Squire Gerzson Satrakovics thought it best after that night at the csÁrdÁ to go back to Arad. This wondrous event, the clue to which he could not hit upon anyhow, must needs interest HÁtszegi most of all. It would be a terrible thing to appear before him with the tidings that the lady who was intrusted to his care, had been lost on the way; yet, nevertheless, this was the first thing he must say, and after that they would consult together as to what was to be done to find her and where they were to look for her.

Never had Mr. Gerzson approached a bear's den with such beating of heart as he now approached HÁtszegi's chambers. His breath almost failed him as he seized the handle of the street door and wished it might prove locked in order that it might take a longer time to open it.

And locked indeed the door proved to be, he had to ring. Thus he had, at any rate, a respite, for he must await the result of the ringing. And a long time he had to wait too, so long indeed that it was necessary to ring again. Even then there was no response. Then he rang a third time, and after that he went on ring-ring-ringing for a good half hour. At last the bellrope remained in his hand and he put it into his pocket that it might testify to the fact that he had been there. Then, for the first time, he noticed that the shutters were all up—the surest sign that nobody was at home.

Gerzson explained the matter to his own satisfaction by supposing that the whole household was at the races. It was the last day of the races and he reached the course just as the betting was at its height and everybody's attention was concentrated on the event of the moment. At such time the crowd has no eyes for men, everyone is occupied with the horses. Mr. Gerzson therefore had plenty of time to scrutinize all who were present, but look as he would he could not see Leonard anywhere.

At last he could stand the suspense no longer, and during the interval between two races, he descended from the grand-stand, in a corner of which he had ensconced himself in order to get a better view of the field, and mingled in the ring with his brother sportsmen awaiting resignedly for the expression of amazed and horrified inquiry which he expected to see in all faces the moment they perceived him.

But how taken aback was he when the first man who cast eyes on him gave vent to a loud: Ha! ha! ha! whereupon everybody else began laughing also and pointing their fingers at him and exclaiming: "Why here's Gerzson! Gerzson has come back again!"

"Have you all gone mad?" cried Gerzson, confused by this inexplicable hubbub.

He really fancied that he had fallen among a lot of lunatics, till at last Count Kengyelesy forced his way through the crowd towards him, put both his hands on his hips and began to quiz him: "Well, you are a pretty fellow!—you are a pretty squire of dames, I must say!"

"But what's the matter? What has happened? Why do you laugh?"

"Listen to him!" cried the count, turning to the bystanders. "He actually has the impertinence to ask us why we laugh! Come, sir! where did you leave the Baroness HÁtszegi?"

"I don't see what there is to laugh at at such a question?" replied Gerzson, in whose mind all sorts of dark forebodings began to arise.

"What have you done with the baroness? What have you done with our friend Leonard's wife, I say?" persisted the count.

"That is a perfect riddle to me," growled Gerzson in a low voice.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the count, "it is a riddle to him what has become of his travelling companion."

"But can any of you tell me what has happened to her? Is she alive?"

The count clapped his hands together and flung his round hat upon the ground.

"Now, that is what I call a leetle too strong! He asks: is she alive? Why, comrade, where have you been in hiding all this time?"

"A truce to jesting," cried Gerzson fiercely. "Tell me all you know about it, for it is no joking matter for me, I can assure you."

On perceiving that Gerzson was seriously angry, Kengyelesy drew nearer to him and enlightened him without any more beating about the bush: "Well then, my dear friend, let me tell you that you have behaved very badly. First of all you made all four of HÁtszegi's horses lame; in the second place you compelled his poor wife to spend a night in a csÁrdÁ of the puszta, and in the third place you got so drunk that you began to quarrel with her and at last did not know whether you were boy or girl. The poor little woman has grown almost grey with terror, and after you had fallen to the ground in liquor she sent the coachman to town for fresh horses and, leaving you under the table, tried to make her way back to Arad."

"That is not true," interrupted Gerzson, his whole face purple with rage.

"What is not true?"

"Where is the baroness?"

"Stop, stop, my friend! Don't run away! You'll never catch her up, for, early this morning, she drove back to HidvÁr in a postchaise with her husband."

"That can not be true. Did you see her?"

"I saw her through my own field glass. But we all saw her—did we not, gentlemen?"

