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The Day of Wrath, a novel by Maurus Jokai |
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Chapter 17. The Voice Of The Lord |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. THE VOICE OF THE LORD During the blasphemous speech of the frantic virago nobody had observed that Peter Zudár had reached the courtyard of the castle. In the darkness and prevailing confusion he had been able to creep up to the wretched woman unobserved. He had heard to the end her furious outburst, her horrible menace. He had seen the convulsions of the stony-hearted squire in the midst of his fetters, he had seen the tender child collapse beneath the touch of the horrible virago, and he had fulfilled his mission. The people, who in that awful moment had seen his bright sword flash forth like Heaven's lightning, who had seen the monstrously mutilated body of the woman totter in their midst, and spurt blood on all the bystanders, who had seen the awe-inspiring figure of the headsman close to them all, him whom they had fancied dead and buried, him whom their own eyes had seen burnt to ashes--all these people stood for a moment as if turned to stone, as if their souls had left their bodies. This brief interval of petrified astonishment was sufficient for Peter Zudár to snatch up the sorrowing child with one hand, while with the other he whirled his bloody sword above his head, and opened a way for himself to the gate. Then, when the rioters saw him escaping, they came to themselves again. "After him!" cried Hanák, catching hold of his scythe. "After him!" roared the Leather-bell, grasping a torch, and bounding on in front, and so skilfully did he scatter the sparks in the eyes of the pursuers, that their dazzled eyes could see absolutely nothing. When, at last, he came to a narrow bridge over a stream which they had to cross, he stumbled so suddenly that those coming immediately behind tumbled over him, and the torch was extinguished in the water. Zudár, meanwhile, had had time to conceal himself and the girl in the bushes on the banks of the stream. Nobody had observed him except the Leather-bell, and as soon as that worthy could gain his legs again he fell a-bellowing with all his might: "On, on! there he goes! catch him, seize him!" And off he went at full tilt, as if a high price had been set upon the head of the pursued, and he was determined to win it, whilst Zudár, snug in his hiding-place, listened to the hundreds and hundreds of pattering feet that made the bridge creak over his head, and to the hundreds and hundreds of hoarse voices clamouring for his blood. Presently he heard them all come panting back again, cursing and swearing and consoling one another with the assurance that although they had not caught him now, he would not be able to escape them for long. "Yes," he thought to himself, "a time is coming when you will find me without having sought me." And now the pursuing band, full of fresh fury, stormed back to the castle. The Leather-bell cursed them for not following up the trail when they were already hot upon it. He had had, he maintained, the tail of the fugitive's coat in his very hand, but had been obliged to leave go because they had not helped him to hold on, and so the headsman had fled away among the maize-fields. The sky was now growing grey, the dawn was not far off; but the folks had forgotten to ring in the morning, for the bell-ringers had something better to do. At Thomas Bodza's command they carried the corpses aside out of the courtyard, the corpses of Ivan, Dame Zudár, and poor Mekipiros. They conveyed them to a large ditch at the back of the house, so that none might see their remains. The surviving ringleader felt a secret satisfaction when his colleagues had thus perished by his side. He alone remained upon the field, and he flattered himself that Fate was on his side, and by thus putting the leading threads of the whole movement into his hands, meant to emphasize the fact that _mind_ was the true motive-power--his own mind naturally--and therefore it was for him, and him alone, to hold sway. The mob must be impressed, of course, by some great never-to-be-forgotten scene, which would give a touch of sublimity to its hitherto low and common rioting. So Thomas Bodza ascended to the highest step of the castle staircase, from whence he declared to the mob that as the champions of justice they had prevailed. "And now," continued he, "we will pronounce judgment on the poison-mixers according to the good old Greek custom. Let the people take potsherds in their hands. In front of the hall stand two urns. In one is life, in the other death. Let each one of you cast his vote into which urn he pleases. This, my friends, is the ostracism of classical times. You are the archons who shall give judgment, and the whole world will thus see that we exercise according to law and order the authority which we have won with our arms. Sit around me, therefore, oh, citizens, and let the accused be brought forth!" The gaping mob was delighted with this new diversion. Hitherto the only occasion on which they had had an opportunity of seeing a court of justice was when they had been led in chains, for some crime or other, before the green table of the district court, where great gentlemen pronounced sentences upon them out of big thick books. And now one of these very great gentlemen was, in his turn, to stand before a tribunal, and the tribunal consisted of nothing but peasants, whose hair had never been clipped, who had never worn linen, who could neither read nor write, and yet who now had the power of passing upon him whatever sentence they chose. So they all applauded Bodza's proposition loudly, whilst he himself, with an air of ineffable importance, sat down on the topmost step of the staircase, and beckoned to his subordinates to lead forth the old squire. He gave very little trouble, it was not even necessary to fetter him, for the moment he was untied from the doorpost he simply collapsed and remained lying where he had fallen. Then they put him on an ambulance car, and thus conveyed him before the Areopagus. One worthy peasant had compassion on the old man lying there in his shirt exposed to the cold morning air, and covered him with his _guba_[20] yet this very man voted for his death a few moments later. [Footnote 20: A shaggy woollen mantle worn by the Hungarian peasants.] Meanwhile, stubbly Hanák had placed behind the old man's back a gipsy brickmaker to keep an eye on him, and touch him up with a whip if he refused to confess. Thomas Bodza now produced the box of bismuth that had been found in the castle, and, cautiously opening it, placed it in front of the old squire. "You old sinner," said he, "answer my questions truly. Why did they send you so much poison?" The