This incident was the occasion of great affliction to the Estates of Transylvania. The counsellors assembled at the appointed time at the residence of the Prince, who at that moment would have felt happier as a Tartar captive than as the ruler of Transylvania.

On the day of the session everyone appeared in the council chamber with as gloomy a countenance as if he were about to pronounce his own death-warrant.

They took their places in silence, and everyone took great care that his sword should not rattle. There were present: old John and young Michael Bethlen, Paul BÉldi, Caspar Kornis, Ladislaus Csaky, Joshua Kapi, and the protonotarius, Francis SÁrpataky. For the Prince, there had just been prepared a new canopied throne, with three steps; it was the first time he had sat on it. Beside it was an empty arm-chair, reserved for Michael Teleki.

As soon as the guard of the chamber announced that the counsellors had assembled, the Prince at once appeared, accompanied by Michael Teleki and Stephen NalÁczi.

It could be seen from the Prince's face that for at least two hours Teleki had been filling his head with talk. Nalaczi greeted everyone present with a courtly smile, but nobody smiled back at him. Teleki, with cold gravity, led the Prince to the throne. The latter on first looking up at the throne, stood before it as if thunderstruck, and seemed to be deliberating for a moment whether it ought not to be taken away and a simple chair put in its place. But after thinking it well out he mounted the steps, and, sighing deeply, took his seat upon it.

Michael Teleki stood silent in his place for some time, as if he was collecting his thoughts. His eyes did not travel along the faces of those present as they generally did to watch the effect of his words, but were fixed on the clasp of his kalpag, and his voice was much duller than at other times, often sinking to tremulous depths, except when he pulled himself together and tried to give it a firmer tone.

"Your Highness, your Excellencies,—God has reserved peculiar trials for our unfortunate nation. One danger has scarce passed over us when we plump into another; when we try to avoid the lesser perils, we find the greater ones directly in our path, and we end in sorrow what we began in joy. Scarcely have we got over the tidings of the battle of St. Gothard (we had our own melancholy reasons for not participating therein), and the consequent annihilation of the far-reaching designs of the Turkish Empire, by the peace contracted between the two great Powers, amidst whose quarrels our unhappy country is buffeted about as if between hammer and anvil, when we have a fresh and still greater occasion for apprehension. For the generals of the Turkish Sultan impute the loss of the battle to the premature flight of Prince Ghyka, and at the same time hold us partly responsible for it—and certainly, had our soldiers stood in the place of the Wallachian warriors, although they would not have liked fighting their fellow-Magyars, nevertheless, if once they had been in for it, they would not have ran away and so the battle would not have been lost—wherefore the wrath of the Sublime Sultan was so greatly kindled against both the neighbouring nations, that he sent his cavasses to seize the Prince of Moldavia and carry him in chains to Stambul with his whole family. As for Transylvania, but for the mercy of God and the goodwill of certain Turkish statesmen, we might have seen it suddenly converted into a sandjak or province, and a fez-wearing Pasha on the throne of his Highness. Now it has so happened that the Prince of Moldavia, wresting himself and his wife out of the hands of their pursuers, took the shortest road to Transylvania. We sent a message to them that on no account were they to try to come here, as their flight would cost us more than a Tartar invasion. The Prince, therefore, took refuge in the mountains, but let his wife continue her journey, and, in an evil hour for us and herself, she arrived here a few days ago with the knowledge and under the very eyes of the Sultan's plenipotentiary. The husband having escaped, the whole wrath of the Sultan is turned upon the wife and upon us also if we try to defend her. What, then, are we to do? If we had to choose between shame and death, I should know what to say; but here our choice is only between two kinds of shame: either to hand over an innocent, tender woman, who has appealed to us for protection, or see a Turkish Pasha sitting on the throne of the Prince!"

"But there's a third course, surely," said BÉldi, "by way of petition?"

"I might indeed make the request," interrupted Apafi, "but I know very well what answer I should get."

"I do not mean petitioning the envoy," returned BÉldi. "Who would humiliate himself by petitioning the servant when he could appeal to the master?"