Many of those present admitted that they had indeed seen the baroness.

"But my dear fellow," said the perturbed Gerzson, "this is no joke. On the contrary, my adventure with the baroness is somewhat tragical, and I'll trouble you to expend no more of your feeble witticisms on me."

Kengyelesy shrugged his shoulders. "I did not know you would take it so seriously, but so it is."

"From whom did you hear all this, from the baroness?"

"No—from HÁtszegi."

An idea suddenly flashed through Gerzson's brain.

"Did you speak to the baroness herself?"

"No. I only saw her through the carriage window when they drove away."

"Was she veiled?"

"No, my friend. It was her very self I assure you."

"Thank you. And now, if you like, you can go on amusing yourself at my expense. Adieu!"

Only when he had got home and flung himself on the sofa in a state of stupor, did he begin to reflect a little calmly on what he had heard. There was so much about the affair that was startling and incomprehensible, true and untrue, probable, incredible, shameful and exasperating, that he could make neither head nor tail of it.

That the baroness had returned must be true, for they all maintained that she had come back while he was lying drunk. It is true that he had got drunk, but he had no recollection of having been quarrelsome and misbehaving himself. Strain his memory as he might, all he could call to mind was Henrietta, with her angelically gentle face, sitting before him at the table and telling him the legends of the Transylvanian Alps—all the rest was a blank.

Up he jumped at last and began pacing up and down the room. At last, after much reflection, his mind was made up, he had formed a plan.

"I'll be off. I'll be off immediately. I'll go straight to her. I am determined to learn from her own lips exactly what happened to me and how I came to make such a fool of myself. I will speak to her myself."

And immediately he ordered his coachman to put the horses to; but he told not a living soul whither he was going, even to the coachman he only mentioned the first stage.

At a little booth at the end of the town he bought four and twenty double rolls and a new wooden field flask. When they came to the River Maros, he descended to the water's edge, rinsed out his flask at least twice and then filled it with water, finally thrusting both the rolls and the flask into his travelling knapsack. After that he drew on his mantle, clambered up into the back part of the coach, stuck his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his fist and never closed an eye till morning.

And it must be admitted that Mr. Gerzson's mode of travelling on this occasion was decidedly eccentric. On reaching a village he would tell his coachman where to go next but he never told him more than one stage in advance. Every morning he would consume one of his rolls and wash it down with the lukewarm brackish water of the Maros—and bitter enough he found the taste of it too. He never quitted the carriage for more than two or three minutes at a time, and he presented his pistols point blank at everyone who approached him with inquisitive questions.

Only twice during the night did he allow the horses an hour or two of rest—and then away over stock and stone again.

The coachman, who was unaccustomed to such queer ways, presently shook his head every time he received orders to go on further, but by dawn of day he had had about enough of the job.

"Your honour," said he, "are we going to stop at all? It would do the horses no harm if they had a little rest."

"What's that to you, you rascal, eh?" roared Mr. Gerzson, "I suppose you're sleepy, you lazy good-for-nothing? Off the box then, you hound, you! I'll drive the horses myself, you gallows-bird!"

The old fellow, who had been in the service of the family for twenty years and had never had so many insulting epithets thrown at his head before explained that he did not speak for himself but for the horses.

"If they perished on the spot, Sirrah, what business is it of yours? When one pursues the enemy in time of war, does one think of food or fodder?"—whence the coachman concluded that there was some one whom the squire meant to cut to pieces.

It was only when they came to the road leading to HidvÁr that the coachman began to suspect that they were about to go in that direction. It was now the evening of the second day and both man and beast were tired to death. It was indispensable that they should stay the night here, for if they passed HidvÁr they would have to go on the whole night before they reached the next stage—or come to grief on the road, which was much more probable.

"You will stop in front of the castle!" commanded Mr. Gerzson when they were crossing the castle bridge.

The coachman looked back and shook his head. He did not like it at all.

"Shan't we turn into the castle yard?" enquired he.

"No!" bellowed Squire Gerzson, so venomously that the "why not?" he was about to say, stuck in the poor coachman's throat like a fish-bone.