old gentleman remained silent. The gipsy savagely belaboured his dove-white head with the heavy whip. At the sound of the blows, an angry voice suddenly resounded from behind the master's back. "Hold hard, hold hard! you blockheads, you brutes, you stupid numbskulls!" Bodza, in his terror, sprang from his seat, and the astonished multitude beheld Dr. Sarkantyús running hastily towards them along the hall. The worthy man had been well concealed with young Széphalmi in a blind niche, in the chimney corner, whence he had listened to the whole horrible tragedy; but when it came to accusing someone of poisoning people with _his_ drugs, he could stand it no longer, but kicked open the tapestried door, and rushed out among the rioters. Young Széphalmi swooned with terror when his hiding-place was discovered, so that they had to drag him out by the feet. The unexpected joy of laying hands upon a couple of fresh victims whom they had long sought in vain, whetted the appetite of the mob for more blood. They kept pummelling Széphalmi till he came to again, and tied the physician back to back with Hétfalusy. Throughout the whole tussle Dr. Sarkantyús never ceased blackguarding the rioters for their imbecile suspicion of medical science, and tried to explain to Thomas Bodza how very much in error he was as to the contents of the box. Only Széphalmi displayed an utter want of dignity. He wept, he implored, he fell on his knees, and promised to confess everything if only they would not hurt him, if only they would not kill him. _He_ was not guilty, he said, and he cursed the doctor for bringing all this mischief on the house with his abominable drugs and betraying their hiding-place so madly. "Mr. Széphalmi," retorted Dr. Sarkantyús, "all my life long I have taken you for a poor creature, and in that belief I shall for ever remain. If you could remain quietly in your hiding-place when they were talking of your only daughter, if you could hold your breath and your ears and tremble in every limb when they were torturing your father-in-law--well, that's your look out. As for me, if only I can unmask a downright lie, I am quite content to look death itself between the eyes immediately after. Ever since you fainted at the prick of a leech, and were not ashamed to burst into tears when I cut out one of your warts, I knew you to be a coward. Yes, a coward you are, and a very poor creature to boot; but whatever else I am, I am not that. Twice have I broken the bone of my own leg because it was improperly set, and I am ready to have my neck broken into the bargain if only I may bear witness to the truth. Those, sir, are my sentiments. And now is there anybody here with whom a man can talk common-sense?" Bound and helpless as he was, the doctor still seemed to have made some impression on the mob. Thomas Bodza, therefore, hastened to cut him short. "Then you maintain," he began, "that the gentry have _not_ poisoned the peasants?" "A man must be mad to even ask such a question." "Then why are so many people now dying all over the kingdom?" "Because of their sins. They are dying of a terrible plague which is in the air, in the earth, in the very meat and drink which God has given us, in the heat of the day, and in the chill of night--a plague which is no respecter of persons, but slays lord and serf, rich and poor alike; which will visit you, too, if not to-day then to-morrow, which will destroy a tenth part of your households, which will search you out wherever you are, in the forest, in the fields, within your cottages, though you were to slay instantly every gentleman in the county. You will, therefore, do well to untie my hands, and let me distribute amongst you the blessed antidote, by means of which, with God's assistance, we may be able to prevent this terrible calamity." Thomas Bodza felt something of the paralysis of extreme terror when he saw the impression made by these words upon the mob, which evidently already began to waver. So he hastily threw himself into the attitude of a Roman statue, and exclaimed with a loud voice: "Doctor! I tell you you are lying. Let nobody touch that white powder, for there is death in it. If you maintain that this powder is not poison, take some yourself!" This proposal met with universal approbation. "Yes, yes! let him swallow some of the stuff he has brought if it is not poison." The doctor did not at all relish the idea of taking his own drugs, but he was careful not to betray his dislike, for he was in a decidedly ticklish position. "Death comes from above," he calmly observed to the master. "Medicaments are no food for a healthy man, but, all the same, I will willingly take some of that bismuth powder to convince you all of the truth of my statement." Then Thomas Bodza proceeded to pour a paper full of the stuff down the throat of the pinioned doctor. The bystanders thronged around and gaped curiously at him, expecting every moment to see him drop down dead. "Look how green his face is!" said Bodza, working with evil intent on the excited imagination of the mob. "Look how his eyes are staring, and how ghastly pale he is!" "It is not _my_ eyes that are staring, my worthy master, but your own," replied the doctor calmly. "Your face is pale, you are trembling. I tell you death comes from above and not from my powders." Thomas Bodza felt so dizzy that he had to clutch hold of the arm of shaggy Hanák, who was standing by his side. Quite early that very morning he had felt a sort of numbing paralysis in all his limbs, a sort of griping cramp convulsing his inner parts, and an unspeakable fear had arisen within his soul, but the feeling had passed over, and he had put the thought of it away from him. And now, again, that panic fear, which has no name, but beneath whose influence the bravest of men become pale, shaking spectres, overcame him, and he felt like one who is sensible of the approach of that one enemy against whom there is no defence. The physician was the first to detect in the face of his tormentor that terrible phenomenon, _facies Hypocratica_, and when he said to him: "Your face is deathly pale," he as irrecoverably plunged him into the grave that was gaping open for him, as if he had plunged a knife into his heart. The horror-stricken rioters gazed at their master who, for some moments, stood gaping at them with a terribly distorted face. There were two coloured rings round his glassy eyes, his cheeks had fallen in, his lips were turning yellow, the whole man seemed to be a hideous personification of mortal dread. Then, suddenly with a loud yell, he rolled down the steps, and collapsing with hideous convulsions at the doctor's feet, yelled in the midst of his racking torments: "God of mercy, have compassion upon me! ... Doctor, help me! I am dying!" _ |
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