At this Apafi grew dumb; he could not bring forward the fact that he had already petitioned the servant.

"I believe that BÉldi is right," said young Michael Bethlen, "and that is the only course we can take. I am well acquainted with the mood of an eastern Despot when he gets angry, and I know that at such times it is nothing unusual for him to level towns to the ground and decapitate viceroys; but fortunately for Transylvania it is situated in Europe, where one state has some regard for another, and it is the interest of all the European kingdoms to maintain a free state between themselves and the Ottoman Empire, even if it be only a small one like Transylvania. And it seems to me that if our petition be supported at Stambul by the French, Austrian, and Polish ambassadors, there will be no reason for the Sultan, especially after such a defeat as the last one, to send a Pasha to Transylvania. And, finally, if we show him that our swords have not rusted in their scabbards, and that we know how to draw them on occasion, he will not be disposed to do so."

The youth's enthusiastic speech began to pour fresh confidence into the souls of those who heard him, and their very faces appeared to brighten because of it.

Teleki shook his head slowly.

"I tell your Excellencies it will be a serious business," said he. "I am obliged to arouse you from an agreeable dream by confronting you with a rigorous fact. Europe has not the smallest care for our existence; we only find allies when they have need of our sacrifices; let us begin to petition, and they know us no more. It is true that at one time I said something very different, but time is such a good master that it teaches a man more in one day than if he had gone through nine schools. In consequence of the battle of St. Gothard, peace has been concluded between the two Emperors. I have read every article of it, every point, and we are left out of it altogether, as if we were a nation quite unworthy of consideration. Yet the French, the English, and the Polish ministers were there, and I can say that not one of them received so much pay from his own court as he received from us. If they want war, oh! then we are a great and glorious nation; but when peace is concluded they do not even know that we are there. In war we may lead the van, but in the distribution of rewards we are left far behind. And now the Pasha of Buda, who is bent upon our destruction and would like to set a pasha over Transylvania, after the last defeat, has sent down Yffim Beg to us to go from village to village demanding why the arrears of taxes have not been paid, and then he is coming to the Prince to ask the cause of the remissness and threaten him with the vengeance of the Pasha of Buda."

There was a general murmur of indignation.

"Ah, gentlemen, let us confess to each other that we play at being masters in our own home, but in fact we are masters there no longer. We may trust to our efforts and rely upon our rights, but we have none to help us; we have no allies either on the right hand or on the left; we have only our masters. We may change our masters, but we shall never win confederates. The Power which stands above us is only awaiting an opportunity to carry out its designs upon us, and no one could render it a better service in Transylvania than by raising his head against it. We have all of us a great obligation laid upon us: to recognise the little we possess, take care to preserve it, and, if the occasion arise, insist upon it. It is true that while the sword is in our hands we may defend all Europe with it; but let our sword once be broken and our whole realm falls to pieces and the heathen will trample upon us in the sight of all the nations. We shall bleed for a half-century or so, and nobody will come to our assistance; the gates of our realm will be guarded by our enemies; and, like the scorpion in a fiery circle, we shall only turn the bitterness of our hearts against ourselves. Do you want reasons, then, why we should not defend those hunted creatures who seek a refuge with us? The World and Fate have settled their accounts with us; this realm is left entirely to its own devices. Matters standing thus, if we refuse to deliver up to Olaj Beg the above-mentioned Princess of Moldavia, the armies of the Pashas of Buda and Grosswardein will instantly receive orders to reduce Transylvania to the rank of a vassal state of the Porte. There is no room here for regret or humanity, self-preservation is our one remaining duty and the duty of self-preservation demands that where we have no choice, we should do voluntarily what we may be forced to do."

Teleki had scarce finished these words than an attendant announced that the Princess of Moldavia requested admittance into the council chamber.

Apafi would have replied in the negative, but Teleki signified that she might as well come in.

A few moments later the attendant again appeared and requested permission for the ladies of the Princess's suite to accompany their mistress, as she was too weak to walk alone.

