Opposite the Madocsany Castle gleams forth the Mitosin. Its four towers are covered with tin, and when the setting sun shines on them, all four blaze like sheaves of fire. They are round and dome-topped in Russian style. There is still a fifth tower that would gladly show itself above the silver poplars; this one runs up into a spire and cross, while the others end in a star. What the tower with the cross could find inside the inclosure of the Mitosin Castle, where neither its former lords, the Hussite Knights, nor its present lord, a Lutheran magnate, were of the Catholic faith—this is explained by a curious history that one can learn piecemeal; here and there a fragment is kept back, and only at the very close is the whole truth known. Now one can fully believe that the little church was built in honor of Saint Anthony, though in reality a Hussite church. The purpose of this was to conceal from the Count Von Treuesin, or from Count Von Tipsen, that the builders were Hussites, by pointing to the church with its cross and picture as Roman Catholic. The present lord of the castle, Grazian Likovay, had inherited his estate from his mother, Susanna Szuhoy, a zealous Catholic, who had left this to her son on condition that the church of Mitosin Castle should always be maintained in its present condition: and a legacy had been deposited with the neighboring Dean of Tepla, to insure the reading of mass once a week in this church, whether there was anybody present or not. The lord of the castle was enjoined to maintain the church in good condition, not to coin its bell into counterfeit money, and to allow the sacristan of Tepla to ring the bell at the customary hours; furthermore, he was not to appropriate the church to the Lutherans. If he opposed these conditions, Mitosin with all its appurtenances, was to go to the public treasury. Had the pious lady ever seen the interior of this church, she would not have left this legacy, which was of no use whatever; for while there was a bell in the tower, there was no rope; and there was neither ladder, stairs, nor any other way of reaching the bell. And even if it had been rung by the hour, no honest Christian would have entered the church, on account of the altar picture. Whoever made that had not taken into consideration the temper of these people, or else had purposely set it aside. From an artistic point of view, the picture was a masterpiece. It represented the Temptation of Saint Anthony in the Wilderness, and had been painted by an Italian master.

The ascetic was the true ideal of a holy hermit who withstands all the temptations and seductions of Hell; yet the people of this vicinity could not enjoy the monsters from Hell in such frightful forms as can be conjured up only in the fancy of a melancholy painter. But apart from these terrifying monsters, the temptress, in whose form Satan surprises the pious hermit, had been painted with such striking boldness that at the first sight of the same from the threshold of the door, every good Christian would turn and run. Such may pass in Italy, but in our mountainous highland it is too cold for such a garb, so that even the priest himself took no pleasure in reading the liturgy in the presence of such an altar-picture. If, however, in spite of everything, any one could take pleasure in saying his prayers in this church, if an innocent soul could be found that took exceptions to nothing, that saw only what was godly in this church, and was not conscious of the painted devil, either in the form of a monster or of a beautiful woman; for any such provision was made.

Now you must know that there was just such an innocent creature in Mitosin Castle. The Lord's daughter, Magdalene, was the only Papist in the whole house, yes, in the whole village. According to the Hungarian laws, the children of a Protestant father and a Papist mother were divided for the Heavenly Kingdom as follows,—the sons followed the religion of their father, and the daughters of their mother. If anybody made objections, a terrible storm fell upon his head. The Lord of Mitosin was a stiff-necked Protestant, who persecuted priest and monk in every possible way. He would not allow his daughter to bring a Catholic prayer-book or a rosary into the house. If anybody wished to pray, he could do it in the church; it was not far away. From the rear gate of the castle straight to the church ran a beautiful path bordered by poplars a hundred years old; only a beautiful grove separated church from castle; and yet the way from the castle door to the church door was so luxuriantly overgrown with grass that it could have been mown; for the space between church and castle was the bear-den.

Grazian Likovay owned two great overgrown bears, for which he had had pits dug in the garden, and there they could roam freely; their growls came up over the walls. Now you can understand why the way to the church was grown with grass,—no one would go to church who did not want to meet those monsters. When the watchman of the tower blew his evening horn, a window on the balcony would open, and a whistle blow from within, then would come forth with much noise the two bears. The thicket of the poplar-grove opened before them as they made their way straight through; a hoarse, rasping voice would call them by name, and some one would throw a bloody bone from the window; as soon as they had finished that, would follow a whole quarter of mutton; the two bears were twins, a division of the meat must be made, and so there would be a quarrel. When all had been devoured, neither one felt that he had had his share, and so they kept on quarrelling the whole night through; but the window was closed, and garden, church and beasts left to themselves.

