Paul Beldi took the direct route from Karlsburg to Bodola. All the way he was tormented by the thought which Teleki's words had called up again. In itself a kiss is a very innocent matter but if another knows of it, has noticed it?—if this should be only one pole of the world of distrust about which the soul revolves bringing up now this, now that, which might have happened before and after,—and then too another knows of it?—The husband thought that a kiss nobody knew about caused no defect in his wife's virtue—but now it lived on the lips of others; perhaps still more; perhaps the world was dragging his honor in the dust while he supposed it well guarded, and the first sound of the derision to him so deadly had just reached his ear, and that too from his most hated foe. ...

Night interrupted his thoughts. The horses were tired out, Beldi had given them no rest, had had no fresh relays,—only on and on. He wished to get home as quickly as possible—to have under his eyes that wife who had cost him such disgrace—who knows how much!— But is it sufficient satisfaction to see a woman weep or die when a man still lives on whom he might take revenge?—a man too who had been his enemy from the time when they had both served as pages of Gabriel Bethlen and who now sought out the most sensitive spot in his heart to tear it with his ruthless hand.

"Turn about!" he shouted to the driver. "Take the road to Klausenburg."

The old servant shook his head, turned into a side road and soon lost the road so completely in this wandering by night that he was at last obliged to confess to his master that he did not know himself where they were. Beldi trembled with inward emotion. Looking about him he saw not far off a light, and quite out of temper he bade the coachman drive toward it. They drove into the courtyard of a lonely country house. The barking of the great house-dog brought out the master, in whom Beldi recognized old Adam Gyergyai one of his dearest friends who, as he recognized Beldi, hurried forward to embrace him, beside himself with joy.

"Good-evening, my dear friend," said the good old man, covering his guest with kisses:—"I do not ask what good fortune has brought you to me."

"To tell the truth, I have lost my way. I was on my way to Klausenburg. I shall go on this very night, and with your permission leave my horses here to rest.""What have you to do there that is so pressing?"

"I must carry some news," said Beldi, evasively.

"If that is all, why need you hasten so? You can certainly trust it to a letter and one of my servants on horse shall carry it at once to the place while you stay here."

"You are right," said Beldi, after some consideration;—"it will be better for me to manage the matter by letter." So he asked for writing materials, sat down and wrote Banfy. Writing usually brings a certain soberness to one's thoughts, so this letter was in quite a moderate tone. He informed Banfy that he summoned him to Szamos-Ujvar to adjust an affair of honor. With that Beldi sealed the letter and intrusted it to Gyergyai with the request that he be so kind as to send it.

"So you are writing to Banfy, my good friend," said the old man, looking at the address of the letter. "You could have talked with him a little while ago. What have you two to arrange with each other that is so urgent?"

"You remember, my friend," replied Beldi, "that you saw me once in the lists with Banfy, at the time of the tournament when George Rakoczi was the master?"

"Oh yes, you had overcome all other contestants but could do nothing against each other.""On that occasion you said that you would like to see which one of us would carry off the victory in a real engagement."

"Yes, I remember that too."

"Now you shall see."

Gyergyai looked Beldi in the eye.

"My friend, I do not know what this letter contains but from your expression I infer your thought. I have heard my father say that a man should not send off the same day a letter written under excitement, but should lay it under his pillow and sleep on it. The advice is not bad. Do not send your letter off before morning; in fact I will not send it to-night."

Beldi complied with the old man's advice. He put the letter under his pillow, lay down, fell asleep and dreamed. In his dream he was happy with his wife and children. The noise of a wagon passing by in the morning awakened him. The first thing that his hand touched was his letter to Banfy. He broke it open, read it through again, and—was very much ashamed that he had written anything of the kind.

"Where was your understanding, Beldi?" he asked himself with a smile, tore the letter in two and threw it into the fire. "How they would have laughed at you!" he thought. "They would have said you were an old fool to whom it had occurred late in life to be jealous of the mother of his children on account of a kiss given by a man in his cups and received against the lady's will." What a weapon he would have given Banfy if he had announced that he was not sure of his wife on Banfy's account. "We will go straight to Bodola," he said gently to his servant when he entered, and then he took leave of his host.

"And what about the letter you were going to send?" asked Gyergyai with concern.

"I have already conveyed it—to the flames!" replied Beldi, smiling, and went on his way with his feelings quite changed. As he approached Bodola he noticed from a distance the members of his family who had been watching for him from the castle balcony; as soon as they recognized his carriage they hurried down to meet him. When he reached the foot of the castle hill there they all were,—his wife and children; they threw themselves on his neck with cries of joy and he kissed each one several times over, but especially his dear devoted wife on whom he feasted his eyes. It seemed to him that her eyes were brighter, her face more charming, her lips sweeter than ever. "What fools men are!" thought Beldi. "When they do not see their wives they are ready to believe everything bad of them, and when they do see them they forget it all."

