Mor Jokai

The Lieutenant and his comrade had already been more than twelve hours in the wilderness of Batrina on their way to Marisel. Clement asked everybody he met if the village were not near, always receiving the same answer that it was still some distance farther. Now and then they met a Wallachian peasant with an ox-team; the man shouting to his lazy beasts, trying to goad them into a quicker gait. Then there was a pool to wade through, where a half-naked, picturesque company of gypsies washing the gold out of the sand, stared at the questioning strangers like wild beasts. Sometimes along the road there would be the picture of a saint in the mossy hollow of a tree, with only the dull gilding left of the weather-beaten paint. In the natural niche there would be the pomana,—a pitcher of spring water which some young Wallachian girl, as an act of piety, had placed there for thirsty travelers.

The way led them through valleys and over heights, and the greater part of their way they had to lead their horses by the bridle instead of riding. On all sides was the forest, tall, slender beeches mingled with dark green firs.

In one place they came to a fork of the roads; one way led along the valley and the other to the top of a bald, steep mountain with out-jetting cliff.

"Which way now?" said Clement. "I have never been so far."

"Take the traveled road," replied Zulfikar. "Only a fool would climb this steep height. It probably leads to some foundry."

Clement looked doubtfully around him. Suddenly he caught sight of a man seated on the rock overhanging the road. He was a young Wallachian with white face and long curling hair; his leather coat was open on his breast and his cap lay beside him on the ground. There he sat, bent over on the edge of the high cliff dangling his feet in the air, with his stony face in his hands gazing out into the distance.

"Ho there!" cried Clement, and in a mixture of Hungarian, Latin, and Wallachian asked, "Which way does this road go?"

The Wallachian did not seem to hear the cry. He remained in the same position, staring fixedly.

"He is either deaf or dead," said Zulfikar, when they had both shouted at him in vain. "We had better follow the regular road."

And they set off on a trot. The Wallachian did not even look after them. Evening was near and the way to Marisel had no end. It went from valley to valley, never once passing a human habitation. The rocks in the way and the streams crossing at different points made it almost impassable. At last in one part of the forest a column of fire rose before them and the sound of singing fell on their ears. As they came nearer they saw the fire of a pyre built up of whole tree-trunks, in a spot shaded by trees the foliage of which was scorched by the flames. Near this was a crowd of Wallachians leaping wildly with violent gestures; at the same time they beat the ground with long clubs and seemed to be treading letters into the ground, waving their arms frantically, while they howled out verses that were formulated imprecations, as if they were driving out some kind of evil spirit. A circle of young women danced round the men. The lovely creatures, with their black hair interwoven with ribbons and jewels, their flower-embroidered dresses, pleated neckerchiefs, broad-striped aprons, gold earrings, necklaces of silver coins and high-heeled red boots, formed an agreeable contrast to the wild, defiant-looking men, with their high cocked hats on the heavy shocks of hair, their sunburned necks, greasy waistcoats and broad girdles. The dance and the songs were also strange. The women circled in and out among their husbands, raising a mournful wail, while the men stamped on the ground and joined in with yells of triumph. The fire threw a red light and dark shadows over the wild group. On a tree stump beyond sat an old piper, and from a goatskin drew forth monotonous tones that mingled with the song in wild discord. When the fire was burned down to ashes the dancers suddenly separated, dragged out the figure of a woman stuffed with straw and dressed in rags, laid it on two poles and carried it to the fire crying wildly in Hungarian, "Tuesday evening,[1] Tuesday evening!" and repeated three times, "Burn to ashes, you accursed witch of Tuesday evening!" Then they threw it into the glowing coals and the women danced round with cries of joy until the effigy was entirely burned, while the men leaped about with wild shouts.

[1] On this day superstition assigns peculiar power to the witches.

"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" called out Clement, who had until then escaped their notice.

"We live in Marisel and have burned up Tuesday evening," they answered with one voice and with earnest look as if they had accomplished something very sensible.

"Get through with it quickly and come to your village, for I am here at the command of the Prince to ask some lawful questions."

"And I," said Zulfikar, "at the command of the mighty Pasha of Nagy Varad, to impose a new tax."

The Wallachians looked after the Lieutenant in silence until he vanished from their sight, and then said with clenched fists:

"May Tuesday evening carry him off!" And then they moved off with the bagpiper at their head singing as they went to the village.