Gradually as darkness fell, the nightly mists rose from the river; no light was to be seen, yet night after night a girl's figure slipped out by the door leading into the garden, and glided along like the vision of a dream. A long white mantle covered her slender form, and a black veil was over her head; she looked about, shuddered and stepped out into the darkness; she came alone without a lantern; her step did not betray her, for the grass was thick, but her white robe showed her figure. With a loud growl, both black monsters plunged at her, and their white teeth and blazing eyes shone out of the thicket. The maiden uttered no cry, but right and left threw something from her apron; it was honey-cakes, tid-bits for the bears. With a joyous growl they fell upon their honey-cakes; meanwhile the maiden slipped away over the grass to the church door, and before the beasts could plunge after her, she had closed the door behind her. The bears now began to strike against the heavy iron-bound door with their paws; they climbed up the posts and snuffled and finally dropped down, one on one side, the other on the other, licking their paws and listening for every rustle that came from the church.

What could this white vision do in the church in the darkness, alone, and, at night?

Herr Grazian had received many guests to-day. It was a memorial with him; the anniversary of the death of his only son, Casimir. This was the third anniversary. At the funeral feast, Grazian had informed his good friends, boon companions, clergy, scholars, singers, and buffoons, that every year this festival of mourning would be celebrated in Mitosin Castle, just as when the bier still stood in the hall, and the comrades came one by one to offer the dead a beaker and then drink the same to his happy resurrection; for mourning mingles in Hungary's rejoicings, so that one may mourn joyously.

"Now you can go pray for the soul of your brother," growled Grazian to Magdalene, as he closed the window after feeding the bears.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, and limped with the gout; his face was copper-colored, and his eyes were dark set, with bloated lids, and eyebrows bushy as his beard; his head was close shaven behind in Turkish fashion, and he wore a cap night and day, and over his brow hung a braided lock of hair. The hide of his bull-neck rose above his stiff collar; his fat chin covered his neckerchief, tied in a knot; he wore his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and his shirt-sleeves fastened at the wrist. He cared little for outward appearance. He wanted his clasps of gold, but it did not matter if the stuff did shine with grease, or the trimming was moth-eaten. From his broad Turkish girdle no sword hung, but behind was stuck a battle hammer, and above his boot-tops appeared a knife-hilt, studded with turquoises. In all his motions, there was an arrogance that brooked no contradiction, and expressed an immoderate love of fighting. Whoever met him was in peril, since a mere glance at his face was enough to give offence,—speaking was entirely out of the question; what another said, he neither listened to, nor answered; what he himself said, he said only for himself; if he spoke directly to any one, it was a command to which it was not customary to reply, as that provoked a blow from his crooked stick.

"Go, child, go to church," he said to himself, and limped away.

Yet there was one who heard him; his inseparable companion, Master Mathias; the strong body needed the support of somebody's shoulder, and the soul too needed a support: it was not so large as the body, but found room in a very small space, and could not fill this great form. Master Mathias had to think for his lord, in whose soul no smallest thought originated, only instinct roused him, and passion swept him along.

Master Mathias directed the memorial feast. He assembled the guests appropriate for such an occasion; carousers, buffoons, mendicants, and travelling scholars, persecuted clergy, beggarly nobility, outlaws, who carried their house on their back and their bread in the folds of their cloak, Slavic fiddlers and Polish Jews all together; all that seemed ready to celebrate the day of mourning in eating and drinking and outdoing one another in follies. Knife, fork and spoon each guest brought with him in his boot. Three long tables were spread in the vaulted halls, with places for two hundred guests. There were tin plates for the food, wooden pitchers for the beer, tin cups for the wine, and narrow-throated flasks for the brandy, which was a great delicacy, and only the masters could drink it. At the end of the carouse went around the "Bratina," the glass that nobody must set down, and that every one must drain to the bottom. Then, too, there must be some entertainment for the revellers; the bagpiper begins it with a gay song to dispel care; not only piping, but dancing at the same time; then follow two tall students, barefooted in outgrown clothes, with unkempt, disordered hair; these begin to sing, at first pious Latin songs of past events, and of the differences between Heaven and Hell; the guests give them beer, wine, and mead, and they begin to sing more wantonly, mixing Slavic and Hungarian with their Latin; the entire company join in; only the Lord of the Castle mutters to himself, "He would have understood these songs best of any of them; it was he who taught these fellows." "He" was the son, whose funeral feast they were now celebrating.

