the virago. "The girl will come down presently, as usual, to fetch him his water for the night, you can let her know that you are here and want to speak to him."

Shortly afterwards the door opened and, with a lighted taper in one hand and a ewer in the other, the moon-pale little maid entered the room. She came very quietly, as if afraid of making the slightest noise. Her beautiful blonde locks had been unloosed, for it was bedtime, and strayed freely over her smooth snow-white shoulders, her tiny bare feet seemed to kiss rather than touch the ground.

The stranger gazed at the gentle creature with rapt delight. She did not appear to notice him in the semi-darkness, as she glided past him through the vestibule on her way to the well.

"Is that your own child, my fair dame?" asked the unknown, flashing his eagle eyes full upon the woman.

"Yes, my own child!"

"How fair she is, and how pale!"

The woman laughed.

"While I am so brown and ruddy, eh?"

And again she laughed aloud.

The face of the unknown blushed deeply. One could have sworn it was a woman. It was the blush of shame that covered his face.

In a few moments the child returned with the filled ewer in her hands.

"Come hither, my little girl!" said the stranger, in a tender, affectionate voice.

The child started violently.

"Don't be alarmed!" growled the virago. "Don't you hear that this gentleman wants to speak to you? Are you afraid he will bite your nose off?"

And with these words she seized the child's hand roughly and pushed her towards the stranger.

The stranger softly patted the child's little head.

"Don't be afraid of me, my little girl! You have no reason to fear me. What is your name?"

"Betsey!" replied the virago.

"Ah, why Betsey? Such a coarse, common name for such a tender child! I would call her Elise, that is far prettier. Besides, the two names mean one and the same thing."

"Nay, nay, you will spoil the child, sir. As if she was not spoilt enough by her father already. Peasant folks call their daughters Betsey or Polly; Elise and Lisetta are the names of gentlefolks' children. You must not listen to such nonsense, child; but go and tell your father that there is a gentleman here from Poland who wants to speak to him immediately before he lies down."

The child timidly withdrew her little hand from the stranger's, who seemed very disinclined to let it go, and hastened to her father's room.

The stranger thereupon tidied up his clothing, smoothed back his hair on both sides of his forehead, thereby giving to his features a gentle amiable expression, and softly tapped at the headsman's door.

"Come in!" resounded a deep melancholy voice from within.

The unknown youth entered and carefully closed the door behind him.

The moment he was well within the room, the smile of frivolous braggadocio he had lately assumed entirely disappeared from his face; the defiantly thrown back head bent meekly down; a look of devout inspiration was visible on the thin lips and in the veiled eyes; the whole figure of the man seemed to have grown smaller, the shoulders contracted, the breast receded; he had now the air of a gracious and benignant missionary.

And a benignant missionary indeed it was who now stood face to face with the headsman.

The herculean figure of the headsman arose slowly and tremulously, and while his hand with furtive anxiety sought the hand of the little girl, he asked the stranger in a scarcely audible voice what he required of him. Perchance the latter did not catch what he said, he spoke so low.

"Peace and blessing be upon this house!" said the unknown in a voice full of tender unction.

"Amen, amen!" the headsman hastened to reply.

"Heaven's blessing descend upon thy heart, my son!" said the youth to the old man raising his hand in blessing.

"He is a pastor, a priest," said the headsman to himself, "he has all the appearance of it."

Peter Zudár stooped down towards the youth's hand and kissed it. He durst not touch it with his own hand but with his lips only.

"A priest in _my_ house, forsooth! My child! take the gentleman by the hand and lead him to the arm-chair, make him sit down! Thy hands are clean, they may touch him. Oh! a man of God in _my_ house! I never dared to hope so much."

"I come from afar," said the unknown youth, sitting down in the arm-chair provided for him, while the old executioner stood before him bare-headed, with his large muscular arms folded across his bosom. The little girl wound her hands round his arm and stood beside him.

"I come from afar, I say. I do not belong to your nation, though I understand your language well enough to be able to converse in it intelligibly. In olden times the Apostles of our Holy Faith received direct from Heaven the gift of tongues, we, their unworthy successors, must, with great labour and weariness, acquire the languages of those to whom we have to preach the Gospel. I am the member of an English religious society whose mission it is to seek out those who are suffering, in whatever rank of life they may be, and endeavour to administer to them, so far as we are able, those divine consolations which God so freely distributes to the broken-hearted. We have our special missionaries for every section of humanity, and we send them forth continually to minister to their sufferings, and bring them peace and healing. Some of us are sent to the palaces of the mighty, others to the hovels of the poor. For everyone on earth has his own particular sorrow, and everyone finds his own sorrow very hard to bear. Some of us have chosen the dungeons and jails as our spheres of consolation, others prefer to comfort the secret woes of family life, others again visit the needy masses of the work-people. To me has been assigned the task of ministering to those terrors of evil doers, the public executioners."

At these words the youth looked steadily at the face of the man, who was standing there before him, with downcast eyes and quivering lips.

"For the last nine years I have been going about in this strange world of mine," continued the youth. "I have learnt something of the deepest wounds and of the sublimest woe. All the suffering in this department of sorrow is very much alike. Some can hide their wounds better than others--that is the sole difference. There are amongst these headsmen cold impenetrable natures, hearts closed against the world, whom it is very difficult to get at. And then again there are devil-may-care, extravagant, passionate dispositions who fancy they can find oblivion in wine, excitement, and other external delights. And then, too, there are defiant, haughty souls, who mock and jeer at those things which ordinary people are afraid of--but at the bottom of all their hearts it is the same worm that is ever gnaw-gnawing. Some of them die young, others grow grey, and have a late old age before them. And it is the selfsame worm which kills the one and will not let the other die. I have known among them men who, drink as they would, could never get drunk. I have known others who loathed the sight of wine and yet have been haunted by phantoms in broad daylight. The evil was always one and the same. Yes, and the mercy of God is always one and the same likewise."

"God's mercy is indeed over all!" stammered the headsman.