---

It was a small straggling Wallachian village into which the Lieutenant rode with his comrade. One house was just like another; mud huts with high roofs, projecting rafters, and enclosed within quick set hedges. The doors were so low that one must stoop to enter. Every house consisted of a single room in which the entire family lived, together with hens and goats.

At the entrance to the village was a large triumphal arch of stone, and over the main gate was the torso of a Minerva. In front were figures of a battle finely cut, and underneath an inscription in large letters in Latin: "This town the invincible Trojan had built in memory of his triumph." Behind this were miserable mud huts.

Before a house of mourning on the capital of a fallen Corinthian column sat Prefika, the oldest of the old women of the village, weeping paid tears over the corpse of the young woman on the bier within.In front of a grass-grown hill was a grand stone building. In former times it might have been a temple erected to the memory of some Roman hero, but now the Wallachian villagers had made it their church, covering the temple with a pointed roof and spoiling the interior with dreadful paintings. For lack of any other public place the Lieutenant called the people together in this church. The setting sun through the round panes, lighted up strangely the interior of this old building with its walls covered from top to bottom with hideous pictures of saints, whom the monstrous fancies of peasant artists had clad in red cloaks and spurred boots. Among the many pictures was the well-known allegory which represents Death dragging off a king, a beggar and a priest. And scattered among the pictures of the saints were those representing devils with tongues outstretched, holding sinners by the hair of the head. Behind the altar stood the village priest and the Lieutenant.

When Clement had read aloud to the people his warrant of authority he called up the village magnate and asked him these questions:

"Are there any wizards or sorcerers among you who can call on the devil for help?"

At this question there was a timid whispering throughout the company, and after a long pause the priest answered:"In former years, great and good lord, there was a godless reprobate in our midst who had liver spots on his neck and body; since these are sent by the devil, they did not pain him, even if they were burned with hot coals. We sent him before the Council at Weissenburg, and as he could not stand the test of water he was burned to death."

"Are there any among you who are witches, vampires, people who can harm the children of others, go through the air, turn milk red, hatch out serpents' eggs or find grasses that open locks; or, in short, know how to do anything supernatural?"

To this question there were a hundred answers at once. Everybody strove to tell the questioner his experiences. The young married women in particular crowded about the Lieutenant.

"One at a time," said the Lieutenant, authoritatively. "The judge shall tell what he knows."

"Yes, there was an old witch in the village," said the judge, slily, "we called her Dainitza. For a long time she practiced her evil among us, for her eyes were red. When she chose she could bring on a storm, so that the wind would take the roofs off. Once when she went out to get a hail storm the lightning struck the village in three places. At that the women grew furious, caught her and threw her in the pool. But even there the witch still cried out, 'Take care, you will yet ask me for the water, that you are now giving me to drink.' Then the women fished the body out of the water, where it had caught on a stone, thrust an arrow through her heart, buried her in the valley and rolled a great stone over her grave. But the witch's curse against us still held, all summer long not a drop of rain fell in our boundaries. Everything dried up and pestilence carried off our cattle. Dainitza had drunk up all the rain and all the dew. So we went to her grave, saying, 'Drink, drink your fill, cursed vampire; don't lap up all the water and dew away from us;' and at last the drought ended."

The priest testified that this was true and Clement wrote it down carefully on his parchment.

Now came the third question:

"Is there anybody among you who dares smoke tobacco; either cutting up the leaves and putting them in his pipe, or laying them on the fire and breathing the smoke that rises?"

"There is not anybody, my lord; we do not know this food."

"See to it, that no one tries to learn it; for if anybody is caught doing it, by decision of the states the pipe will be thrust through his nose and the guilty man led through the entire market place."

The fourth question was:"Is there any one among the peasants here who wears cloth dress, marten cap, or morocco boots?"

"Why not," replied the judge, "if our poverty would permit? not that we long for dyed cloth and morocco."

"It is not allowed; the states of the country have forbidden the peasants to wear clothes fitting their masters."

Now came the fifth question:

"Who were the people who acted contrary to the decision of the states that the peasants should exterminate the sparrows, and mocked those who were appointed to collect the sparrows' heads?"

The judge advanced humbly toward the Lieutenant:

"Believe me, my great and good lord, on account of the drought the sparrows have all left the country. Say to the Prince that we have not been able to find one single one all summer long."

"That is a lie," said Clement.

