Everything now wore a different aspect. He could read in the looks and salutations of all whom he met what they thought of him. A smile was a sign of compa.s.sion; a mere nod, a token of ill-will. He stopped to speak to every one, even to very slight acquaintances, even to those whom he had hitherto looked down upon or had never regarded at all. He even condescended to question them. In the hour of misfortune it is wonderful how a man recollects all his acquaintances. At such a time he who once haughtily rejected the hand of friendship is ready to meet his very enemy half-way.
Suddenly he perceived an open carriage coming towards him from Torda, and in it sat a man wrapped up in a grey cloak, in whom, as he pa.s.sed, Banfi recognized Martin Kuncz, the Unitarian bishop; he called to him to stop for a moment. The bishop, not hearing him for the clatter of the wheels, simply doffed his hat and drove on. Banfi thought he did it on purpose, and took it for a very bad omen. He who ordinarily treated all danger so lightly, now recoiled before the veriest bugbears. He stopped his carriage, and taking horse bade his coachman drive on to Torda and await him there. In the meantime he galloped after the bishop"s carriage, whereupon the bishop, catching sight of him, stopped and awaited the magnate, who cried to him from a distance--
"So you will not answer when I speak to you, eh?"
"I am at your lordship"s command. I did not know that you wished to speak to me."
"You know my situation, I suppose? What do you think of it? What ought I to do?"
"In such a case, my lord, it is as difficult to give advice as to take it."
"I have resolved to appear to the citation."
"Really, my lord?"
"I have nothing to fear. I feel that my cause is just."
"No doubt; but it does not follow that you will get justice because your cause is just. In this world anything is possible."
Banfi understood the allusion. He had formerly said the very same words to the bishop, and now he had not even sufficient strength of mind to leave him and go on his way defiantly; on the contrary, he dallied with him for some time longer.
"The Prince indeed is my enemy; but the Princess has always defended me, and I have every confidence in her Highness."
"Yes; but unfortunately the Prince has quarrelled with his consort. They say that he even forbids her to enter his apartments."
This answer seemed to quite confound Banfi; but he had still one hope left.
"I don"t believe they"d dare to do me mischief, for they know that at Klausenburg and Somlyo I have armies in battle array which can call them to account at any moment."
"Oh, my lord, it is difficult to direct an army from the walls of a prison, and you know very well that a live dog is stronger than a dead lion."
These words seemed to produce a great change in Banfi. For a time he moodily rode by Kuncz"s carriage; then, after a long pause, he replied in a very low voice--"You are right," gave his horse the spur, and rode back to Klausenburg with the firm resolve of not allowing himself to be enticed from his stronghold.
On reaching the spot where scarcely six hours before he had restrained the enthusiastic ardour of his troops, he was much surprised to find a band of gipsies apparently searching for something on the ground.
"What are you doing here?" cried he, as he came up to them.
At this question their leader came forward, and recognizing Banfi, humbly doffed his cap.
"Verily, your Excellency, the gipsies have come hither to collect the cartridges which the brave and n.o.ble gentlemen have scattered about here."
"But where then are the gentlemen?"
"Gone, your Excellency."
"But why, and whither?"
"The moment they heard your lordship had quitted Klausenburg--whew!--they dispersed in all directions."
"And Michael Angel?"
"He was the first to depart."
Banfi felt sick and dizzy. The tears rushed to his eyes. To be so abandoned by every one, by Fate, by his fellow-men, and even by his own self-confidence! What now remained of all his former might? Whither should he turn? What should he devise? Every way was closed against him.
Neither with the sword of justice nor with the sword of battle could he fight. There was no hope and no refuge.
His horse carried him whither it would. The magnate sat upon it with a darkened face, staring blankly at the clouds or on the ground. The earth, the sky, and his own heart--everything within him and around him was dark and desolate. Hitherto his soul had been so full of pride that there was no room for anything else, and now all his pride was gone, and had left a hideous blank behind it. On, on he went; but it was his horse that chose the road. Vast forests lay before him, and he thought--What lies beyond those forests? Lofty hills. And what beyond the hills? Still higher hills. And what then? The snowy peaks. And nowhere was there any refuge or shelter for him! So at the very first stroke every one had fallen away from him, and he who only the day before had ruled over the half of Transylvania, and held fortresses at his disposal, cannot even find a hut to shelter him from the night. Or shall he give himself up to the derision of his enemies, and not even have the poor satisfaction of meeting death with front erect and a smiling countenance? Shall he perish ign.o.bly like a hunted beast? He fell a-thinking. If die he must, he would at least die like a man. But how?
