A year had passed since Apafi's return. In the manor house at Ebesfalva all was excitement. Before one pair of horses could rest another started out on the road. The servants were sent in every direction. There seemed to be great confusion in the house, yet nobody appeared troubled. To those who asked confidentially it was whispered that the wife of Michael Apafi might give birth to a child at any hour. The master did not for one instant leave the chamber of his suffering wife.

Suddenly a wild noise rang out in the courtyard; about twenty-four horsemen had arrived, led by a Turkish Aga. To the terror of the serving people the Turkish troops carried lances and knives.

"Is your master at home?" the Aga said, haughtily, to Andy, who in his terror had remained riveted to the spot. "If he is," he went on without waiting for an answer, "tell him to come out, I wish to speak to him."

Still Andy could not speak, at which the Turk with emphasis added, "If he will not come out I will go after him."With these words he sprang from his horse and crossed the space before the entrance. Andy ventured to stammer a brief—"But, gracious lord,"—when the Turk cut him off with—"I should like it better, my boy, if you would stop your talk and go into the house."

Just then Apafi, attracted by the rattling of the lances, came out of his wife's room. He was terror-stricken when he faced his unexpected guest.

"Are you Michael Apafi?" asked the Turk, angrily.

"At your service, gracious lord," replied Apafi, quietly.

"Good. His majesty, the celebrated Ali Pasha, sends you word to enter this carriage without delay and come to my lord in camp at Klein-Selyk, and that without any attendants."

"That's a pretty story," muttered Apafi to himself. "I beg your pardon, worthy Aga," he added aloud, "just at present it is quite impossible for me to carry out this wish, as my wife is in travail, and any moment may decide her life or death. I cannot leave her now."

"Call a doctor if your wife is sick; and remember that you will not restore her to health by bringing down the anger of the Pasha on you."

"Grant me only one day and then it does not matter if it costs me my life."

"I tell you, it won't cost you your life if you only obey, but if you don't you may soon cause yourself trouble; so be reasonable."

Anna from her room heard the conversation outside, and full of anxiety called her husband to her. "What's the matter?" asked the sufferer, anxiously.

"Nothing, nothing, sweetheart, I have just had a summons but I am not going."

But Madame Apafi had seen the spear-points of the Turks through the window curtains and said in despair, "Michael, they want to carry you off!" and she pressed her husband convulsively to her breast; "they shall kill me rather than drag you off into slavery so that I lose you again."

"Keep quiet, my dear child. I am sure I do not know what they want of me. I certainly have not done the good people any harm. At the most they will demand a tax, which I will get together at once."

"I have a presentiment of something dreadful; my heartstrings tighten, harm has come to you," stammered the sick woman, and she broke out into violent sobbing and threw herself on her husband. "Michael, I shall never see you again!"

The Aga was getting tired of waiting and began to knock at the door and call out, "Apafi, here Apafi, come out; I cannot enter your wife's room—that would not be proper—but if you don't come out I will burn the house down over your head.""I will go," said Apafi, striving to quiet his wife with kisses. "My refusal will only make matters worse; but as soon as they let me go I will be here at once."

"I shall never see you again," she gasped, trembling; she was almost in a swoon. Apafi, taking advantage of this momentary unconsciousness, left his wife and went out to the Aga, his eyes heavy with tears.

"Now, my lord, we can go," he said.

"Surely you are not going like a peasant, without a sword," said the Turk. "Gird on your sword, and tell your wife that she has nothing to fear."

Apafi went back into the room, and as he took down his heavy silver-mounted sword from the wall above the bed, he said to his wife, consolingly, "See, sweetheart, there cannot be anything disagreeable to expect, or I should not have been told to buckle on my sword. Trust in God."

"I do, I do trust in Him," said his wife, still kissing her husband's hand passionately and pressing him to her heart; then she began to weep bitterly,—"Apafi, if I die, do not forget me."

"Oh!" cried Apafi. He tore himself with bitter feelings from the embrace of his wife, and wished all the Turks born and unborn at the bottom of the sea. Then he jumped into the wagon, looking neither to heaven nor earth, but struggling all the way with a single thought—that it had not been allowed him to leave his wife when she had happened to fall asleep.

Hardly were they an hour away from Ebesfalva when the Turks caught sight of a rider at full speed, who was evidently trying to overtake them. They called Apafi's attention to it. At first he would not listen to them, but when told that the rider came from the direction of Ebesfalva he ordered the wagon to stop and waited for the messenger. It was Andy who, waving his handkerchief, came galloping toward them.

"What has happened, Andy?" called out his master with beating heart, while his servant was still at a distance.

"Good news, master," shouted Andy, "our most gracious lady has a son and she herself is out of all danger—God be praised!"