"And if this endless mercy did not cover the earth what could defend all living beings from judgment? If the Lord were one day to proclaim: 'Let Justice prevail in the world instead of Mercy!' must not we all be instantly consumed by the divine vengeance? The Lord does not look at the outward appearance of men but at their hearts. He judges him who charitably distributes alms at the church door to make up for the secret sins that he has carefully concealed at the bottom of his heart, and raises once more the broken-hearted sinner who has fallen beneath the stress of temptation."

The headsman slowly sank down upon his knees before the chair of the unknown, and rested his folded arms against it.

"What are we after all? Impotent tools in the hands of all creative Power. Greater in the eyes of God is humble weakness than haughty strength; dearer to Him is the repentant sinner than the man who boasts of his virtues. All that is power is His gift, and His gift must needs return to Him again. Strength will turn to dust, merit will become but as an empty sound, God's mercy alone will endure for ever. Heaven is always open to him who seeks it."

The youth tenderly stroked the old man's hands whilst he tried, tremulously, to draw them away.

"Oh, sir, touch not my hands!"

The youth seized one of the executioner's hands by force and drew it towards him, looking as he did so, now at the old man's hand and now at his face. Then with his delicate index-finger he pointed at the headsman's forehead.

"I see here a whole network of wrinkles," said he, "and this cross of ill-omen here betokens the anguish of a heavy heart. Thy hand trembles in mine because it feels upon it spots of innocent blood."

"True, true!" groaned the strong man, hiding his face in his hands.

"Thou hast executed a death sentence upon a man whose innocence shortly afterwards became as clear as noonday."

"So it is. You can read right into my heart. It is even as you say."

"This thought haunts thy mind continually and the mark of it is on thy forehead."

And at that moment could be plainly seen on the old man's forehead the deep cruciform mark of the intersecting furrows.

The youth laid his fresh cold hand on the man's forehead.

"Who can tell why the Lord hath ordered it so? Who can tell whether the blindly executed convict did not deserve his punishment after all? Who knows whether he was not worse at heart than he who actually committed the bloody deed? What if he wished his father's death, and therefore was guiltier than he who carried out that wish? A wise monarch in the East once hung up twelve robbers by the roadside, and placed watchers there at night to guard the bodies. While the watchers slept, the comrades of the robbers cut down the body of their leader and made off with it. The awakened watchers, full of the fear of punishment, hung up a wayfaring peasant in the place of the missing body. An innocent man!--And behold when they searched the baggage of the peasant's mule they found the bloody limbs of a freshly murdered traveller! 'Twas the judgment of God. But suppose that the youth whom thou didst execute was really innocent? Who shall dare to say, even then, that Heaven distributes death by way of punishment? What if it were sent as a favour, as a reward?--Once, in the olden times, a God-fearing couple prayed Heaven to bestow its greatest reward upon their twin sons for their filial piety, and next morning they were found dead.--Who knows from what calamity Heaven may have saved him by dealing him that blow? Might he not have grown base and vile had he been spared? Might he not have been plunged in misery and ruin? Might he not have become a murderer or a suicide? Might he not ultimately have come to die on the selfsame scaffold, aye, and deserved it too? Only He is able to answer all these questions before Whom the future lies clear and open. We can only see through a glass darkly; we do not even know when we ought to laugh or when we ought to weep."

The youth removed his hand from the old man's forehead, and, lo! that ugly wrinkle had been smoothed away, and the headsman could raise aloft eyes full of comfort, and folding his hands across his huge heaving breast, he began to stammer softly:

"Our Father...!"

When he had pronounced the "Amen!" the unknown youth raised him tenderly from his knees, and the pale little girl embraced the old man's arm and leaned her head against it.

"Hast thou not always had about thee here Heaven's messenger of mercy?" said the youth, pointing to the fair child. "Has not Heaven sent her to thee without any effort or foreknowledge on thy part, so that even to this day thou canst not tell from whence she came?"

The man tapped his bosom:

"Sir," said he, "read into my heart. You know everything."

The stranger thereupon turned to the little girl and addressed her in a gentle tone which instantly inspired confidence.

"My good little child, go downstairs and tell them to put my horse, which I have left standing outside the gate, under cover, lest it be drenched by the storm."

"I myself will lead it to the stable and give it food and water."

"Thank you, my little girl."

Little Elise sought for something in the wardrobe, and, concealing it in her apron, went out.

The stranger looked after her till she had closed the door behind her. A solemn silence then prevailed in the room, the youth looked at the old man in silence as if he expected him to speak.

In a short time Peter Zudár approached the door and opened it--in the kitchen all was now dark.

"They are asleep now," he muttered, partly speaking to himself, partly addressing his words to the stranger. "The woman has gone to rest, the lad is with the horses, the child will remain in the kitchen, she has something to do there I know. This, my good sir, is the time for us to talk. Outside there is nought but storm and darkness, I cannot let you go further on your way while it is like this."

It was only after much persuasion that the old man consented to sit down beside the youth and began to speak.

"I am an old man, sir, my hoary hair speaks the truth. I have gone through a great deal. My father also was an executioner, and my grandfather before him. I inherited 'the business' so to speak. In my younger years I was wild and frivolous. I loved racket, wine, and boisterous mirth. A sort of heavy indescribable load oppressed my heart continually, a sort of blinding darkness enveloped me which I would gladly have chased away had I only known how. This heavy mental oppression, this black weariness tortured me more and more, according as my sad reminiscences multiplied with my advancing years, and I drank more and more wine, and plunged all the more recklessly into vile debauchery in order that I might not hear all round me those faint sighs and moans which troubled and terrified me most when there was not a sound in my room, and I was all alone. My acquaintances used to laugh at me because I sat all alone drinking silently till far into the night, just as they used to laugh at me afterwards for sitting by myself and singing hymns."

The fellow sighed deeply and was silent for a time, as if he were trying to gather up again the threads of his scattering thoughts.

"You may perhaps have noticed a woman outside there. That is my wife. I married because I fancied that I should thereby find rest for my soul. I imagined how happy I should be if I were to have a child. I should then have something to knit me to life, to the world again. No, I said to myself, he shall not inherit the curse of my abhorred existence. I will choose for him a career in which he will be happy, honoured, and respected. I will provide him with a comfortable maintenance and have him educated far from me and my house. I will make a worthy, honest, sensible man of him. For two years I comforted myself with such visions and was happy. My mind shook off its horrors and became bright and cheerful. And then--then I began drinking heavily again. Evil memories commenced assailing me worse than ever, and my fair hopes abandoned me--for life and death, sir, are both lodged in a woman's heart, and some find the one and some the other. Once more I was visited by that midnight sighing, by that speechless moaning, by those voices that terrified my solitude and pursued me sleeping and waking, and I began to drink and run riot again once more."