He was so abandoned to his joy that he did not observe that there was a stranger in the family circle, but the stranger made haste to attract his attention. He was Feriz Bey, a handsome, well-built young Turk, with frank, noble features resembling a Hungarian's.

"You do not notice me, or perhaps you do not remember me," said the youth, stepping up to Beldi.

Beldi glanced at him and thought he recognized him, but did not venture to call him by name until his younger daughter Aranka hanging on her father's arm said with a childlike laugh:

"Have you forgotten Feriz Bey? I knew him at once."

Beldi extended his hand to the youth with a cordial greeting.

"My father sends me to you with an urgent message and had you not come I should have ridden after you. When your family rejoicing is over call me, for my mission admits of no delay."

Beldi was surprised at the serious tone of the youth, and as soon as he reached the castle called him aside to a private room. Then the young Bey gave him a roll fastened with a yellow seal and tied with cords. Beldi broke it open and read as follows:

Beldi's face grew dark as he read these lines. So then it was in vain for him to put Banfy's name out of his mind; this letter called it up again and in an aspect still more hateful. He folded the letter, and in a few words gave the serious youth a reply for his father.

"Inform your father that our action shall anticipate the threatened evil. I send my thanks for the warning."

With this reply Feriz Bey left the castle. Beldi remained alone in his room; deep in thought he paced back and forth, and racked his brain to find out some way to meet the peril, but he saw none. It was not to be expected that a man of Banfy's pride would make any concessions to the Pasha, especially after his victory and in a just cause. And yet the justice of the cause must give way to the welfare of the country. Deep in these and similar thoughts he did not notice that some one was knocking at his door. When no answer was made to the thrice-repeated knock the door opened and Beldi, rousing himself from his meditation, saw Michael Teleki. Beldi was at first so bewildered that his speech forsook him. "You seem surprised at my coming," said Teleki, noticing Beldi's astonishment. "You are amazed that I should have followed you such a distance after an absence of barely twenty-four hours. Great changes have taken place. Transylvania is threatened by a peril which must be prevented at once."

"I know it," replied Beldi, and let Teleki read Kutschuk Pasha's letter with the exception of the signature.

"You know more than I," said the minister; "what I wished to say of this affair is a secret which not even walls may hear."

"I understand," said Beldi, and at once gave orders that no one should come into the entrance hall, stationed guards under the windows and had the curtains drawn. Only one way was left unguarded, and that was a door in the arras at the back of the room, which led by a narrow hallway to his wife's sleeping room, an arrangement often found in the houses of the Hungarian nobility. By way of precaution Beldi closed even that door.

"Do you feel safe enough?" he asked Teleki.

"One thing more. Give me your word of honor that in case the information communicated to you does not meet your approval you will at least guard it as a secret."

"I promise solemnly," replied Beldi, tense for the development. With that Teleki drew out a sheet of parchment folded several times, spread it out and held it under Beldi's eyes without letting it go out of his hands. It was the League formed against Banfy signed and sealed by the Prince. The farther Beldi read in the document the gloomier he grew. Finally he turned to Teleki and thrust the paper from him with loathing.

"My lord, that is a dirty piece of work!"

Teleki was prepared for such a reception and summoned his usual sophistry to his aid.

"Beldi," he said, "this is no time for strait-laced notions. It is the end and not the means in this case. This is the worst only because it is the last. It is the last because there is no other way left. If anybody in the country has attained to such despotism that the arm of the law is no longer strong enough to bring him into the courts, then he has only himself to thank if the state is compelled to conspire against him. The man who cannot be reached by the executioner's axe is struck by the dagger of the assassin. When Dionysius Banfy set at naught the commands of the Prince and began war on his own account he put himself outside the law. In such a case when the justice of the state has lost its authority it is natural to take refuge in secret justice. If anybody has wronged me and the law cannot procure me satisfaction I make use of my own weapons and shoot him down wherever I find him. If the country is wronged by anybody who escapes punishment, it must make use of the jus ligatum and have the man seized. The general welfare demands this and the general peril drives us to it."

"God's hand controls us," said Beldi. "If he will destroy our fatherland let us bow our heads and die with a quiet conscience—die in the defence of liberty; but let us never raise our arms to the destruction of our own hereditary justice. Rather let us endure the evils that have their origin in this freedom, than lay the axe to its very root. Let war and conflict over freedom enter our land rather than any conspiracy contrary to its laws. The one sheds the blood of the nation but the other kills her soul. I disapprove of this League and will fight against it."

At this Michael Teleki rose, fell on his knees before Beldi and said with his hands raised to heaven:

"I swear by the Almighty Living God: so may he grant me salvation, protect my life, prosper my wife, my children, as I am your true friend; and because I know that Banfy's every effort is directed to destroy you and your home therefore do I announce to you that if you love your life, that of your wife, your children, you must meet this impending danger by signing the League. Now I have said all that I could to save you and the fatherland and that too at my own peril. I wash my hands in innocence."