"Now listen to me," said Gerzson, when they had fairly got across to the other side: "Keep your eyes open and try and take in what I am going to say to you. I don't know how long I may remain inside there—possibly some time. At any rate you must not loiter about here with the horses but go on to the priest and beg him, civilly, mind, to kindly accommodate my nags in his stable and give them two bushels of maize. As soon as I return I'll settle with him, but don't say anything about payment, or else you will offend him. Kiss his hand, for he is a priest and you are only a lazy vagabond. If you hear no news of me by to-morrow morning, put the horses into the carriage again and return to Arad where Count Kengyelesy will tell you what to do next."

Then he turned upon his heel and set off towards the castle.

It was already evening. In the upper story seven of the windows were lit up and the moon shone into the eighth. That was Henrietta's bedroom. Squire Gerzson knew it. He was quite at home in the castle.

At the hall entrance he encountered Leonard's huntsman, an impertinent, bony, jowly loafer whom he had never been able to endure. The fellow barred the way.

"Good evening your honour."

"Why should you wish me good evening, you stupid jackass! Do you suppose I have travelled five and twenty miles for the pleasure of wishing you good evening? Who's at home?"

"Nobody."

"Go along with you, you sodden-headed son of a dog. Nobody at home and seven windows in the upper story all alight!"

"It is true the rooms are lit up, but that is on account of her ladyship—they are sitting up with her."

"Then where's your master?"

"He has trotted into Klausenburg for the learned doctor."

"What is the matter with her ladyship?"

"I don't know. They say she is mad."

"You are mad yourself, you stupid beast. Who told you that?"

"I saw it, I heard it myself, and others also have seen that she is mad."

"Cannot I speak to her?"

"How can you? That's just the mischief of it, that she cannot be spoken to."

"You rascal, I tell you your master is at home. I am sure of it."

Long-legs shrugged his shoulders and began to whistle.

"Look ye here, my son," said Gerzson, scarcely able to contain himself, "the fist that you see in my pocket here is pulling the trigger of a revolver and I have a jolly good mind to send a bullet in between your onion chawing teeth, so I should advise you not to try any of your tom-foolery on me. On this occasion I have not come to pay your master a visit but for other reasons. Speak the truth, sirrah! Is your master at home or is he not?"

"I have just told you that there is not a soul at home except her ladyship, and she is mad."

At that same moment Gerzson thought he heard a fiddle in the upper story.

"What, music here!" he cried.

The fellow laughed.

"Yes, they are trying to cure the sick baroness by playing to her."

"But I hear the sound of men's voices also as if there were guests here."

"Where? I hear nothing. It is only the dogs barking in the enclosure."

"You did not hear it, sirrah?"

"I heard nothing."

"Very well, my son, I see you have orders to make a fool of me; but it strikes me that both you and your master will have to get up pretty early to do that. You need not be so anxious to guard the door, I shall not try to force my way up to your master. I'll wager he will come and see me first. Wait a bit."

And with that Gerzson sat down on the step, tore a leaf out of his pocketbook and, placing it on his knee, wrote with his pencil the following words: "Sir, I declare you to be a miserable coward. If you want to know why, you will find me at the parson's, there I will tell you and after that we can arrange our little business between ourselves.

"GERZSONSATRAKOVICS."

Mr. Gerzson had even taken the trouble to provide himself with sealing-wax and matches so he could seal his letter without any difficulty and the step served him as a table.

But suppose even this letter did not make HÁtszegi come forth? Struck by this idea he tore open the note again and added this postscript: "If you do not give me proper satisfaction, I will wait for you at the gate of your own castle and shoot you down like a dog!!"

Surely that would be enough!

Again he sealed the letter and was about to hand it to the huntsman when it suddenly occurred to him that HÁtszegi might chuck the note unopened into the fire. Now, therefore, he wrote on the outside of it, just below the address: "If you don't open this letter, I will have an exact copy of it posted upon the notice-board of the club at Arad."

"And now, you door-keeping Cerberus," said he, "take this and give it to your master, wherever he may be."

He wasted no more words upon the fellow, but went straight to the dwelling of the old priest who was awaiting him in his porch.

"I must beg your reverence for a night's lodging, I am afraid," said Squire Gerzson, cordially pressing the old clergyman's hand. "There is serious illness at the baron's house so I don't want to incommode them with my company. All I want is a place whereon to lay my head. My wants are few. You know me of old."