The man hid his drooping head in his hands. Even now those dreadful memories weighed him down when he thought upon them.

"Suddenly I began to be deaf. A continuous humming sounded in my ears which kept me in a perpetual whirl. I did not understand a single word unless I looked at the lips of the speaker. I never noticed anyone coming into my room until I suddenly caught sight of him. Oh! deafness is indeed a horrible torture. The deaf man is far more completely shut off from the world than the blind. At first I hid my wretchedness lest they should make sport of me. Nobody is merciful to the deaf. Whenever two people talked to each other in my presence I fancied they were plotting against me. I feared to go to sleep lest I should be murdered without hearing my door burst open. And then, too, in the night, in the darkness, in my lonely deafness, I had an ear all the keener for those sighs and moans which nobody could hear but myself. And in vain I drank, in vain I sang riotously. After every bumper of wine it seemed to me as if I was plunged more and more deeply into a roaring bottomless sea, and at last I could not even hear my own howling. Then my soul died away within me, I cast myself despairingly on my bed, and then for the first time in my life it occurred to me to pray. The only thing I could think of to say was: 'My God! my God!' as I wrung my hands, and the tears ran down my cheeks."

And at these words tears stood once more in the headsman's eyes.

"That night I slept quietly, nothing disturbed me. Thus I slumbered for many hours like one dead, and was only awakened at last by a feeling of moisture all over my face. I had been lying face downwards, and a rush of blood had come through my nose and mouth and wetted my couch. I arose, douched my face in a large tub of water, and felt that my head was very much relieved. I no longer heard that roaring sound as of a deep sea rolling over me; there was no more whispering and moaning around me; but, instead of that, I heard through the deep stillness of the night the crying of a child. The crying of a child in my own house! I fancied it was but a dream-voice--for was I not deaf?--and that instead of a pursuing, the voice of an enticing spectre was now sounding in my ear. But again the crying of a child penetrated to me from the room where my wife usually slept. What could it be? I walked thither, and lo! I could hear the soft pattering of my own footsteps. I must walk more softly, thought I. And I did walk more softly, and then I also heard distinctly the light cracking of the boards beneath my feet. And through it all the weeping of that child sounded continuously. The door was only closed by a bolt. I slipped it softly aside so that not a sound should be heard. Softly I opened the door. And behold! on the table in the middle of the room was a tiny babe. The night-lamp flung a flickering flame across its face, it could not have been more than a couple of months old. It was wrapped up in fine swaddling clothes, a tiny embroidered chemise covered its little body, and its wee round head was covered by a deep cap trimmed with pearls, from underneath which welled forth tiny little ringlets like fine gold thread. Just like those little painted angels of whom you only see the heads peeping out of the sky."

The unknown smiled so sympathetically at the childish simile of the old headsman.

Then Peter Zudár's face again grew clouded, he drew his chair closer to his guest's and thus continued:

"My wife was not in the room. Her bed was empty and I could see through the door, which she had left open behind her, that a large fire was flickering in the kitchen. My wife was busy with something at the hearth and with her was her mother, a sly, wicked old woman, whom all the people hereabouts look upon as a witch. What were they doing there so late at night I asked myself? The younger woman was holding a pan over the fire and the elder was casting into it all sorts of herbs. There was nothing to be afraid of, and yet they were speaking to each other in whispers and peering timorously around. I know not how the thought occurred to me, but I suddenly thrust into my bosom the little suckling lying on the table and carried it off into my own room. There I laid it down upon my bed and put into its hands again its plaything of little bells which it had dropped, whereupon it ceased to cry. Then I returned to watch and see what the two women would do next. The contents of the pan were already frizzling. Now and then it boiled over into the fire and the flames shot up all round it. Then the old woman would skim it carefully with a spoon. And all the time they were muttering together:

"'Are you sure nobody is awake?'

"'No, everyone is asleep.'

"'How about the old Knacker?'

"'He is drunk by this time and so deaf besides that he could not even hear the blast of a trumpet.'

"At last they finished what they were about, poured the mess into a large dish, and the pair of them came back again into the room. And there was I standing in the midst of it! It had the effect upon them of a thunderbolt. The old woman let fall the dish and the young one rushed at me like a maniac:

"'You deaf hog, you! what have you done with the child?'

"'Don't bawl so loudly, my good woman,' I said. 'I can hear you just as well if you speak softly.'

"'What have you done with the child?'

"'Don't be uneasy about it, it is in a safe place.'

"'You old fool, you; you will bring the whole lot of us to ruin. Do you know what you are doing?'

"'I know this much, that however you may have got hold of the child it shall not fall into _your_ hands again. I will take it and care for it myself, and whoever dares to come into my room after it shall have good cause to remember that I am the public executioner!'

"And with that I went into my room and locked it behind me. The women cursed aloud and hammered at my door, and the old witch threatened to undo me in all sorts of ways; but I quietly and comfortably got out my milk-warming machine and heated a mash of breadcrumbs and milk over my spirit lamp. When it was ready I took the little child upon my lap and fed it nicely myself. Then I made a cradle for it out of my coverlet, which I slung upon a beam, and rocked it to sleep, and when I looked at it in the morning it was still slumbering."

After saying these words the headsman took out of a little cabinet a small bundle, carefully wrapped up in paper, and, unwinding it gradually from its manifold wrappings, set out its contents before the stranger.

In the parcel was a dainty little child's smock, a pair of socks, and a baby's cap trimmed with pearls. Everyone of these items was marked with a red "E."