"It is just as I say," persisted the judge, seizing Clement by the hand and skilfully pressing into it two silver groschen.

"It is not impossible," said the Lieutenant, appeased. "Finally, answer this question: Has any one of you seen wandering about in this region, foreign animals, beasts of prey from other countries?""Yes, indeed, my lord, we have seen them in great numbers."

"And what kind of animals were they?" asked Clement, in joyful curiosity.

"Why, dog-headed Tartars"—

"You fool! I am not asking for them. I wish to know whether in your wanderings through the forest you have not seen a foreign, four-footed beast of prey with striped skin."

The judge shook his head incredulously, looked at his people and answered with a shrug of his shoulders:

"We have seen no such strange animal. It may be that Sanga-moarta has seen it, for he is forever wandering through the woods and ravines in his foolish way."

"Who is this Sanga-moarta? Summon him."

"Ah, my lord, he is hard to find; he rarely comes into the village. His mother may be here."

"Here she is! Here she is," cried several peasants, and pushed forward an old woman with sunken features, whose head was wound round several times with a white cloth.

"What kind of a foolish name[2] have you given your son?" asked the Lieutenant of her. "Whoever heard of giving a human being the name dead-man's-blood?"

[2] That name is the Hungarian for dead man's blood. (Transcriber's Note: The footnote is incorrect. "Sanga-moarta" is not Hungarian, but rather Romanian.)

"I did not give him this name, my lord," said the old woman, with quavering voice. "The people of the village call him that because no one has ever seen him laugh. He never talks to anybody, and if you speak to him he does not answer. He did not weep when his father died and he never cared for any girl. He is always wandering about in the woods."

"All right, old woman, that does not concern me."

"I know, my lord, it does not concern you; but you must hear that the handsomest girl in the village, the beautiful Floriza, fell in love with my son. There is not a more beautiful girl in all the country round! Such black eyes, such long black braids, such rosy cheeks, such a slender figure! There was not the like far and wide. Then too, she was so industrious and loved my son so. She had sixteen shifts in her outfit, that she herself had spun and woven, and she wore a necklace of two hundred silver pieces and twenty gold guldens—Sanga-moarta never looked at the girl. When Floriza made him wreaths he would not put them around his hat. When she gave him kerchiefs he would not fasten them to his buttonhole. No matter what beautiful songs the girl sang as he passed her door, Sanga-moarta never stopped. Yet she loved him. Often she would say to him when they met on the street;—'You never come to see me. I suppose you would not look at me if I should die,' and Sanga-moarta would say:—'Yes, I should.' 'Then I will die soon,' the maiden would say sorrowfully. 'I will come to see you then,' Sanga-moarta would answer, and pass on. Are you tired of the story, my good lord? it is almost done. The beautiful Floriza is dead. Her heart was broken. There she lies on her bier. Before the house are the branches of mourning. When Sanga-moarta sees this and learns that Floriza is dead he will come out of the woods to look at his dead love as he promised, for he always keeps his word. Then you can talk with him."

"Very well," said Clement, who had grown serious and was almost annoyed that peasants who had certainly not read Horace's Ars Poetica should have their own poetry.

"You must watch for your son's coming and let me know."

"It will be better for you to go yourself," said the old woman; "for I hardly think that he will answer anybody else."

"Then take me there," said the Lieutenant.

The entire company set out in the direction of the house of mourning, at the extreme edge of the village. This end of Marisel is so far from the church that it was night before they reached the house.

The moon had come up behind the mountains: in front of the houses were fir trees and through their dark needles gleamed its rays. In the distance was heard the melancholy sound of a shepherd's pipe. The paid mourner sobbed outside the door. The wreaths swayed in the breeze. Within lay the beautiful girl, dead, waiting for her restless, wandering lover. The moonlight fell on her white face.

The people surrounded the house. They crept stealthily through the courtyard and looked through the window and whispered, "There he is, there he is!"

The Lieutenant, the priest, the judge and Sanga-moarta's mother entered the room. Stretched across the threshold lay the girl's father, dead drunk. In his great sorrow he had drunk so much the day before that he would hardly sleep it off before another day. In the middle of the room stood the coffin made of pine, painted with bright roses by the brush of the village artist; within lay the girl of barely sixteen years. Her beautiful brow was encircled with a wreath; in one hand had been placed a wax candle and in the other a small coin: at the head of the coffin were two wax candles stuck in a jar covered with gingerbread; at the foot of the coffin on a painted chair with high back, sat Sanga-moarta, bent over with his eyes fixed on the girl's face. The priest and the judge remained standing at the door in superstitious piety. Clement walked up to the youth and at a glance recognized him as the one who had not been willing to direct him on his way.