"Blessed be the name of the Lord," cried Apafi, with lightened heart, and sent the messenger back. As soon as this chief cause of his anxiety had vanished all his other troubles disappeared. He thought of his son and in the glow of this thought began to believe that his Turkish attendants were as good, respectable, civilized people as he had ever seen. Late at night they reached the tent of Ali Pasha. The sentinels were sleeping like badgers; as far as they were concerned one might have carried off the whole camp. Apafi had to wait before the tent of the Pasha until he had dressed himself, when drawing aside the curtains, the Pasha bade him enter. There sat Ali with crossed legs on a rug at the back of the tent, and behind him two finely-clad Moors. On the rug that formed a partition in the tent, was outlined the figure of some one standing behind.

"Are you that Michael Apafi," asked the Pasha after the customary greetings, "who for several years was a prisoner of the Tartar Murza?"

"The very same, most gracious Pasha, the one to whom, in his mercy, he granted exemption from the full ransom."

"That will be made right. Murza granted exemption from the full ransom because His Excellency the Sultan commanded him to do so, and His Majesty will do even more for you."

"I hear these words with astonishment and gratitude, for I do not know how I can have deserved this grace."

"His Excellency has learned that you conducted yourself wisely, honorably, and like a man, in that sad imprisonment, and that you knew so well how to win the hearts of the other prisoners that although there is no respect of rank among prisoners they all had the highest respect for you. In consideration of this, and furthermore taking into account that the present prince, John KemÉny, as he has plainly shown, intends to set himself free from the Sublime Porte, His Excellency has determined without further delay to raise you to the throne of Transylvania and to support you there."

"Me,—gracious lord! It is your pleasure to jest," stammered Apafi. It seemed as if everything was beginning to go round before him.

"Yes, you! You have no cause to wonder at this, for when my lord pleases pashas and princes are made, at a glance from him, slaves, beggars or corpses; and at another glance, common soldiers, nobles, or slaves step into their superiors' places. You were so fortunate as to come in for a share of his good-will. Make this to your advantage and do not misuse it."

"But, gracious lord, what an idea that I can become a prince!"

"That is my affair, I will make you one."

"But Transylvania has another prince, John KemÉny."

"That is also my affair. I will settle with him soon."

Apafi shrugged his shoulders; he felt that he had never been entangled in a worse affair.—"That was a true presentiment of my wife's, that to-day a great danger threatened me," he thought.

The Pasha resumed the conversation. "Now then, without further delay, write an order for a convention of the States so that the ceremony of inauguration may take place as quickly as possible."

"I—who will come at my call? My lord, I am one of the least important of the nobles of my country: they will only laugh at me and say that I have gone crazy."

"And then they will become aware that they themselves have gone crazy."

"Then surely I could not send out such a summons, for, with the exception of the country of the Szeklers, KemÉny has all in his power."

"Then we will send to the Szeklers, they will certainly come."

"And even among the Szeklers the more influential are unknown to me, for I am not one of them. There I know such people as John Daczo, Stephen Run and Stephen Nalaczy."

"Well, then, call these men, Run, Daczo, and Nalaczy, if you think they are honest folk."

Apafi began to scratch his head. "But suppose they came, where should we hold the convention? we have no suitable place. In Klausenburg my brother-in-law, Dionysius Banfy, is my sworn foe, and he is captain of the train bands. In Hermanstadt John KemÉny himself lives."

"Certainly we have Klein-Selyk, we can assemble here." In spite of his distress, Apafi had to laugh. "There is not a house here where thirty men could find room at the same time," he answered, quickly.

"Yes there is, there is the church," replied the Pasha, "there you can hold your meeting. If that building is good enough to pay one's respects to God in, surely it is good enough to pay one's respects to men in."

Apafi did not know what further objection to urge. "Can you write?" asked the Pasha.

"To be sure I can," answered Apafi, sighing deeply.

"Because I can't. Well then, sit down and send your summons to the states."

A slave brought a table, parchment, and red ink. Apafi sat down like a lamb for the sacrifice, and by way of beginning made a letter on the parchment so large that the Turk sprang up in fright and asked him what that meant.

"That is an S," answered Apafi.

"Leave some space for the rest of the letters."

"That is the initial letter, the rest will be smaller of course."

"Read aloud to me what you are writing."

Apafi wrote with trembling hand, and read, "Whereas"—The Pasha tore the parchment away from him in anger and roared out, "'Whereas,—since'—what is the use of such roundabout expressions? Write as is the custom, 'We, Michael Apafi, Prince of Transylvania, command you, miserable slave, that as soon as you receive this writing, without fail you appear before us at once in Klein-Selyk.' Then stop."

It required some effort on the part of Apafi to make the Pasha understand that it was not the custom to use such terms with the Hungarian nobility. At last he gained permission to write as seemed best to him, only the contents were to be decisive and authoritative.

The circular letter was finished at last. The Pasha ordered a man to mount his horse at once, and gave him instructions to deliver this at full speed.

Apafi shook his pen and sighed to himself;—"I would like to see the man who can tell me what will be the result of all this."

"Now, until the convention assembles, stay with me here in camp."