"I keep these things as souvenirs," he continued. "This crisp little smock, this baby's bonnet embroidered with rosebuds and forget-me-nots, are more precious to me than all the treasures of life, for to them I owe the soothing moments which poured balm into my soul. It was by the side of this child, sir, that I learnt to pray. Something whispered to me that this child was sent to me from Heaven. And so it must have been. Nobody under heaven loves me save she, and I love nobody, nothing else in the world. I have never tried to find out who the child might be, nay, rather I have trembled lest she might one day be discovered and demanded back from me. But all these years nobody has inquired after her. I fancy she must have had a bad mother whom they told she was dead, and she was glad to hear it. Perhaps she even wished it to be killed. Ah! sir, there are those born outside the headsman's house who ought to end their lives on the headsman's threshold. Never for one hour's time have I quitted that child. I taught her to walk, to talk, I prepared all her food for her, and now she prepares mine for me. I have eaten no cooked food which her hand has not made ready. While she was still but a wee thing I watched by her bed while she slept, now she watches over me while I sleep. When I go a journey she comes with me, I never leave her behind. Only one thing troubles me when I think of her: What will become of her when I die? what will become of her when she grows up?"

The youth tenderly pressed the old man's hand, and said to him with a voice betraying some emotion:

"Don't be uneasy! Thou hast been a good father to the child, if thou shouldst die I will find a good mother for her. Make a note of this name and address: 'Maria Kamienszka, Lemberg.' Whenever thou dost write to the above address on this subject thou shalt receive an answer with full information. Nay, perhaps thou mayest hear sooner from that quarter than thou desirest."

The old man kissed the youth's hand and stammered some unintelligible words of blessing.

At that moment the door opened, and little Elise came in with two glasses of wine-soup on a platter from the kitchen.

She placed the fragrant steaming drink on the table, spread beneath it a snow-white diaper, and with her sweet gracious voice invited the stranger to partake thereof, as it would warm and comfort him.

The stranger gently stroked her sweet pretty face, kissed her fair head, and touching glasses with his host, emptied his own at one manly gulp.

"And right good it is, my little hostess! It has made quite a man of me."

The old man needed far more pressing. The little girl had to taste it first to put him in the humour for it. It was quite clear that this adopted father ran a great risk of being spoiled.

Peter Zudár's face was now quite bright and cheerful.

"Ah, sir!" said he to the stranger, "I have never felt before as I feel now. My heart feels as light as if no load had ever lain upon it. I feel myself a man. How long will you remain with me? I hope it will be for a long time."

"It cannot be, my worthy fellow, my vocation summons me elsewhere. By the way, hast thou any apprentices or assistants who require spiritual consolations?"

Peter Zudár's face grew dark at these words.

"I have only one 'prentice," said he at last, "and, sir, waste not any words of the Lord upon him--one must not cast bread before dogs."

"Hast thou no other?"

"Not long ago this 'prentice of mine brought a stranger to my house. Early next morning, before I could see him, he escaped through the loft and over the fence, why or whither I know not to this day. This was not the first case of the kind."

"Then my mission to this house is ended," said the stranger, sighing involuntarily. "Accept from me this little Prayer Book as a souvenir; as often as thou dost read it thou wilt find consolation. On its cover is the name of that lady whom thou must not forget."

The old man pressed the little book to his lips and concealed it in his coffer.

"And I, what shall I give, what can I give to you, my spiritual benefactor, and, after God, my regenerator, as a token of my gratitude; what can I give you, I say?"

The stranger hastily replied:

"If I might be so bold as to ask for something, give me the half of thy treasures, the little embroidered baby's cap."

For a moment the headsman was overpowered with astonishment, then he quickly undid once more the little bundle of clothes, drew forth, the pearl-trimmed cap, regarded it steadily, and a tear fell from his eye as he did so, then he kissed it, and handed it to the stranger without a word.

"If thou dost find it so hard to part with it I will not take it."

"Nay, it will be well disposed of," whispered the old man, and he pressed it into the hand of the youth, who thrust the little relic into his bosom.

"And now God be with thee, and go and lie down, for it is late. As for me, I have a long journey to make before daybreak."

The headsman would have gone with him to help him to saddle his horse, but the stranger restrained him.

"I will arouse thy lad," said he, "I have a word for his ear."

"But the watch-dogs are vicious."

"They will do me no harm."

The stranger would not be persuaded. On reaching the kitchen he wrapped himself in his mantle, and after inquiring whereabouts near the stables the 'prentice usually slept, took a lighted lamp in his hand and went forth into the courtyard.

The mastiffs when they beheld him slunk away, growling timidly and uneasily, and only began to bark with all their throats when they found themselves safely behind the house. Those strange eyes had the effect of a spell on man and beast. Meanwhile the headsman could be heard singing within his room the hymn:

"Ere slumber fall upon mine eyes."

The youth hastened towards the night-quarters of the headsman's 'prentice. On the way thither he encountered the young woman. He pinched her ear and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Get along with you, you naughty boy!" said she.

And then the virago sauntered back into the kitchen, leaving her guest to go where he liked.

His quest was an easy one now. He had only to proceed in the direction from whence the woman had come. Ivan feigned to be asleep.

"Hie! my little brother! up! up!" cried the stranger, and tugged at the fellow's hair till he opened his eyes in terror.

"Well! what's the row? what do you want with me?"

"What do I want? I'll very soon let you know, you rascal, get up, I say!"

Ivan made no very great haste to obey.

The stranger wasted no more words upon him but began buffeting him right and left, till his head waggled on his shoulders.

Full of fury Ivan started up from his couch and fell upon his tormentor; but the latter, with serpentine agility, clutched the fellow's throat tightly with his right hand and pressed his head against the wall, while with his left he held a large pistol in front of his nose.

"You dare to move, you rogue, that's all, and I'll spread you out over the wall like a painted picture."

The lad was awed by the unexpected strength of that fist and the threatening proximity of the pistol.

"But, sir, what in heaven's name have I done?" he babbled. "Who are you, and what do you want of me?"

"Who am I, eh? I am a police-sergeant, you rascal. I am pursuing a deserter, whom you have concealed. Come, speak, what have you done with him?"

Ivan had already begun to recover himself a little.

"I'll tell you the truth, I will indeed, only let me go. It is true that I enticed a deserter hither, but it was not to conceal him."

"You did not bring him hither to conceal him, eh? You lie, you dog. Another falsehood, and I'll tie you to my horse's tail and drag you all the way to Dukla. What did you do with him?"