"Hello, young man, so you are the one who does not answer people's questions?"

The youth verified his words by making no reply.

"Now listen to me and answer what I ask you; I am the Lieutenant of the district. Do you hear?"

Sanga-moarta gazed in silence at Floriza, lost in melancholy and as immovable as the dead. His mother, the worthy woman, took him fondly by the hand and spoke to him by his true name.

"Jova, my son, answer this gentleman. Look at me, I am your dear mother."

"In the name of my master, the Prince, I command you to answer," shouted the Lieutenant, his voice growing more and more angry. The Wallachian was still silent.

"I ask you whether in your wanderings through the forest you have noticed anywhere a foreign beast. I mean a beast of prey, called panther by the learned."

Sanga-moarta seemed to start with terror as if he had been wakened from a sleep. Suddenly he turned his usually fixed eyes to the questioner. Over his face came a feverish color, and fairly trembling, he stammered out,

"I have seen it—I have seen it—I have seen it."And with that he covered his eyes so that he should not look at the dead.

"Where have you seen it?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Far—far from here," whispered the Wallachian. Then he became silent again and buried his face in his hands.

"Name the place,—where?"

The Wallachian looked timidly about him, shivered as if a chill had gone over him and whispered to the Lieutenant, with timidly rolling eyes,

"In the neighborhood of Gregyina-Drakuluj."[3]

The priest and the judge crossed themselves three times, and the latter raised his eyes most devoutly to a picture of Peter, hanging on the wall, as if he would call on him for help.

"You seem to me a courageous youth since you dare go near the Devil's garden," said the Lieutenant. "Will you show me the way?"

The Wallachian expressed by the pleasure in his face that he would gladly show him the way.

"In the name of Saint Nicholas and all the archangels, do not go there, my lord!" cried the priest. "Nobody who has ever wandered there has returned. The godly do not turn their steps that way. This youth has been led thither by his sins."

"I do not go there of my own accord," said Clement, scratching his head. "Not that I am afraid of the name of the country, but I do not like to climb around over mountains. However my office requires it and I must fulfil my duty."

"Then at least fasten a consecrated boat on your cap," urged the anxious shepherd of souls. "Or else take a picture of Saint Michael with you so that the devils cannot come near you."

"Thank you, my good people. But you would do better if you would get me a pair of sandals; I cannot go through the mountains in these spurred boots. Your safeguards I can make no use of, for I am a Unitarian."

At this reply the priest crossed himself and said with a sigh:

"I thought you were a true believer, you inquired so zealously about the witches."

"This is only my official duty, not my belief. Send me the Turk."

As he went out, the Pope murmured half aloud,

"You go well together,—two pagans."

"Comrade Zulfikar," called out Clement to the Turk as he entered, fastening on the sandals that had been brought, "you can look out for your own route now, for I must take a little side-dodge into the mountains."

"If you dodge, I will dodge too," replied the distrustful deserter. "Wherever you go, I will go.""Where I am going, my dear friend, there is nothing to put in your pocket; it must be you wish to bag the devil, for no human being has ever set foot there."

"How do I know where the people live in this confounded country of yours! My orders were to go with you until I reached the starting-point again."

"All the better, for there will be more of us. Help me draw my sword out of the scabbard, so I can defend myself if necessary."

"So you carry a sword that it takes two men to draw. Let me get hold of it."

The two men planted their feet, grasped the sword with both hands and tugged at it for some time. At last it came out of its scabbard, almost throwing Clement over backward. Then Clement took a pitcher of honey, rubbed the rusty sword with the sticky stuff and put it back into its scabbard.

"Now we must be on our way, young man," he said to the Wallachian.

The latter at once took up his hat and his axe from the ground and went ahead without as much as one glance back at the dead. His mother seized him by the hand.

"Will you not kiss your dead love?"

Sanga-moarta did not so much as look—pulled his hand away from his mother's, and went with the two strangers out into the deep darkness of the forest.

