Again we are in Hungary, among the mountains of Homolka, in that part of the country where no one has yet cared to dwell. In a circuit of ten miles there is not a single village to be seen. Over the entire mountain chain not a single roadway; even the footpaths break off suddenly in the rocks, either leading to a waterfall covered over with leaves, or to an abandoned charcoal hut where no grass could grow in the sooty vicinity.

While the sunbeams lie aslant over this region, drawing over it a gilded veil of mist, we can hardly distinguish a single object of the panorama. Gradually a broad ravine draws our attention. The mountain peaks which seemed to close in all sides are blue grey, and in the centre of this ravine rises a huge, solitary rock, looking just as if it had fallen from heaven. A hasty glance passes it by lightly, but a more careful observer discovers a small wooden bridge, supported on piles, which appears to connect this circle of mountain summits with one of the steep walls adjoining. Gradually we become aware that this trestle is not the work of nature; those stones forming walls which appear to continue the mountain heights are really the work of man's hand. It is a massive rock-bastion built as high as its support. And as the walls are built out in all directions as high as the steep edges of the cliff, it looks as if it had grown out of the rock, and as if the vines clinging to the walls were there simply to form a natural tangle.

In the year 1664 the eye that glanced over these walls might see within magic buildings. Corsar Bey, the terror of the country, inhabited this stronghold, and at his bidding hedges of roses sprang up on the bastions, and the castle stood in a grove of orange and pomegranate trees. On all sides could be seen those splendid buildings which Oriental pomp erects for the moment's pleasure: spacious domed buildings overlaid with sky-blue enamel where the sun mirrored itself; gay painted towers on the bastions with balconies decorated with Moorish carvings, and on these vases of flowers; slender white minarets covered over with vines; lattice-work kiosks with slender gilded columns, the whole as light as a card house; nothing but gilded wood, painted glass, enameled tiles, and gay-colored rugs. From the pointed roof-tops waved gay flags and high above all shone a golden crescent. Every kiosk, every dome, every minaret was adorned with crescents and flags. It seemed a magic castle ready to vanish; but the walls surrounding this delicate structure impregnable. On all sides were impassably steep rocks behind which the pursued, if he once reached them, could defend himself against a hundred times as many. The guards stood day and night with lighted fuse by the cannon, which Corsar Bey had had cast on the spot, as there was no way of conveying such defence there. Two of these fiery-throated monsters were turned toward the bridge, to blow it to atoms in case of attack.

From this vantage ground Corsar Bey roved the land, plundering and killing defenseless people; if he fell upon an army he ordered his Spahis and Bedouins to turn about while he, taking advantage of the mountain paths, fled to his castle with the booty loaded on beasts of burden, the Timariots, stationed in reserve, made a barricade of trees and stoned to death those who dared follow into the valleys.

Sometimes he allowed his pursuers to follow him close to the castle, and while they shot at the walls of cliff with their small cannon dragged up with the utmost difficulty, and thought to starve him out, he would play the trick on them of bursting out from some subterranean passage to rob and burn in their rear. Every attempt to surprise him, to surround him, was in vain. The inhabitants of the surrounding villages began to withdraw to more remote places to escape this frightful neighborhood.After the battle of St. Gotthard, (1664) in which the Turkish general lost twelve thousand men in an engagement with Hungarian and Austrian troops, a twenty years' peace was concluded between the Porte, the Transylvania principality and the Emperor, which left the Turk in possession of all the fortresses conquered or built in Hungary. The men of these fortresses now carried on the war on their own account; robbing and burning where they could. The Sultan could not hold each one accountable; all he could do was to empower the complainants to seize the disturbers of peace and do with them as they would.

In these times five or six counties, a few nobles, or the people of single villages would combine to carry on war against the foe within their borders. The country did not concern itself and furthermore could not have done so had it wished. The Roman Emperor was engrossed in the Spanish Succession, the Sultan in a war against Venice, the lesser antagonists struggled as they could.

Now, away from our sight, cold outer world—narrow panorama of mountain and horizon without charm. Arise before us, magic halls! We see a magnificent apartment, the splendor of which bears us to a more beautiful world, while thought flitting from object to object, grows weary of the beautiful and luxurious, sought out by fancy and employed to form a poetic, charming whole.

On a purple couch in the most splendid room of the castle lay Azraele, Corsar Bey's favorite. Beside her rested a live panther, stretched out like a gay footstool, and played with her hair like a young kitten.