"I'll tell you everything, Mr. Sergeant, I am a man of my word. It is true that I enticed a young gentleman here, at one time I was his lackey. Later on we became soldiers together. I was subsequently discharged because I was growing blind. I am speaking the truth, I was blind then. The young man had confidence in me, and one day, when he saw me in the street at Dukla, he implored me to hide him."

"What were you doing in Galicia?"

"My master sent me to buy horses, but I could not get any fit for us. I am speaking the truth, I assure you I am."

"Do you know why that man deserted?"

"Yes, he shot his captain because of a woman."

"Did you hear the woman's name?"

"I heard it, but I have forgotten it."

"You lie. You know it now. Come, out with it!"

"I'll say it then--Oh! my throat!--the Countess Kamienszka."

"Did you hear it from him?"

"No, it is my own idea, for he wrote her a letter while about to fly and sent me to the post with it, that is what put them on his track, I should think."

"That is none of your business, where is the man now? Don't lie! I shall know if you do, and in that case I will make an end of you at once."

"He is safe enough now, Mr. Officer, I assure you. He escaped before daybreak, but I denounced him, and he was arrested at the house of his own father."

The stranger dashed the fellow's head furiously against the wall, then flung him on the floor and kicked him.

"You denounced him, eh? Oh! you detestable dog!"

"But what is the matter, sir? Why do you strike me again? Surely I did right? I had him arrested, and they locked him up. He is in the pillory already, I daresay. What harm have I done?"

The stranger made an effort to master his passion, and, controlling his rage, answered coldly,

"What harm have you done, you fool! Haven't you made me take all my trouble in vain, and done me out of the promised reward to those who ferret out and hand over deserters. You dare to meddle with my affairs again, that's all!"

Gnashing his teeth, he kept his pistol grasped firmly in his hand; he would very much have liked to have beaten the fellow's shaggy poll about with the butt end of it.

"Go and saddle my horse this instant!"

Ivan was only too delighted to get clear of the narrow little room where he was so close to this dangerous visitor's muscular fists, and went to saddle the horse. While so employed, he could not help reflecting that the nag was just a trifle too good to be bestridden by a secret police-agent.

The stranger did not wait till he was ready, but hurried after him. Then he quickly mounted his horse, and presented something to Ivan.

"Here, take that!"

The fellow dodged his head, thinking he was about to get another buffet. Then the stranger flung a thaler at his feet.

"Take that, you dog, for your trouble. And now open the gate!"

The horse splashed the 'prentice's eyes and mouth full of mud as the stranger galloped away.

At the sound of the rapidly retreating hoofs the headsman thought to himself: "That was Heaven's own gracious messenger." The headsman's young wife, however, sighed: "Ah! that _was_ a gay gentleman." But the 'prentice growled furiously: "It was old Nick himself."

And with that he picked up the thaler, wiped the mud off it, put it in his pocket, and then turned furiously upon the watch-dog and kicked out one of its teeth.

"Take that for not barking!" cried he.

* * * * *

The whole house of Hétfalu was still in mourning. The doctor from town looked in every day. There were two invalids to be seen to. Young Széphalmi was able indeed to go about, but he was like a worm-eaten plant, there seemed to be but little life within him. Old Hétfalusy, on the other hand, had altogether succumbed to his woe, he had taken to his bed, and was frequently tormented by epileptic fits.

The doctor, worthy Mr. Laurence Sarkantyús, regularly every day deposited his round-headed bamboo cane in the doorway, rubbed his short-cropped grey hair all over with his pocket handkerchief for a minute or two, felt the respective pulses, wrote out prescriptions for unguents and syrups; ordered baths, blisters, clysters, and cold douches--and all to no purpose, as both patients seemed to dwindle away more and more day by day. The only really doubtful point seemed to be, which of the two would bury the other?

One day, when Dr. Sarkantyús was superintending the preparation of a hot bath, a light chaise drove into the courtyard of the castle, from which our unknown friend descended, dressed in a stylish black frock coat, and shod with elegant calfskin shoes. His long hair was combed back and smoothed down behind his ears on both sides, and he had an eyeglass cocked knowingly in one eye. Altogether he looked very different from what he was when we last saw him. His characteristic _sang froid_, that peculiar rigidity of the lips, that faint furrow in the middle of the forehead between the eyebrows, and the gravity of the somewhat languid face, made the metamorphosis complete. A savant, a scholar of practical experience, a cosmopolitan physician stands before us.

He inquired for Mr. Széphalmi. The servants at once announced his arrival, and presently a broken-down, prematurely aged man appeared, with sunken cheeks, pale withered lips, and staring eyes starting from their sockets, and with but the ghost of their former brilliance and expressiveness.

After the first greetings the stranger handed him a letter. Széphalmi broke it open and read it with an apology for so doing, and all the time his hands trembled.

The letter was from his friend, Ambrose Ligety, who informed him that the bearer of the letter was a famous physician, who had just come from France, and cured maladies by means of magnetism. Would he allow this doctor to make experiments upon the old squire? He had reason to believe that such experiments would not be thrown away.

Széphalmi sighed deeply, and conducted the stranger into the parlour where he beckoned him to take a seat. As yet they had not exchanged a single word professionally.

Then Széphalmi went into an adjoining chamber, where he encountered Dr. Sarkantyús, and showed him the letter.

Dr. Sarkantyús thereupon told him that his honour, Judge Ligety, was a big donkey, that the French doctor was a still bigger one, but that the old gentleman would be the biggest one of all if he allowed himself to be meddled with. Let them try it, however, by all means, if they choose, he added.

Nevertheless, he could not help going out to have a look at this miraculous _Scarabœus_ that professed to be able to cure men with the tips of its antennæ.

The young man greeted him with refined courtesy, and the Doctor anxious to show him that he understood French, addressed him in what he supposed to be that language, a smattering of which he had picked up as far back as the time of the Emperor Napoleon I.

"Vooz-ate oon medesen, monshoo?"

"Oui, monsieur, mon collègue."

"The Devil is your collègue, I am not!--Vooe-ate oon magnetizoor, monshoo?"

"Oui mon cher bonhomme."

"Zate--oon--sharlatanery, monshoo!"

"Comme toute la médecine, monsieur."