"May I not go back to my wife and child at home?" asked Apafi, with throbbing heart.

"The devil! That you may run away from us? That is the way all these Hungarians treat the rank of prince. The men we do not wish lie down on us and beg for the honor, and those we do wish take to flight." And with that the Pasha showed Apafi to his tent and left him, at the same time giving the order to the sentinel stationed at the entrance as a mark of honor, to be sure not to let him escape.

"He got into a pretty scrape that time!" sighed Apafi, in deep resignation. The only hope that remained for him now was that the men summoned would not appear for the convention.

A few days later, in the early morning while Apafi was still in bed, there entered his tent suddenly Stephen Run, John Daczo and Stephen Nalaczy, with all the rest of the noble Szeklers to whom the letter had been sent.

"For God's sake!" cried out Apafi, "what are you here for?"

"Why, your majesty summoned us here," replied Nalaczy.

"That's true, but you might have had the sense not to come. What can we do now?"

"Enthrone your majesty with all due ceremony and if necessary, defend you in true Szekler fashion," said Stephen Run.

"You are too few for that, my friends."

"Have the goodness just to look out in front of the tent," began Nalaczy, and drawing aside the curtain, he showed him a crowd of Szeklers with swords and lances, who had remained without. "We are here cum gentibus to prove to your grace that if we acknowledge you as our Prince, this is not done in mere jest."

Apafi shrugged his shoulders and began to draw on his boots. But he was so thoughtful and melancholy with it all, that an hour passed before he was dressed, for he took up each article of dress the wrong way, and put on his coat before he thought of his waistcoat. Several hundred of the nobility had assembled in Selyk at his call, more than he expected or even wished.

When Ali Pasha came out of his tent, in the presence of all assembled he took Apafi by the hand and threw about him a new green velvet cloak, set on his head a cap bordered with ermine, and gave the States assembled to understand that they were to receive this man from this time as their true Prince. The Szeklers roared out a huzza, raised Apafi on their shoulders and set him on a platform covered with velvet that Ali Pasha had ordered built for him.

"Now let the lords betake themselves to the church—and do you give your oath to your Prince according to your custom and swear fealty to each other. The bells have already been rung at my order. Have mass said in due form."

"Pardon me, but I am of the Reformed Church," protested Apafi.

"That suits me all the better. The affair can be conducted with less formality. There is his Reverence Franz, the Magyar, he shall preach the sermon."

Apafi let them do as they would, only nervously stroking his moustache and shrugging his shoulders when he was questioned. Nalaczy and the rest of the Szeklers considered it proper to meet him in the church with all the reverence due to princes. The Reverend Franz extemporized a powerful sermon, in which he assured them in thundering language that the God of Israel who had called David from his sheep to the kingly throne and exalted him above all his enemies, would now too maintain his chosen one in his good pleasure, though his foes were as numerous as the blades of grass in the field, or the sands of the seashore.

This little church could never have dreamed that it would one day be the scene of a convention and a princely election. And Apafi could certainly never have dreamed that all this would have been fulfilled for him. He had neither ear nor eye for the consecration nor for the sermon, for his mind was constantly busied with the thought of what might become of his wife and child and where would they find refuge if he should fall into the hands of KemÉny and they should be driven from house and home. Then it occurred to him that somewhere in the land of the Szeklers he had a brother, Stephen Apafi, with whom he had always had the friendliest relations, and who would certainly take care of them if he saw them in misery. These thoughts made him forget everything about himself so completely that when at the conclusion of the assembly all present rose and began the Te Deum, he too arose, quite ignoring the fact that these services were in his honor. But some one behind laid his hands on his shoulders and pressed him down into his place, telling him in a low, familiar voice that he was to remain seated. Apafi looked around and fell back on his seat in astonishment, for the man behind him was no other than his brother Stephen.

"You here, too!" said Apafi to him, deeply affected.

"I was a little belated," said Stephen, "but I arrived in time and will stay as long as you command."

"Will you also run into danger?"

"My brother, our fate lies in God's hand, but we too have something in hand which will have a little to say," and with that he laid his hand on his sword hilt. "KemÉny has forfeited the love of his country,—I need not tell you why. You have good cause to triumph and the ways and means will not fail you."

"But if it should prove otherwise? what is then to become of my wife—have you not seen her?"

"I have just come from there. That is why I was late."

"You have talked with her? What did she say about my affairs? Is she very much worried?""Not in the least. On the contrary, she is very much pleased, and thinks Transylvania could not have found a better prince; that you deserve this honor much more than any of the great lords, who have no thought except for tyranny or carousal, and she regrets very much that her child is still so young she cannot come to strengthen and encourage you."

"I should have been much better pleased had she been chosen prince," said Apafi, half in vexation and half in jest.

"Look out," said Stephen, "the young woman is so accustomed to managing affairs at home that if you do not keep the crown firmly on your own head we shall yet live to see her wearing it on hers. This, of course, I speak only in jest."

There is many a truth spoken in jest.