The clatter of horses' hoofs was heard ringing out from the winding way that led through the valley and Corsarburg. The noise was heard through the woods long before the riders could be distinctly seen. Soon they reached the height where the road, climbing to the mountain ridge runs along its length. It was Corsar Bey with his robber band. First came the beasts of burden laden with spoils. From the full leathern sacks gleamed church treasures; then came the Bey himself with his gay horsemen recruited from all classes; spahis clothed in silk and carrying long spears. Bashkirs with bow and arrow, Bedouins in white cloaks with brass-hilted swords. The Bey was in his prime, his thin beard and moustache barely showed on his brown face, his high cheekbones and broad chin gave him a bold, cruel look. His dress was covered with jewels in barbaric profusion. His troop followed him in silence. Blood was clinging to all their garments: some had not taken the trouble to wipe it off their faces. The beasts trotted quietly toward the castle urged on by fellahs, while the troop followed them along the mountain ridge.

The shadows of night had fallen.

"I am afraid," said Azraele.

"Why are you afraid?" said Corsar.

"I have had bad dreams," replied Azraele, trembling. "I dreamed that the Giaours stormed your castle by night and murdered you. I tried to throw myself down from the battlements but could not, and I was caught. A Christian had me. Oh, it was frightful."

"Don't be afraid," said Corsar. "The Koran says only the birds can fly and no one can get into this castle who has not learned to fly. But even if it were possible you need not be afraid of falling into the hands of the infidels, for there under the entrance is a fuse reaching to the powder houses; if all is lost you have only to touch that fuse with the night lamp, and the entire place will be blown to atoms, with us and our foes."

"What a comforting thought," said Azraele.

Suddenly she sprang up again with a scream. "Do not you hear the noise of the Djinns?" and she trembled in every limb.

The Bey looked around him in terror. A storm raged without; the weather vanes creaked. From the tops of the minarets the wind threw the tiles on the kiosks below. The lightning flashed and the thunder made the crags tremble.

"Do you hear these invisible creatures howling and rattling the closed windows with their mighty hands?"

"By the shades of Allah, I do," said the man, his eyes fixed with fear.

"Have mercy, have mercy! Away from this house, you bad spirits," cried Azraele. "May the sunbeams strike you and the darkness bury you. Go torment the Christians. May your wings break on the top of our crescents as you float over them. Ha, how their eyes shine! Spirit of Allah, cover us, that they may not see us with their eyes of fire."

The great, strong man trembled like a child. His superstitious fear had taken all strength out of his heart.

"Do you hear how they murmur? Say a prayer quickly aloud and stop your ears, so you shall not hear what they say."

At this moment the frightful storm broke in a window pane and the wind rushing in shook the curtains and made the lights flicker.

"Ah, do you see him?" cried Azraele. "Be still, don't look, don't open your eyes. Cover your face. Asafiel, the angel of Death is here. Don't you feel his cold breath? Hush, cover yourself up, perhaps he does not notice you."Corsar clung to Azraele and covered his face with his hands.

"What do you want?" called Azraele, as if she were speaking with a visible spirit. "Whom have you come for, black shade, your eyes glowing with blue fire? There is nobody here but me. Corsar has not come. Come later, come an hour later. Away with you, black creature! May Allah crush you!"

Corsar did not dare open his eyes.

"Away with you, I say."

At this moment the lightning struck one of the bastions and shook the mountains to their foundations. When the sound of thunder ceased, a light fall of rain began on the roof; the roar of the storm grew more and more distant; was heard dully near by and howled mournfully in the distant woods.

"He has gone," whispered Azraele, in a barely audible tone. "He promised to be back in an hour. Corsar, you can live just one hour."

"One hour!" repeated Corsar, with dulled senses. "Oh, Azraele, where can you hide me?"

"That is quite impossible. Asafiel is relentless. One hour more and then he will carry you off."

"Bargain with him. If he must have dead men, I will have a hundred slaves beheaded. Promise him blood, treasure, prayers, burning villages, everything. Only beg him to spare my life.""It is of no use. In my dreams I saw your sword broken in two. Your days are numbered. There is only one way of escape for you—one way of baffling this bloodthirsty angel. Some one of the dead must exchange names with you and Asafiel when he comes for you must drag him off in your stead."

"That is right. That is right," stammered the strong man in fear. "Find me such a dead man who will exchange names with me. You know the incantations. Go call up somebody from his grave; promise him everything, fellah or rajah, I will give him my name and take his. Go, hurry."