Dr. Sarkantyús put both hands behind his back, measured the young man first from head to foot, and then from foot to head, scratched his own head violently, and retreated precipitately.

And now Széphalmi rejoined the stranger, and begged him to come in and see the invalid.

In the adjoining chamber where old Hétfalusy was lying, the curtains were drawn and the floor was covered with carpets, so that no light and no noise should disturb the sufferer.

On the lofty bed lay a motionless figure, with closed eyes and hands folded across his breast, a motionless, helpless bit of earth, worse off indeed than other bits of earth, because it had the consciousness of existence.

The stranger approached the bed, seized one of the cold bony hands, tested the pulse and laid his hand on the invalid's forehead. It might have been a corpse that lay there. The eyes did not open, the blood scarce seemed to flow through the veins, the respiration was hardly perceptible.

"He lies like that all day long," said Széphalmi to the stranger.

The youth took his rings from his hands, asked for a glass of water, and drew the tips of his fingers first round the rim of the glass and then along the eyeballs and the temples of the old man in a downward direction.

Széphalmi stood beside him with a dubious expression. The young man at once observed it.

"You, sir, are also a sufferer," said he; "my method can cure you also."

Széphalmi smiled bitterly--galvanised corpses may smile in the same way.

"The balm that is to cure me does not exist," said he.

"My method does not depend on material substances. You shall see. In an hour's time you shall have actual experience of my treatment. Your cases are very much alike."

"How so?"

"They are due to the same cause. The hidden seat of the evil in both your cases is the mind, both of you are suffering from terrible bereavements, you have lost your wife and two children, the old man his daughter and two grandchildren."

The sick old man drew a long and deep sigh at these words, but his eyes still remained closed. Széphalmi sat down on a chair beside him, hid his face in his hands, and fell a weeping.

The young unknown continued to draw his fingers softly round the rim of the glass, producing a ghostly sort of low wailing sound.

"The water will become magnetic before long," said he, "and then we shall see."

"Yet," pursued he, "there is an even more evil malady than the sorrow of bereavement, and that is--remorse. You are both troubled by the bitter memories of an irrevocable past. You did not always love your children, your grandchildren, as you do now that they are both dead--and this is the greatest affliction of all."

At these words the sick Hétfalusy opened his eyes and gazed at the speaker in astonishment.

Széphalmi stammered sorrowfully:

"Oh, sir! why do you torture us with these words? They make the poor old man's heart bleed."

"I see. Already he begins to revive. The medicine is a violent one, no doubt, but for that very reason all the more efficacious. Suffering supervenes, and in suffering lies the very crisis of the malady. But a few more drops of this water. So! The reaction will be still more violent presently, as you shall see. The sick man will groan and have convulsions. Cold drops of sweat will exude from his temples. After that, however, he will grow calmer, and the cure will be complete if God help us."

The youth continued to magnetise the water.

"The sick man's greatest pain proceeds from the recollection of those years when first you made the acquaintance of his recently deceased daughter."

"What do you know, sir, of those years?" stammered Széphalmi, much surprised.

"As much as a doctor ought to know whose business it is to cure the hearts of his patients. He strongly opposed the marriage of the girl with you. He was wrong in so doing. True affection when excluded from the right road seeks out secret paths for itself. You discovered for yourselves some such secret path."

"Sir!"

"Hush! The patient is groaning. The cure is operating. These secret relations had consequences which could not be hidden. Your wife became a mother before she was yet your wife. Pardon me, sir, but it is as a doctor that I address you."

"How do you come to know all this?" faltered Széphalmi, in a scarcely audible voice. "And when it was kept so secret too!" he thought to himself. The same instant the old man made a violent effort to rise from his bed and compel the speaker to be silent.

"It is having a strong effect, a very strong effect," said the youth, feeling the sick man's pulse. "His pulse is beating ten strikes more a minute than it did just now. Squire Hétfalusy," he resumed, "on hearing these evil tidings flew into a violent temper; he was always a very passionate man. He told his daughter that if she did not kill her child, he himself would kill the pair of them. He would have married her to someone else, to a rich man of high rank. This unlucky accident must be kept secret. The girl was very miserable. Her brother stood forth in her defence, and took her part against his own father, and his father cursed him in consequence, expelled him from the house, and forbade him ever to show his face there again. And the uninvited guest, the little suckling who had no right to be born, also atoned for its fault; they said that it was dead. Oh, how the sick man is pressing my hand with his cramped fingers! This method of treatment is working wonders."

Széphalmi sank back into the depths of his arm-chair and shivered as if with an ague fit.

"The rich man, however, abandoned the bride on the very day of the wedding, and in that same year the elder Hétfalusy suddenly grew grey. You see, sir, I am well informed. A doctor ought to know every little detail relating to a case if he is to cure the patient. The father was now ready to let his daughter marry her former lover, but you were no longer inclined for such a marriage. One day, however, the girl went to you of her own accord, with the face of a lunatic, and threatened..."

"Hush, sir! for Heaven's sake!"

"Ah! how much more rapidly his blood is circulating. His muscles are twitching, his lips are convulsed, his arteries begin to throb--the girl threatened to reveal the fact that she had killed her child and so mount the scaffold, unless you made her your wife."

The sick man began to throw about his arms, and cold drops of sweat, like transparent pearls, welled forth from his forehead. Széphalmi arose and walked about the room wringing his hands.

"Who told you that?" he asked the stranger, suddenly planting himself right in front of him.

"Softly, sir, you are disturbing me. The patient is about to take a favourable turn, look how he is sweating. His sufferings are violent, and I am glad to see them, it shows that his vital energy is returning. Repose is a symptom of death, pain is a sign of life. Let us go on with our magnetising. These long passes from the temples to the shoulders work wonders. The whole soul of the sick man now clings to the thought that just because he himself cast forth his first grandchild, which he hated, therefore God took from him the other two which he loved. Notice, sir! that heaving bosom, those fiery red eyes, those swelling lips--all of them are in their way the interpreters of that one thought. God has punished him and you, the father and the grandfather; He has removed from you the blessing which you rejected of your own accord, and now you stand by yourselves in the world, so lonely, so comfortless, joined to each other by nothing but the recollection of a terrible loss."