"Gladly will I share with your honour the little I have. God hath brought you hither. I am glad you did not stay at the castle. The company there is not fit for your honour."

"Then there is company there, eh? What sort of folks are they?"

"Folks I should not care about meeting. Drahhowecz and Muntya, and Harastory, and BrinkÓ, and BandÁn, and Kerakoricz, and..."

"That will do," interrupted Mr. Gerzson, aghast at so many odd, strange names not one of which he had ever heard of before. "New comers, I suppose?"

"I was sure their names would be quite unfamiliar to your honour," remarked the priest smiling, and he led his guest into his narrow dwelling, looking cautiously round first of all to make sure that nobody was listening. Once inside he carefully barred the door, seated his guest at the carved wooden table, which was covered with a pretty covering made from foal-skin, and filled a dish with fresh maize pottage, adding thereto a ham bone and a jug of mead. Mr. Gerzson fell to, like a man, on the very first invitation; and each armed with a wooden spoon, attacked the maize pottage from different points till their assiduously tunnelling spoons met together in the centre of the large platter.

"A capital dish, your reverence, really capital."

"Very good for poor folks like we are, I admit. I know you don't have fare like this in Hungary."

"I suppose we don't know how to prepare it properly," said Gerzson.

And then the priest explained how hot the water must be when maize meal or sweet-broom meal has to be mixed with it, how the whole mess must be stirred with a spoon, how a little finely grated cheese has to be added to it, and how it had then all to be tied up in a cloth like a plum-pudding and have milk poured over it. And Squire Gerzson listened to him as attentively as if he had come all the way from Arad to HidvÁr on purpose to learn the art of cooking maize pottage. And after that they pledged each other's health in long draughts from the mead jug.

"And now," said the priest when they had well supped, "I know that your honour spent all last night upon the road. You must be tired and instead of boring yourself by listening to my uninteresting gossip, it would be better, methinks, if we both went to bed."

"I shouldn't mind lying down at all, but alas! I have an appointment here with some one."

"May I ask with whom?"

"I have written the baron a letter and I await a reply."

"He will not send one: he is too much taken up with his pleasures just now."

"My letter contains things which a man durst not ignore."

"Was your letter an insulting one?"

"I don't wish to advertise its contents."

"Very good. But for all that you may as well lie down. The ways of the baron are incalculable. Even when he is angry he knows what he is about."

"Then we'll wait for him till morning."

"Meanwhile repose in peace. My humble dwelling is not very luxurious, but let your honour imagine that it is a hunting hut in the forest."

"But where then will your reverence sleep?"

"I'll go out to the bee-house. I can sleep there excellently well, I have a couch of linden leaves."

"Nay, but I also love to sleep on linden leaves, covered with my bunda.[44] I'll lie there to-night. I am accustomed to sleeping in the open air at night, and you are an old man"—he forgot that he was one himself—"I could never permit you to sacrifice your comfort for my sake."

The clergyman paused for an instant like one who is suddenly struck by a new and odd idea.

"You said just now that you had insulted HÁtszegi, did you not?" he asked.

"Well—yes!—if you must know."

"Grossly?"

"Yes, and most deliberately."

"Very good, I only asked the question out of curiosity. You shall have the choice of your resting place, where would you like to sleep?"

"I choose the bee-house."

"Good. It is true that the night air is not very good for me. I will sleep then in my usual resting place."

"And I will sleep among the bees. Their humming close beside a man's ears generally brings him dreams that a king would envy."

"Then good night, sir."

"Good night."

They parted at the little porch. Gerzson wrapped his bunda round his shoulders and went towards the bee-house, but the priest returned to his chamber, blew out the light, lay down fully dressed on his bed, took up his rosary and fell a-praying like one who does not expect to see the dawn of another day.

He knew his man; he knew what was coming.

Squire Gerzson, on the other hand, troubled himself not a jot about possible consequences. With the nonchalance of a true sportsman, he lit his pipe and, lest he should set anything on fire, he made up his mind not to sleep a wink till he had smoked his pipe right out.

In order that slumber might not come upon him unawares, he resolved to fix his eyes on the castle windows—as the best preservative against dropping off. He could see them quite plainly from the bee-house.