Teleki consented to that also.

The counsellors cast down their eyes when the door opened. But there is a sort of spell which forces a man to look in the very direction in which he would not, in which he fears to look, and lo and behold! when the door opened and the hunted woman entered with her suite, a cry of astonishment resounded from every lip. For of what did the woman's suite consist? It consisted of the most eminent ladies of Transylvania. The wives and daughters of all the counsellors present accompanied the unfortunate lady, foremost among them being the Princess and Dame Michael Teleki, on whose shoulders she leaned; and last of all came old Dame Bethlen, with dove-white hair. All the most respectable matrons, the loveliest wives, and fairest maidens of the realm were there.

The unfortunate Princess, whose pale face was full of suffering, advanced on the arms of her supporters towards the throne of the Prince. Her knees tottered beneath her, her whole body trembled like a leaf, she opened her lips, but no sound proceeded from them.

"Courage, my child," whispered Anna Bornemissza, pressing her hand; whereupon the tears suddenly burst from the eyes of the unfortunate woman, and, breaking from her escort, she flung herself at the feet of the Prince, embracing his knees with her convulsive arms, and raising towards him her tear-stained face, exclaimed with a heart-rending voice: "Mercy! ... Mercy!"

A cold dumbness sat on every lip; it was impossible for a time to hear anything but the woman's deep sobbing. The Prince sat like a statue on his throne, the steps of which Mariska Sturdza moistened with her tears. The silence was painful to everyone, yet nobody dared to break it.

Teleki smoothed away his forelock from his broad forehead, but he could not smooth away the wrinkles which had settled there. He regretted that he had given occasion to this scene.

"Mercy!" sobbed the poor woman once more, and half unconsciously her hand slipped from Apafi's knees. Aranka BÉldi rushed towards her and rested her declining head on her own pretty childlike bosom.

Then Anna Bornemissza stepped forward, and after throwing a stony glance upon all the counsellors present, who cast down their eyes before her, looked Apafi straight in the face with her own bright, penetrating, soul-searching eyes, till her astonished husband was constrained to return her glance almost without knowing it.

"My petition is a brief one," said Dame Apafi in a low, deep, though perfectly audible voice. "An unfortunate woman, whom the Lord of Destiny did not deem to be sufficiently chastened by a single blow, has lost in one day her husband, her home, and her property; she implores us now for bare life. You see her lying in the dust asking of you nothing more than leave to rest—a petition which Dzengis Khan's executioners would have granted her. That is all she asks, but we demand more. The destiny of Transylvania is in your hands, but its honour is ours also; ye are summoned to decide whether our children are to be happy or miserable. But speak freely to us and say if you wish them to be honourable men or cowards. And I ask you which of us women would care to bear the name of a Kornis, a Csaky, or an Apafi, if posterity shall say of the bearers of these names that they surrendered an innocent woman to her heathen pursuers and constrained their own sons thereby to renounce the names of their fathers? Look not so darkly upon me, Master Michael Teleki, for my soul is dark enough without that. An unhappy woman is on her knees before you, hoping that she will find you to be men. The women of Transylvania stand before you, hoping to find you patriots. We beg you to have compassion for the sake of the honour of our children."

Teleki, upon whom the eyes of the Princess had flashed fiercely during the speech, as if accepting the challenge, answered in a cold, stony voice:

"Here, madam, we dispense justice only, not mercy or honour."

"Justice!" exclaimed Anna. "What! If a husband has offended, is his innocent wife, whose only fault is that she loves the fugitive, is she, I say, to suffer punishment in his stead? Where is the justice of that?"

"Justice is often another name for necessity."

"Then who are all ye whom I see here? Are ye the chief men of Transylvania or Turkish slaves? This is what I ask, and what we should all of us very much like to know: is this the council chamber of the free and constitutional state of Transylvania, or is it the ante-chamber of Olaj Beg?"

The gentlemen present preserved a deep silence. This was a question to which they could not give a direct answer.