Széphalmi buried his head among the pillows of the speechless invalid and sobbed bitterly.

Then the youth arose and took the old man's hand in his hand, gazed steadily into his burning eyes with his eyes, and with a voice of exaltation thus addressed the unhappy wretch, who seemed to be bearing in his bosom all the torments of Hell:

"Suppose someone were to come here to you now and say, 'Behold! that outcast child, whom you wished to think of as dead, nay, or murdered! whose birth you cursed, and whose death you prayed for, I now give her back to you!'--how would you feel?"

The sick man there and then drew the youth's hand up to his lips, and with an effort raised himself up in his bed. His lips were wide open, his tongue babbled something unintelligible, while Széphalmi regarded him with amazement, and tugged away at his own hair like one possessed.

The youth put his hand into his bosom and drew forth the little baby's cap embroidered with rosebuds and forget-me-nots, and held it up before the two men.

"What if someone were to restore to you the darling wearer of that little cap? What if I were to tell you that a single consolation still remained to you, an angel sent from Heaven in whom you could learn to rejoice once more? What if I were to tell you that she had grown up as gentle and as beautiful as those angels who are permitted to minister to the earth?"

At these words the father knelt down at the stranger's feet and kissed his hands in a transport of joy, while old Hétfalusy, in a sort of paroxysm threw himself off the bed, made a snatch at the little pearl-embroidered cap, and exclaimed in a piercing voice:

"Elise!"

The remedy had indeed been efficacious. The old man was actually sitting up and had recovered the use of his tongue.

The broken-down old man, who had been in a state of collapse, now violently seized the youth's arm with his still tremulous hand, and groped his way along it till he was able to touch the little cap with his lips.

"Elise, Elise, wore that! How beautiful she was!" he cried.

"Where is she?" sobbed Széphalmi, hiding his face in his hands.

"Now she is indeed beautiful. She is in safe hands too. She has found a loving father who guards her as the apple of his eye. And she is wise as well as beautiful. Her glorious eyes are as blue as the expanse of heaven, and radiant with innocence and goodness. Her lips are as small as wild strawberries, and when she smiles her pretty little face is full of dimples."

"Yes, yes, she promised to be like that!" stammered Széphalmi, pressing the stranger's hand to his heart.

But old Hétfalusy was sitting up in bed and insisted upon getting up.

"I am going. I am going for her. Lead me to her. I will fetch her."

"Softly, softly, sir. Lie down again! Remember that I am a doctor, and I have still to cure you. You must continue to lie in bed for some time, and cannot yet see your grandchild. The girl is with folks who love her. Her adopted father is all love, you have been all hatred. You must first be cured of that evil sickness."

"Of what sickness? I am no longer sick. I am quite cured."

"Of hatred. You have a cast-off son who perhaps at this very moment is standing on the threshold of destruction. You have no thought for him. You have still some hard stones in your heart. Those stones must first of all be pulverized and dissolved. Now if this son of yours were standing here, and you were to stretch out your arms to him and say, 'My child!' then you would be cured, then you might very well say, 'I am no longer sick.'"

"And shall I not see my child till then?" wailed Széphalmi.

"Sir, you are very exacting."

"Ask of me what you will, I place all my property at your disposal. If you will not bring my child hither, at least take me where I may see her. You need not tell her I am her father, I only want to exchange a word or two with her. Whatever price you may put on such a service I shall not consider it too great."

"Sir, I am no impostor who wants to make money out of you. The only recompense I claim for restoring to you your lost child is that you welcome back the youth who was driven from this home. I have odd desires sometimes, but I stick to them."

The young man shrugged his shoulders, refolded the little pearl-trimmed cap, thrust it into his bosom again, and coldly replied:

"And if we cannot save this young man?"

"Then I shall keep my secret and you will never know where the girl is."

Old Hétfalusy sighed deeply.

"Bring me pen and paper," said he to his son-in-law.

The latter looked at him as if he did not understand.

The old man insisted impatiently.

"Place the table here and give me writing-materials, I say."

When he had got what he wanted he beckoned to the stranger.

"Listen, sir, to what I write," said he. Then he arose from his bed, took up the pen, and wrote with a trembling hand the following letter:

"TO GENERAL VÉRTESSY,

"SIR,--By a divine miracle I have recovered within the last hour my power of speech, and the use of my fingers. The very first word I am able to speak and to write I address to you who have such good cause to hate me, and that word is--mercy! I ask of you mercy towards that son of mine to whom I myself have never shown mercy. I ask for mercy from you who in your judicial capacity have never shown mercy to anyone. You know full well that all the faults of this child of mine are due entirely to me. You know that my cruelty has made life a wilderness to him and filled him with cynical bitterness--he who was always so tender-hearted that even an angry look was pain to him. Behold, sir! the one man who could venture to insult you with impunity now lies in the dust before you, and begs for your compassion. And in order that such compassion may not appear as rust on your iron character, show this letter to the world and say: 'My mortal enemy has wept before me in the dust in order that I might condescend to stoop down and raise him up.' Your humbled, eternally faithful servant,

"BENJAMIN HÉTFALUSY."

"Would you look at this letter, sir?" asked the old man, turning towards the stranger--and there were tears in his eyes.

"I thank you," faltered the stranger, and he himself hastened to fold up the letter and seal it.

"Széphalmi will deliver it."

"Nay, sir, I will see to that myself."

"_You_ will? But who, then, are you?"

"That I will tell you--perhaps--some day."

The old man took the youth's hand in both his, and pressing them warmly, said in a voice that trembled with emotion:

"God help you!"

At that moment Dr. Sarkantyús peeped in at the door, and was amazed to see the old man talking and writing the address on a letter with his own right hand, while his whole countenance was warm with feeling. This magnetic cure was truly marvellous.

He approached the youth and, bowing respectfully, remarked,

"Mossoo! vooz ate oon anshantoor!"

"Possibly, but why should we not speak Hungarian?" replied the other smiling.

"Then you are not French?" asked the dumfounded doctor.

"Why should I be? It does not follow because a person may have just come from France that therefore he is a Frenchman, does it?"

"All the better pleased, I am sure, my dear colleague!"--and then it suddenly occurred to him that only a short time ago he had said to him in Hungarian: "The Devil may be your colleague, I'm not!"