The scholars were almost ready to drop with drinking, when Master Mathias sent for three Galician Jews, who were shoved into the hall, bound together by their forelocks, their beards sprinkled with pepper. Whenever one of them sneezed violently, and so jerked the heads of the other two, everybody laughed, but the master, whose eyes filled with tears. "In this too, he was master, he knew how to joke with the Jews; ah, he was a wit!" So the feast went on; it was already midnight, and the guests began to sing alone and to tumble against one another; then they brought in the final cup which each one was to empty at a single draught. There was great laughter, for its capacity was beyond any of them. The Lord again murmured to himself; "Ah, worthless set! He could out-drink them all. Nobody knows how, now."

Then at the drinking of this last cup, all the guests recalled some incident of the dead, and toasts were given, one as foolish as another. "All good for nothing. He was the only one who knew how to drink to the dead. The departed souls must have roared with laughter when they heard him. Sit down there, you can't come up to him." The sport ended with a wrestling match. Two or three of the befuddled lords strove together; the stronger was to throw the other under the table; but there was one martial youth whom all together could not drive out of his corner. "Oh, if he were only here; he would master you! He was not afraid of any two! He could even knock my arm down. How many times I've seen him drive out the whole company with a loaded cane." When the scuffling became general, pitchers and plates flew, tables and chairs were overturned, benches broken, canes whizzed through the air, and men with bruised heads groaned and swore; then suddenly a door opened, and in came the procession.

In front, disguised as a woman, came Bajozzo, and behind him a company in monks' cowls, and priestly garb, and all began to sing the familiar song of mockery, which scoffs at monks, imitates the litany of the pilgrim, and ends with a wild dance. That rouses those of the drunken company who can still stand up to join the pilgrims and follow on, through the halls and corridors of the castle, and out of doors, that the people may enjoy the sport. In the great banquet hall remain only those entirely overcome by drunkenness, or by blows, who lie stretched out on the floor; one and another tries to solve the problem how a four-footed beast can stand on two feet, and failing in his experiment, returns to all four. Only the House-Lord sits quietly in his place, with his flask of Polish brandy before him; strong as it was, it was none too strong for him. He gazed fixedly into the glowing wicks of burned-out candles, and let fall sentences that no one heeded. "How many jokes he knew! Even when I scolded him, he would make me laugh. I could not do anything with him, he was so strong. If I tried to beat him, he beat me.—If I wouldn't give him money, he would catch my Jews on the street, and take it from them.—He had a great mind!—He might have been a candidate for the Palatinate—He might have lived to be a hundred years old—He was only twenty-five—and three, that makes twenty-eight,—true, but those three don't count—for he has been dead since then—but why is he dead? because his horse made a mis-step in battle, otherwise he would have killed the other man—is that justice?—A fine world this where the four feet of a horse are the judge—that donkey of a priest says he will turn to dust—my son, dust! It's a lie.—More likely it'll be gold—to-morrow I'll have his coffin opened.—There he lies in the vault of a papist church.—What's that? What did they put him there for? Because he wanted it—he wanted it, himself.—So he could torment the saints after his death—I wonder if he does!—I wonder if he goes and hits Saint Anthony in the nose—I wonder if he gets up in the ghostly hours to hit the bell—What's that!—Is that the sound of a bell? Who heard it?—Anybody else?—Here, Master Mathias, where are you? Did you hear anything?" Nobody answered. The sleeping and drunken snored, the carousers had quartered themselves in the cellar and begun drinking afresh. In the great banquet hall, only the House-Lord was still awake, and he thought that he was dreaming.

The little bell in the church tower rang! Grazian sprang out of his arm-chair—seized his cane—steadying himself against the wall, he made his way out to the north tower, from which he could get a clear view of the church. The moon, just ready to set, lighted up the tower windows, and one could still see the bell swaying back and forth; it had stopped ringing, but the reverberation still trembled in the air.

"What's that? Who's there?" stammered Grazian, and leaned far out of the window. "Stop that noise down there, so I can hear." Another instant, and he could see, too. One of the long Gothic windows of the church suddenly blazed with light. "See there! What's that!" Against the bright window stood out the shadows of human figures. They vanished, appeared again and raised their hands. Grazian gathered all his strength that he might shout in the fulness of his rage at the ghosts—"Who are you? Away with you!" He fell, and the next morning was found stretched out before the open window: it was with difficulty they could bring him back to life.