Beldi turned in calm dignity toward the Prince's minister and said in a tone of firm conviction:

"Fiat justitia, pereat mundus."

A few minutes after Teleki's arrival at Bodola a rider came bounding into the castle yard. It was Andrew the faithful old servant of Madame Apafi, who inquired for Madame Beldi, handed her a letter from the Princess and added that this was the more urgent as he had recognized Teleki's carriage in the courtyard, which he should have preceded.

Madame Beldi broke open the letter, and read:

Madame Beldi almost gave way when she read this letter. Teleki had been talking for half-an-hour with her husband and the servants had brought word that every one had been ordered away from the lords' vicinity, even from the entrance hall. The entire situation became clear to the lady's mind at once. She was terrified! perhaps it was already too late and she could not get to her husband. What should she do? Then she remembered the secret way from her room to her husband's and she hurried along, reached the arras door, stood there and listened. She heard only the voice of Teleki, who spoke with growing passion amounting to vehemence. She looked through the key hole and saw how Teleki knelt before her husband and with upraised hands and oaths sought to persuade him. At this sight Madame Beldi was terror-stricken. Why did the proud, powerful man kneel before Beldi? What was he swearing so passionately? Suddenly Banfy's name rang on her ear. Horror seized her, and at the moment when Beldi answered: "Let justice prevail though the world fall," she thought in her ignorance of Latin that her husband had consented, and in her despair she pressed the latch of the door. When this did not open she pulled at it with frenzied strength and shouted passionately; "My husband, my beloved master! Lord of my heart! Do not believe one word Teleki says, for he will ruin you!"

At this passionate outcry the man started up in affright and Beldi arose with annoyance, went to the door and said to his wife angrily: "Stay in your own province, my wife."

Madame Beldi lost her presence of mind entirely. The thought that her husband might assent to Teleki's plan made it impossible for her to comprehend the situation. She forgot that even the best man is ashamed to have it publicly known that he is under the control of his wife, and merely to prove the contrary would be inclined to be untrue to the very convictions he would have followed without compulsion. Consequently Madame Beldi rushed into the room, sank down at her husband's feet, clung to his knees and called out in an impassioned voice:

"Sweet lord of my heart! By the Almighty God, I implore you, do not believe this man. Do not be influenced by him to bring innocent blood on your head. You have always been just. You cannot turn hangman!"

"Wife, you are mad!"

"I know what I am saying. I saw him on his knees before you. He who believes in God does not kneel before any man. He means through you to ruin Dionysius Banfy. Woe to us if you do that, for if he is the first you will be the second."

When Teleki saw his secret disclosed in this way he was furious.

"If my wife did that to me," he said, violently, "I would tear her eyes out of her head. If anybody wished to help me for my own safety I should thank him for it rather than leave him to be met by my wife in an insulting way."

Beldi called out angrily to his wife to leave at once.

"I shall stay even if you kill me: for this is a case of life and death. Here the peace of your family is at stake and in that I have a right. I too may speak. I beg, I entreat you, undertake nothing against Banfy."

Beldi was ashamed of this attack upon his manly supremacy and could hardly control himself. When his wife mentioned Banfy he started as if a viper had stung him. The effect of this name did not escape Teleki and he said ironically and with meaning:

"It seems women pardon certain things more readily than their husbands." The sharp allusion went through Beldi's soul like lightning. The kiss came into his mind. The kiss! Pale and speechless he seized his wife by the arm and her sob only serving to fan his jealousy, he dragged her through the arras door and locked it behind her. There she lay sobbing violently, cursing the princely counsellor loudly and beating against the closed door with her hand. Beldi sat down white as death and with teeth set, called out to Teleki:

"Where is the document?"

Teleki spread it out before him on the table. Without a word Beldi took his pen and with steady hand wrote his name under that of Michael Apafi's. A smile of triumph played about Teleki's lips. When that had been accomplished there was once more a threatening, an accusing knock at Beldi's heart. He laid his hand on the paper and turned with serious glance toward Teleki.

"I make one condition," he said, hoarsely. "If Banfy does not oppose his arrest with weapons right and justice must be granted him according to legal forms."

"It shall be so—just so," replied the Prince's counsellor, and reached for the paper.

And still Beldi did not give it up. Still he did not let it go out of his hand.

"My lord," he said, "promise me also, that you will not put Banfy to death secretly, but when he is arrested you will bring suit against him according to the usual mode of procedure, in a regular court of justice. If you do not assure me of this, then I will tear this paper in two and throw it into the fire with the Prince's signature and mine."

"I assure you, on my word!" promised the Princely counsellor, at the same time inwardly smiling at the man who while he was still upright showed himself weak, and when he had already fallen strove to show himself firm.

With the League signed Teleki went the same day to Ladislaus Csaki, from him to Haller and then to Bethlen. As soon as they saw Beldi's name they signed, for all hated Banfy. In every house the husbands fell out with their wives. Nowhere did Teleki escape calumny. Nevertheless the League was established.

So Transylvania made her own grave.