Gradually a thought began to dawn in his benighted soul, and with that thought the colour returned to his cheeks. Slowly he raised his head, and this secret thought ripening into a quick resolution, it was as though a voice within him cried--"Yes! Thither! thither!" His eyes began to sparkle, he turned his horse"s head towards the forest, and disappeared beneath the thick foliage.
The tempest is raging. The storm snaps the trees. The rain patters down, and the swollen torrents roar. From time to time fitful lightning flashes illumine the whole region, and snowy mountain peaks grow dark and the black sky gleams white--and again the sky darkens and the snowy peaks shine forth.
The scanty patches of brushwood clinging to the bald rocks are rudely torn and shaken by the hurricane, and the distant pine forests roar like the last trump. Every beast crouches trembling in its den and listens to the storm.
Lofty, inaccessibly steep rocks shut out the horizon, and far, far down in the vale below, like a toiling ant, we see a horseman struggling through the pathless wilderness.
G.o.d be merciful to him in such a night in such a place!
It is the Devil"s Garden!
A gorgeous oriental chamber opens out before us. Round about the walls gleam hundreds of torches; but the ceiling is so lofty that it is invisible, the light of the torches never reaches it. Two rows of columns support the gigantic architrave, slender columns with capitals in the shape of beasts" heads, as we are wont to see them in ancient Persian temples. Splendid curtains fill up the interstices of the columns. Moorish arabesques adorn the walls; the arched portals are ablaze with gold and malachite. In the centre of the room a lofty red velvet couch rests on four gold griffins with amethyst eyes. In front of the couch is a little ivory table, supported by intertwining silver snakes, and beside the table a golden censer exhales light-blue fragrant clouds of ambergris and aloes. On the couch reclines a sylph-like girl with languishing and yet ardent eyes. A string of pearls, dependent from her neck, draws her light tunic up to her bosom. Her slender form is girdled round the hips by a gorgeous oriental shawl. Her black locks are held together by a golden fillet, which encircles her brows, and the huge diamond clasp of this fillet flashes its myriad blinding rays amidst her dark tresses, like a rainbow condensed into a star gleaming through darkest night.
The girl is alone. Everything around her is motionless. We seem to be in an enchanted fairy palace. Nowhere a sound, a movement.
Who would ever have thought of finding such a magic chamber in the bowels of the earth, six hundred feet within the solid rock, on the surface of which the storm is worrying the hardy shrubs and trees?
It is the crypt of the Devil"s Garden, and the woman, sylph or demon, who inhabits it is Azrael.
How can this woman live here so lonely, so far from everything human?
And yet, why not? She is a whole world, a h.e.l.l, to herself. Within the resounding walls of the populous harem she felt herself lonely, and she peoples this vast vault with the creations of her own wild fancy. Here she shapes the future, forms endless plans, dreams of battles, of intoxicating love, of more than earthly might, of new realms of which she is the Queen, the Sun surrounded by her starry train.
Suddenly a light trampling is heard overhead, as if some one were riding over the vaulted roof. Azrael arises and listens. The sound of footsteps is audible in the corridors, and presently three familiar, measured knocks are heard at the doors.
""Tis he!" she whispers; springs from her couch, hastens to the door, draws back the heavy bolts, tears the door violently open, and falls into the arms of him who enters.
"At last! at last!" she murmurs, twining her arms round the man"s neck and pressing her cheeks to his lips.
The man is Denis Banfi.
Sad, speechless, broken as he never was before, he does not even greet the girl as he enters. He seems to freeze, all his limbs are trembling.
He has left his tiger-skin outside, but the drenching rain has soaked him through and through.
"Thou art wet to the skin," says the girl. "Quick! warm thyself. Thou hast come from afar. Thou dost need repose," and dragging Banfi to her couch, she took off his dolman, covered him with her own costly ermine mantle, placed under his feet soft velvet cushions, which she first warmed over the steaming censer, and pressing the man"s frozen hands to her throbbing bosom, warmed them there.