All night long these adventurers wandered through a deep valley from which they could just catch sight of the giant summits rising on all sides; directly overhead glimmered a strip of starry sky. Toward morning they reached the midst of the mountains. What a sight that was! Along the shining crystal peaks stretched dark green forest—on one side rose a crag of basalt, with columns like organ pipes in rows, topped by trees. In front of this crag of basalt a white cloud moved, but the summit and base of the rock were to be seen; from time to time the lightning flashed through the cloud but it was some time before the roll of the thunder rang through the organ pipes. At a little distance is a cleft in the rocks, and the two parts look as if their jagged edges would fit together. Through the ravine several fathoms wide, a branch of the cold Szomas forces its way and is lost again among the thick oaks along the shore. In another place the rocks are piled up in stairs not intended however for human foot, for each step is as high as a house. Again the rocks are tumbled together in such a way that the entire mountain mass would fall into other forms if the rock beneath were moved from its position. Everything indicates that here the rule of man has found its limit. From the dizzying height not a single hut is seen; on all sides are bold crags and yawning chasms through which the mountain streams roll tumultuously. Only the ibex wanders from crag to crag.

"Which way are we going?" Clement asked his guide, looking anxiously about, where there was every possibility of losing oneself irrecoverably.

"Trust yourself to me," replied Sanga-moarta, and he led them with confident knowledge of the place through this unfrequented region.

In places where a path seemed hardly possible, he knew where to find the way over the cleft rocks. He had noticed every root that could help one in climbing; every tree-trunk bridging a chasm; every narrow ledge of rock where one could step by clinging to its projections; in short, he moved through this labyrinth with the utmost confidence.

"We are near the end," he said, suddenly, after he had climbed a steep wall of rock and looked over the country, and he stretched his hand down and drew the others up after him. The scene was now changed. The declivity of the rock that they had mounted was under them; a smooth surface in semi-circular shape formed a basin hundreds of fathoms deep, where the dark green water of a mountain lake gleamed. There was no breeze but the lake was broken with foam. The opposite side of the basin was formed by a group of mountains with fir trees at the base, and where the two mountain masses came together a small stream flowed into this lake, over which the ice that tumbled into the valley made a crystal arch.

"Where will that bring us?" Clement asked, with horror.

"To the head of the stream," replied Sanga-moarta. "It has made its way through the ice and if we follow its track we shall reach the place we seek."

"But how shall we get there? This wall of rock is as smooth as glass, one slip and there is nothing between us and the bottom of the lake."

"You must take care, that is all. You will have to lie down on your back and slip down sidewise. Now and then you will find a bush of Alpine roses that you can cling to; but there is no danger of slipping if you are barefoot,—follow my example."

A blood-curdling pleasure awaited them. The men took off their shoes and clung firmly with hands and feet to the smooth wall of stone. They had gone barely half way when there was a mysterious sound from the opposite mountains; it seemed as if the rocks beneath them trembled.

"Stay where you are," shouted Sanga-moarta to the others. "There is a snow-slide."And the next moment could be seen the white ball set in motion in the remote mountains, rolling down the steep heights, tearing along with it rocks and uprooted trees, growing every instant more terrible; and as it made great bounds to the valley it shook the mountain to its very foundations.

"Oh my God!" cried Clement, trying to reach the guide with one hand while he clung to the rock with the other. "It will come and kill us all."

"Stay where you are," Sanga-moarta called out to them, when he saw that they were trying to climb up and would so expose themselves to the danger of slipping back. "This slide is going toward that rock and there it will be either broken or held fast."

It was true that the snow-slide, now grown to mammoth size, was rolling toward a jutting cliff that seemed dwarf-like in comparison. The roll of the avalanche had grown so loud that every other sound was lost in its thundering roar. Now the snow plunged against the rock in its path, struck its peak with a fearful bound and gave the whole mountain such a shock that it quivered to its foundations. For a moment the entire vicinity was covered with a cloud of snow flying with the velocity of steam. After the last clap, the thunder ceased. Then followed a frightful cracking. The avalanche had torn the opposing rock from its base and the two plunged down into the lake below them. This, lashed to foam, engulfed the mass and its waves, mounting fearfully, rose to the height of fifty fathoms, where the bold climbers were clinging to the face of the rock. Then the waves settled back, for a few moments took the form of a towering green column which finally subsided, and after some time quiet again ruled over the waters.