"All you have to do now is to give the patient tonics; that won't interfere with my cure. I shall come back again in a few days, and by that time I hope he will be quite strong. Till then, let us trust in God!"

The young unknown then hastened to his carriage, Széphalmi accompanying him the whole way.

Everyone who had recently seen the old man apparently on the verge of the grave, and now beheld him completely changed, going about with a lively irritable temper and rosy cheeks, were amazed at this wonder-doctor who could perform cures by the mere touch of his finger-tips.

"He must be a magician!" said they.

* * * * *

The unknown next presented himself at the residence of General Vértessy.

They told him this was not the official hour for being received; at such times the General was wont to be with his wife. He replied:

"So much the better; what I have to tell him will be better told in the presence of his wife."

The General was informed of this odd wish, and took to the idea so kindly that he ordered the young man to be instantly admitted.

And, in a few moments, a handsome, courtly youth stood before him, who greeted the General frankly and the General's wife ceremoniously. In his hands he carried a small forage-cap with a border of thin gold thread round it, and his whole style and bearing testified to the fact that, somewhere or other, he had been brought up as a soldier.

"I beg your pardon, General, for disturbing you so unconscionably, and robbing you of your most precious moments, but the business on which I have come admits of no delay. My name is Count Kamienszky, I come from Poland, and I bring a petition in favour of young Hétfalusy, who deserted in the belief that he had shot his captain."

The General's face grew suddenly cold. He had become a cast-iron statue, just as he was wont to be when on parade.

"From whom is your petition?"

"From the very officer for whom his bullet was intended. That bullet did not strike home, but stuck fast in his laced jacket; yet it was well aimed too at thirty paces, just in the middle of the heart."

"And what does the officer want?"

"Pardon for the deserter. He admits that he was in the wrong. He insulted a woman--I speak with absolute certainty, for I am that woman's relation--and he would now make good his fault by imploring pardon for the man who stood forth to wipe out that insult."

"To implore pardon is not enough. What can he say in the man's defence?"

"He certifies that the youth was a pattern of soldierly honour, valour, and discipline, that his comrades idolized him, his superiors liked him, and they now unanimously unite in this petition for his pardon. I have brought letters with me to prove all that I say; be so good as to peruse them!"

The General took the letters and read them through. He discovered more than one old comrade, more than one dear friend among the names written there. The young man had spoken the truth. But what was the use of it all. The claims of duty only became the more urgent.

"Sir," said the General coldly, folding up the letters again and placing them on the table, "I gather from your manner and bearing that you were brought up as a soldier."

"You are right, General. I passed the years of my childhood at a military institution, and a little time ago I was a soldier myself."

"In that case you must have some notion of the absolute necessity of the strictest discipline so long as the soldier is under arms."

"I am well aware of it, and it was not that which made me abandon a military career. If he whom I am now addressing were to say to me, 'I stand here as a judge,' I should simply withdraw, knowing that my cause was lost. But, sir, I am now addressing the man that is in you, a man with a heart, a being blessed with human feeling, 'tis to him that I would speak."

And the large black eyes of the stranger had such a heart-searching expression in them that the General turned away from him.

Then, as if still in search of hope and confidence, the youth glanced in the direction of the General's wife, and her bright eyes gave him in return such a look of encouragement, as if to bid him not to fear, for they two were certainly at one in the matter.

But now the General turned sharply round upon the stranger again.

"Do you know what I am commonly called, whether from fear, or fun, or respect, I will not say, that is all one to me, but do you know what they commonly call me?"

"Yes, they call you 'the man of iron,' yet even iron melts in a smelting-furnace."

"Do you fancy there in such a smelting-furnace in the world?"

"I hope so. I have got one more letter for you. I ought to have given it to you first of all, but I have kept it till last. The handwriting will be familiar to you. Take it and read it through."

The General was dumfounded when he recognised the handwriting in which the address was written. The hand which had penned those lines had been somewhat tremulous, that was plain from the irregularity of the script, but he recognised it perfectly all the same.

As he regarded it he grew a shade paler.

He opened the letter, and his eyes remained riveted on the very first line as if he were too astonished to proceed any further.

"Read on, General, I beg. Read it out aloud," murmured the youth; "we shall see whether the iron will melt or not."

The General stared stiffly for a time at the young man, then he read the letter through in silence, finally refolding it and thrusting it into his breast-pocket.

Then he turned to the window, and remained for a long time in a brown study.

Suddenly he turned once more towards the youth and said:

"Sir, devise some means whereby I may save this man. Find, I say, some way or mode of salvation compatible with soldierly honour, and I will pursue it."

The youth, surprised, overcome, rushed towards the General, seized his muscular hand, and would certainly have kissed it had not the General drawn it back.

Vértessy was very near losing his composure.

"Stay here!" said he. "There you have," pointing at Cornelia, "a confederate who would also take the stronghold by assault. Deliberate together, and devise some expedient. I leave you to yourselves."

And with that he quitted the room, leaving the young man alone with his wife.

And when he had gone, when the door had closed to behind him, the figure of the strange youth lost its soldierly bearing, and his limbs with a painful spasm subsided into that picturesque pose in which artists generally represent Niobe, or the Daughters of Sion mourning by the willows of Babylon. Every trace of energy and vigour vanished from his face, his eyelids closed over his tearful eyes, and his lips parted with an expression of the deepest emotion. Once more he raised his languishing head to show his strength of mind, but the effort was useless. In the presence of a woman such affectation was no longer possible, and when his eyes met those of Cornelia, he suddenly burst into tears, fell sobbing on his knees before her, seized her hand, pressed it convulsively to his breast, and trembling and gasping, said to her in a voice full of agony:

"Oh, madame, by the tender mercies of God, I implore you to help me and not forsake me."

Cornelia regarded him with wondering eyes, her shrewd intellect had already deciphered the enigma, but her eyes still looked doubtful.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The stranger covered his blushing face with both hands and sobbed forth:

"A woman, an unhappy woman, who loves, who is beside herself, who is ready to die for him she loves." _

Read next: Chapter 9. The Plague

Read previous: Chapter 7. A Man Of Iron

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