The illuminated windows were darkened one by one. It seemed as if, contrary to the words of the clergyman, the revellers within there did not mean to await the rosy dawn glass in hand, but had lain down early.

For, indeed, it was still early. The village cocks had only just crowed for the first time. It could not be much beyond eleven.

After the lamps had been extinguished, the castle stood there in the semi-obscurity of night like a black, old-world ruin. It stood right in front of the moon which was now climbing up behind its bastions and where its light fell upon two opposite windows which met together in a corner room it shone through them both and lighted up the whole apartment. This room was the baroness's dormitory.

While Mr. Gerzson was luxuriating in the contemplation of the moonlight, he suddenly observed that the moonlight falling upon the windows was obscured for an instant, as if somebody were passing up and down the room. In a few moments this obscuration was repeated, and the same thing happened a third time, and a fourth, and many times more, just as if some one were passing up and down in that particular room in the middle of the night restlessly, incessantly.

Mr. Gerzson counted on his pulses the seconds which elapsed between each obscuration—sixteen seconds, consequently the room in which this person was to-and-froing it so late at night like a spectre, must be sixteen paces from one end to the other. So long as the other windows had been lit up, this person had not begun to walk but as soon as the whole castle was slumbering its restless course began.

Gerzson felt that if he looked much longer, he would become moonstruck himself.

Slowly divesting himself of his bunda, and after knocking the burning ashes out of his pipe, he noiselessly quitted the bee-house, traversed the garden and sprang over the fence at a single bound. Then he stole along in the shadow of the poplar avenue leading up to the castle till he stood beneath the moon-lit window, climbed, like a veritable lunatic on to the projecting stones of the old bastion, and gazed from thence, at closer quarters, at the regularly recurring shadow.

But not even now was he content, but began to break off little portions of the mouldering mortar and cautiously throw them at the window. When one of these little fragments of mortar rattled against the glass the whole window was quickly obscured by a shadow as if the night wanderer had rushed to it in order to look out. Gerzson felt absolutely certain that he must be observed for there he stood clinging fast on to the moulding. A few moments afterwards the shadow disappeared suddenly from the window and again the moonlight shone uninterruptedly through it.

Gerzson determined to remain where he was, to see what would come of it.

In a short time the shadow reappeared in front of the moonlight, the window was silently and very slightly raised, and through the slit fluttered a rolled up piece of paper.

This missive fell from the moulding of the bastion down into the moat. Mr. Gerzson scrambled down after it, grabbed at it in the dark and sticking it into his pocket, returned to the dwelling of the priest.

Not wishing to arouse the clergyman, he went to his carriage which stood in the stable and lit the lamp in order to read the mysterious missive.

The letter was written on a piece of paper torn out of an album. He recognized Henrietta's handwriting, and the contents of the note were as follows: "Good kind Gerzson! I implore you, in the name of all that is sacred, to depart from hence this instant. Depart on foot by bye paths—the priest will guide you. If you do not wish me to lose my reason altogether, tarry here no longer. I am very unhappy, but still more unhappy I should be if you were to remain here. Avoid us—and forget me forever—your affectionate—respectful—friend who will ever mention you in her prayers—and whom you have treated as a daughter—HENRIETTA."

Gerzson's first feeling on reading this letter was one of relief—evidently Henrietta was not angry with him or she would not have alluded to herself as his daughter! There must therefore have been some other reason for her turning back other than the squabble between them which HÁtszegi had so industriously circulated. Well, he would settle accounts with HÁtszegi presently.

What he found especially hard to understand, however, was the mysterious warning contained in the letter.

"Well, my dear parson," he said to himself, "I very much regret having to arouse you from your slumbers, but there's nothing else to be done," and, unscrewing the coach lamp, he took it with him and went towards the house.

The hall door was closed, he had to shake it.

The parson was evidently still awake, his voice resounded from within the house: "All good spirits praise the Lord!"

"Amen! 'Tis I who am at the door. Let me in reverend father."

The priest immediately opened the door and, full of amazement, asked Mr. Gerzson what had happened.

"Read that!" said Gerzson handing him the letter and lighting him with the lamp.

"This is the baroness's writing," said the priest, who immediately recognized the script.

"What do you say to its contents?"

"I say that you must get away from this place immediately. I quite comprehend the meaning of the baroness's directions."