Clement lay there more dead than alive, while Sanga-moarta's first look was to see if the bed of the stream had been overflowed by the war of the waters. But the mass of snow had plunged into the lake without raising it a foot; all had disappeared in the bottomless depths; a mountain lake neither rises nor falls.

"Let us go on our way," said Sanga-moarta. "It will be all the easier now that the rock is wet, to climb down."

In the course of half an hour they had reached the mouth of the stream. A wonderful passage opened before them. The stream had its source in a warm spring, which following the course of the valley, was buried under mountains and avalanches. The warm water had hollowed out a covered passage, so melting the ice that only its outer surface remained frozen, and this was constantly added to by the influence of the atmosphere, while within it was as constantly melted by the warmth of the spring; the result was that the stream flowed under a crystal archway with glittering icicles. Into this passage Sanga-moarta led his companions. Clement could only think of the magic palaces in fairy tales, where the enchanted mortal got the sunlight through transparent water. As they were wading along the stream at one point the underground passage suddenly grew dark. Heavy masses took the place of the transparent vaulting. The crusting of ice was thicker; it changed to dark blue, and to black; the noise of the waters was the only guide. The men, up to their knees in the water, found it growing warmer and warmer until finally they heard a hissing, and through a cleft in the rock caught sight of the sunlight once more. At the source of the spring, as they clung to some bushes to resist the force of the boiling waters, they found themselves in a deep, well-like valley.

"We are in the Gregyina-Drakuluj."

It is a round valley with mountains rising about it several hundred feet high. If you would look down from their summits you must crawl on your stomach to the edge of the cliff, and then unless you have strong nerves you will fall from the dizzying height. In this valley-bed below the flowers are always in bloom; in the sternest winter season here you can find those dark green plants with broad indented leaves; those small round-leaved trees that are nowhere else in the country. The yellow cups of the leather-leaved water-lilies open just at this time. The place is covered, summer and winter, with freshest green; the wild laurel climbs high in the crevices of the rocks and throws its red berries down into the valley, while all around is cold and dead.

The whole winter through the valley is covered with the rarest flowers. That is why the Wallachian calls it the Devil's garden, and is afraid to go near it. Yet the miracle has a purely natural cause. In a hole in the depth of the valley is a hot mineral spring that never comes to light, but warms through the earth above; and, as warm waters have their own peculiar flora, these strange plants flourish there beside their quickening element. The whole place is like a greenhouse in the open air amid storms and ice mountains.

Sanga-moarta beckoned silently to his comrades to follow him. A feverish unrest was noticeable throughout his whole being. After a few steps he pointed with trembling hand to a dark hollow where there was an iron door.

"What is that?" cried Clement, reaching for his sword. "Is this hollow inhabited?"

"Yes," replied Sanga-moarta, with blood evidently on fire and his temples swollen to bursting. "There in that pool she bathes; here I have listened day after day, but have not had the courage to go near." He stammered in scarcely audible words though they were passionate."Who?" asked the Lieutenant, perplexed.

"The fairy," stammered the Wallachian, with quivering lips, and buried his burning lips in his hands.

"What kind of a fairy?" said Clement, turning to Zulfikar. "I am looking for a panther."

"Hush, there is the sound of a key in the door," said Zulfikar, "step back."

The two men had to pull Sanga-moarta from the door. This opened noiselessly and a woman stepped forth leading a panther by a spiked collar of gold. Sanga-moarta had good cause to call her a fairy. A magnificent woman stood there in delicate Oriental garb. The long gold tassel of her red fez fell down over her white turban; above her ermine-embroidered caftan gleamed her ivory white shoulders; her movements were sinuous and bewitching. The three men held their breath while the woman passed by without noticing them.

"Ha, there she is!" whispered Zulfikar, when she had passed.

"Who is she? So you know her," said Clement.

"Azraele, once the favorite of Corsar Bey."

"Where are we then?"

"Be still, or she will hear us."

Meantime the woman had reached the pool, seated herself on a stone bench and loosed her turban. The dark curls fell down over her shoulders.

Sanga-moarta's hot panting was heard in the darkness. The panther lay quietly at the feet of his mistress, his wise head resting on his forepaws. Azraele now took her gay Persian shawl from her waist and made ready to lay aside her caftan. But first she made a few steps toward the cliff, which shut her off from the sight of the men. Sanga-moarta was ready to plunge after her.

"You are crazy," said Zulfikar in his ear. "Are you going to betray us by your curiosity?"