"You must go yourself. Throw your cloak around you. Leave your weapons here; spirits are afraid of sharp iron. We will go down into the churchyard under the castle walls, set fire to amber and borax over a tripod, plunge the magic staff into the most recent grave and so compel its inmate to appear before you. When the spirit has appeared you must take three steps toward him and call out three times bravely, 'Die for me!' Then the spirit will vanish and Asafiel will not call for you."

"But you will be near me," said the timid Corsar.

"I will be at your side. Now hurry. An hour is a short time."

Corsar threw on his cloak and repeated the beginning of a prayer the end of which he could not recall.

"Be careful not to wake the guards," said Azraele, cautiously, "if a human being should by chance hear us the power of the enchantment would be broken, for they might utter a prayer that would contradict ours. We will saddle our own horses and go down by the secret path. We must not say a word on the way and you must not look behind."

The Bey was ready. He put on his furlined cloak he was so cold. Azraele called to the panther lying on the rug,

"Oglan, you shall go too and keep watch. If we meet a wild beast you shall defend us."

As if he had understood the words of his mistress the panther rose on his hind feet and laid his paws on her arm, and the trembling man clung to her on the other side. A strange group! A pale woman wrapped in white, and by her side two princely creatures, a haughty man steeled for conflict, and a panther; both mastered by a glance from her, driven to joy or to despair.

The Moslem churchyard below the castle is planted with cypresses. Amid these dark trees of mourning are the graves rising ghostlike with their layers of white stones. At the sound of the approaching steps a grey wolf ran out from the graves, otherwise the place was absolutely desolate. The clouds were broken after the storm; and here and there might be seen the dark blue sky with stars like diamonds. The raindrops were falling from the trees. The rumbling of the thunder was still heard occasionally in the distance and the lightning played over the mountain tops brightening all with its white light.

The figures reached the churchyard by the underground passage and dismounted from their horses beside the graves. Azraele laid the reins of both horses in Oglan's mouth. The clever beast stood still on his hind feet and held the two snorting horses more firmly than any post could.

The man and woman reached a high grave with its stone just showing among the branches of a weeping willow. "It is hardly probable that a slave rests under this stone," whispered Azraele to the trembling knight; she placed her magic pan on the stone and lighted the amber and borax which blazed up and cast a white vapor over the grave. In the distance was heard a slight rustling and Corsar's horse whinnied restlessly.

"What's that?" asked knight.

"The Djinns," answered Azraele. "Don't look behind you."

Then she raised the magic wand and uttered an incantation over the grave interspersing it with unintelligible words."Restless spirit, appear at my command. Whether you are beneath the dark tree of Hell, or in the garden of the houris. Whether you sleep bound by chains of fire, or on beds of roses, hear my call. Flee through the air, cleave the darkness and appear before me in living form as you were. Appear!"

At the words she struck with her wand against the side of the stone, and there rose up from behind a figure wrapped in white.

"Now take three steps toward him," said Azraele to the dazed knight, "and speak to him."

Corsar Bey approached the figure before him with tottering steps, and said in a hoarse, quavering voice:

"My name is Corsar Bey; and you, accursed shade, who are you?"

"I am Balassa," said the spirit with a clear voice.

The white shroud fell off and revealed a mighty man with unsheathed sword in his hands.

"Corsar Bey, you are my prisoner," he said to the Turk, who stood petrified at the sudden turn.

The next moment the Bey put his hand to his side and not finding any sword there, ran with a cry of rage to his horse, threw himself into the saddle and used his spurs, but Oglan held the horse firmly with the bridle in his teeth, and when the horse tried to move, the panther dug his claws into him and held him back."To Hell with you, you cursed beast," yelled Corsar, foaming with rage, and gave the panther a kick.

But the panther only pulled the bridle this way and that, stood in the horse's way and frightened him with its leaps, compelling him to circle about.

"Speak to your beast, Azraele," screamed the Bey, turning around, and looking for his beloved saw her in the arms of the young Hungarian.

At this instant the churchyard became alive. The Hungarian soldiers who had been lying concealed tore the Bey from his horse. Even when thrown to the ground he tried to defend himself with stones.

"A curse upon you," said the vanquished outlaw.

The troops moved past him along the secret passage to his castle, and an hour later by the light of his burning castle he saw his favorite ride away mounted behind Balassa.