"What! fly from a man whom I have just called out?"

"No, you must fly from the man you have not called out."

"I don't understand."

"You will one day, but there is no time for parleying now. First of all, put on my garments, while I dress up in peasants' clothes."

"Why?"

"Why! Because I must be your guide through the mountains. I cannot trust another to do you that service. Do quickly what I tell you."

The priest gave his orders to Mr. Gerzson with imperious brevity, but that gentleman, even in his present situation, could not divest himself of his homely humour, and as he was donning the parson's long cassock and pressed the broad brimmed clerical hat down upon his head, he fell a laughing at the odd figure he cut.

"Deuce take it!" he cried, "I never imagined that I should ever be turned into a parson."

But the priest was angry at the untimely jest and turning savagely upon Squire Gerzson, said: "Sir, this is no time for jesting, we are both of us standing on the very threshold of death."

Gerzson was no coward, nor did he trouble himself very much about death, but the emphatic tone of the parson at least induced him, at last, to take the matter seriously.

"Then according to that you also are in danger on my account?"

"Ask no questions! I knew what would happen when I gave you a night's lodging."

Then he took out of a drawer a packet of letters and bade Gerzson put them in the pocket of his cassock as the coat he was wearing had no pockets.

"Why do you take these with you?"

"Because I fear to leave them here, and also because I believe I shall never return to this house any more. I have one request to make of you and that is that you will read these letters and keep the contents to yourself." Gerzson promised to do so.

It was just as the descending moon seemed to be resting on the summits of the mountains that the priest and his guest quitted the quiet little house by way of the garden. The night which covered the retreat of the fugitives was pitch dark. Nobody but one who had been accustomed to that district for years and knew all its ins and outs could have found a path through those wooded gorges.

By the morning light the fugitives perceived the little posting station on the high road. There the priest exchanged clothes with Gerzson and resumed his clerical attire.

"Nothing can detain us now," said the priest, "you can procure post horses here and return home, but I go in an opposite direction."

"Whither?"

"The world is wide. Do not trouble yourself about me. In a month's time we shall meet again."

"Where?"

"At this very place."

The priest hastily quitted Gerzson and returned towards the forest, while the latter went on to the little town, where he speedily got post horses.

When now he found himself sitting all safe and sound, in the carriage, it suddenly struck him how remarkably odd it was that he and the parson should have actually fled away from a non-existent danger. How they would laugh at him from one end of the kingdom to the other! Suppose Henrietta had been playing a practical joke upon him! But then, on the other hand, Henrietta was not of that sort—so he consoled himself.

But there was another thing which bothered him a good deal. The coachman had been left behind with the four horses and would not know what to make of the disappearance of his master and the priest. When, however, the post chaise stopped in front of his house at Arad who should he see coming to meet him through the gate but this very coachman whose astonishment at the meeting was even greater than his master's. And then, to the amazement of the postillion, master and servant fell upon each other's necks and embraced each other again and again.

"Come into the house," said Mr. Gerzson at last, "and tell me what befell you. I don't want you to bellow it out here before all the world."

"I hardly know how to put it, sir, but I will tell it you as best I can. After watering the horses, I lay down and went to sleep. A loud neighing suddenly awoke me and, looking around, I saw a great light. The parson's house was all in flames. Up I was in a jiffy and ran to the door to call your honour but I found the door was locked from the inside. I then ran to the windows and found that the shutters were nailed down over them. What horrified me most of all, however, was that nobody came from the castle to put the fire out. Then I began to roar for help and while I was roaring and running up and down looking for an axe with which to batter in the door—'burum! burum!' I heard two shots and the bullets whistled to the right and left about my ears. At that all my pluck went down to my heels; I rushed under the shelter of the barn, cut the tether ropes of the horses, swung myself up on to the saddle horse, driving the others before me, and trotted into Arad without once stopping to water them."

So he had reached home more quickly than Squire Gerzson himself.

"Well, my son," said Gerzson, "all that you have told me is gospel truth I have no doubt, but say not a word of it to anybody, or else..." (and here he uttered the threat which the ordinary Hungarian common folk fear most of all)—"or else the affair will come before the courts and you will have to give testimony on oath."

After that he was sure of the fellow's silence.