"I demand an answer to my question," cried Dame Apafi in a loud voice.

"And what good will the answer do you, my lady?" inquired Teleki, pressing his index-finger to his lips.

"I shall at any rate know whether the place in which we now stand is worthy of us.""It is not worthy, my lady. The present is no time for the Magyars to be proud that they dwell in Transylvania; we are ashamed to be the responsible ministers of a down-trodden, deserted, and captive nation. This your Highness ought to know as well as any of us, for it was a Turkish Pasha who placed your husband on the Prince's seat. And, assuredly, it would be a far less grief to us to lose our heads than to bend them humbly beneath the derisive honour of being the leaders of a people lying among ruins. But, at the most, history will only be able to say of us that we humbly bowed before necessity, that we bore the yoke of the stranger without dignity, that running counter to the feelings of our hearts and the persuasions of our minds, we covered our faces with shame, and yet that that very shame and dishonour saved the life of Transylvania, and that poor spot of earth which remained in our hands saved the whole country from a bloody persecution. We are the victims of the times, madam; help us to conceal the blush of shame and share it with us. There, you have the answer to your question."

Dame Apafi grew as pale as death, her head drooped, and she clasped her hands together.

"So we have come to this at last? Formerly valour was the national virtue, now it is cowardice. What is our own fate likely to be if we reject this poor woman? What has happened to-day to a Princess Ghyka might easily happen to the wives of Kornis and Csaky and BÉldi to-morrow. For their husbands' faults they may be carried away captive, brought to the block, if only God does not have mercy upon them, for you yourselves say that this would be right. Why do you look at us? You, BÉldi, Kornis, Teleki, Csaky, Bethlen, here stand your wives and daughters. Draw forth your coward swords, and if you dare not slay men, at least slay women; kill them before it occurs to the Turkish Padishah to drag them by the hair into his harem."As Dame Apafi mentioned the names of the men one after another, their wives and daughters, loudly weeping, rushed towards them, and hiding their heads in their bosoms, with passionate sobs, begged for the unfortunate Princess, and behold the eyes of the men also filled with tears, and nothing could be heard in the room but the sobbing of the husbands mingled with the sobbing of their wives.

On Teleki's breast also hung the gentle Judith VeÉr and his own daughter Flora, and the great stony-hearted counsellor stood trembling between them; and although his cast-iron features assumed with an effort a rigorous expression, nevertheless a couple of unrestrainable tears suddenly trickled down the furrows of his face.

The Prince turned aside on his throne, and covering his face, murmured: "No more, Anna! No more!"

"Oh, Apafi!" cried the Princess bitterly; "if perish I must it shall not be by your hand. Anna Bornemissza has strength enough to meet death if there be no choice between that and shame. Be content, if Olaj Beg demands my death, I shall at least be spared the unpleasantness of falling at your feet in supplication. And now, pronounce your decision, but remember that every word you say will resound throughout the Christian world."

Teleki dried the tears from his face, made his wife and daughter withdraw, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion:

"In vain should I deny it, my tears reveal that I have a feeling heart. I am a man, I am a father, and a husband. If I were nothing but Michael Teleki, I should know how to sacrifice myself on behalf of persecuted innocence; and if my colleagues around me were only companions-in-arms, I should say to them, gird on your swords, lie in wait, rush upon the Turkish escort of the Princess, and deliver her out of their hands—if we perish, a blessing will be upon us. But in this place, in these chairs, it is not ourselves who feel and speak. The life, the death of all Transylvania depends upon us. And my last word is that we incontinently deliver up Mariska Sturdza to the ambassador of the Porte. If my colleagues decide otherwise, I will agree to it, I will take my share of the responsibility, but I shall have saved my soul anyhow. Speak, gentlemen, and if you like, vote against me."

The silence of death ensued, nobody spoke a word.

"What, nobody speaks?" cried Dame Apafi in amazement. "Nobody! Ah! let us leave this place! There is not a man in the whole principality."