"The boy is in love with the woman," whispered Clement.

At this instant a splash was heard in the water as if some one had jumped in and was playing in the waves. Sanga-moarta tore himself madly from the grasp of his comrades and ran with a wild cry down to the pool. At this cry Azraele, in all her enchanting beauty, sprang out of the water, looked with flashing eyes at the bold man, and said to her panther,

"Oglan, seize him!"

Until then the panther had lain motionless, but the instant his mistress called him to a struggle he jumped up with a snarl, caught hold of the Wallachian, and with one movement drew him to the ground.

Sanga-moarta did not defend himself against the beast, but stretched out his hands entreatingly to the charming woman, appeared to be drawing in her beauty with his thirsty glance, while he dragged himself with a groan to her feet; Azraele gazed at him wildly, and, wrapped in her cloak, watched her pet panther tear the youth; for the beast was never drawn to any one except for his death.

"I'll go to his help," said Clement, mad with terror,—and drew his sword.

"Stop. Don't be foolish," said Zulfikar. "There is something more sensible for us to do. The iron door has been left open; let us slip in while the lady is occupied and find out what there is of interest here for our masters. If not of interest to yours it certainly will be to mine."

With that the two men stole through the doorway, groped their way along the narrow passage that seemed to be hewn into the rock and at its end discovered, by the light of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, that there were several small doors on both sides. They opened one door after another and came to a room with no other doorway. The light of the outer world came through the window. Through this they hurried on and coming to a second iron door, passed through and found themselves in a large court surrounded by high walls. By climbing the wall they saw from its summit the vale of Szamos stretched below them; and then they discovered a footpath leading from the wall into the forest below. Down they ran breathlessly. There first the two men dared look at each other. Clement thought he still heard the wild, clear voice of the demon-woman, the growl of the panther and death-cry of the Wallachian.

"We have done well to take this path," said Zulfikar. "For we never could have found our way back without a guide over the way we came. From here we shall easily make our way."

They now found two woodcutters who were fastening their rafts to the bank.

"What is this castle?" asked Clement.

"Where? What castle?"

Clement looked behind him to point out the castle, and lo, there was nothing that could be seen to resemble a castle even from afar. One rock was like another. The peasants laughed aloud.

"It is better not to say anything," said Zulfikar; "evidently they do not know what is in this vicinity. From the outside there is nothing to be seen but unhewn stone; the bushes cover the very opening that we came through."

Then they asked their way; and turned back to Marisel, where they did not stay to be questioned about Sanga-moarta's absence but mounted their horses and rode off.

Zulfikar would have been glad if Clement would have gone with him to Banfy-hunyad, but when he learned that this place was under the direction of Dionysius Banfy he started off alone to collect the tax, although the Lieutenant gave him the comforting assurance that he could count on blows there more surely than on tribute.

Clement gave Ladislaus Csaki exact information of what he had seen and received as a reward for his discovery a hundred gold pieces, with the green boots thrown in.

Zulfikar had a more unusual experience. When he reached Nagy-Varad he gave Ali Pasha the tax collected and told him what he had learned of Azraele. Corsar Bey had stolen her from Ali Pasha when she was thirteen years old. Ali had offered two hundred gold pieces as reward to the man who should bring him information of the abode of his favorite, so Zulfikar came away with the purse of two hundred gold pieces when he left the Pasha. The Aga over Zulfikar learning of this, found a pretext to bind the deserter and sentenced him to a hundred blows on the soles of his feet unless he bought off every blow with a ducat.

"That I will not do," replied Zulfikar, "but I will put in your hands the present that Dionysius Banfy sent Ali Pasha when I tried to impose a tax in his name. You give this little box to the Pasha and I wager that he will reward you with enough for your lifetime."

The Aga caught at the offer greedily, received the carefully sealed box which Zulfikar should have given over to the Pasha, and presented it with the following words:

"See, most gracious Pasha. Here I bring you that princely present which Dionysius Banfy sent you instead of the tax."

Ali Pasha took the box and when he had cut the string, broken the seal and raised the cover, there fell out on his caftan a dried-up grey pig's tail, the most fearful insult, the most horrible disgrace, a man can offer a Turk.

Ali Pasha jumped almost to the ceiling in his anger, threw his turban on the ground, and gave orders to have the Aga, who stood petrified, impaled that instant outside the gate.

Zulfikar walked off, his two hundred gold pieces intact.