And with these words the lady withdrew from the council chamber. Her attendants followed her sorrowfully, one by one, tearfully bidding adieu to the unfortunate Princess. Aranka BÉldi was the last to part from her. During the whole of this mournful scene her eyes had remained tearless, but she had knelt down the whole time by Mariska's side, holding her closely embraced, and assuring her that God would deliver her, she must fear nothing.

When all the ladies had withdrawn, and Dame BÉldi beckoned her daughter to follow her, she tenderly kissed the face of her friend and whispered in her ear: "I have still hope, fear not, we will save you!" and smiling at her with her bright blue eyes like an angel of consolation, got up and withdrew.

The Princess, tearless, speechless, then allowed herself to be conducted away by the officers of the council chamber.

The men remained sitting upon their chairs, downcast and sorrowful. Every bosom was oppressed, and every heart was empty, and the thought of their delivered fatherland was a cold consolation for the grief they felt that the Government of Transylvania should fling an innocent woman back into the throat of the monster which was pursuing her.

The silence still continued when, suddenly, the door was violently burst open, and shoving aside the guards right and left, Yffim Beg entered the room. He had been sent by Hassan Pasha to levy contributions on the Prince and the people.

The rough Turkish captain looked round with boorish pride upon the silent gentlemen, who were still depressed by the preceding incident, and perceiving that here he had to do with the humble, without so much as bowing, he strode straight up to the Prince, and placing one foot on the footstool before the throne, and throwing his head haughtily back, flung these words at him:

"In the name of my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, I put this question to thee, thou Prince of the Giaurs, why hast thou kept back for so long the tribute which is due to the Porte? Who hath caused the delay—thou, or the farmers of the taxes, or the tax-paying people? Answer me directly, and take care that thou liest not!"

The Prince looked around with wrinkled brows as if looking for something to fling at the head of the fellow. He regretted that the inkstand was so far off.

But Teleki handed a sheet of parchment to SÁrpataky, the clerk of the council.

"Read our answer to the Pasha's letter," said he; "as for you—sir I will not call you—listen to what is written therein. 'Beneficent Hassan Pasha, we greatly regret that you bother yourself about things which are already settled. We do not ask you why you came so late to the battle of St. Gothard. Why do you ask us, then, why we are so late with the taxes? We will answer for ourselves at the proper time and place. Till then, Heaven bless you, and grant that misfortune overwhelm you not just when you would ruin others.' When you have written all that down, hand it to his Highness the Prince for signature."

The gentlemen present had fallen from one surprise into another. Michael Teleki, who a moment before, against the inclinations of his own heart and mind, had tried to compel the land to submit to the demand of Olaj Beg, could in the next moment send such a message to the powerful Vizier of Buda.

But Teleki knew very well that the storm which was passing over the country on account of the Princess of Moldavia was sure to rebound on the head of the Vizier of Buda. The Sultan was seeking for an object on which to wreak his wrath because of the lost battle, and if the Pasha of Buda did not succeed in making the Government of Transylvania the victim, he would fall a victim himself.

As for Yffim Beg, he did not quite know whether a thunder-bolt had plunged down close beside him, or whether he was dreaming. There he stood like a statue, unable to utter a word, and only looked on stupidly while the letter was being written before his very eyes, while Apafi's pen scraped the parchment as he subscribed his signature, while they poured the sand over it, folded it up, impressed it with an enormous seal, and thrust it into his palm.

Only then did he emerge somewhat from his stupor.

"Do ye think I am mad enough to carry this letter back with me to Buda?"

And with these words he seized the letter at both ends, tore it in two, and flung it beneath the table.

"Write another!" said he, "write it nicely, for my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, will strangle the whole lot of you."

Teleki turned coldly towards him.

"If you don't like the letter, worthy mÜderris, you may go back without any letter at all."

"I am no mÜderris, but Yffim Beg. I would have thee know that, thou dog; and I won't go without a letter, and I won't let you all go till ye have written another."

And with these words he sat down on the steps of the Prince's throne and crossed his legs, so that two were sitting on the throne at the same time, the Beg and Apafi.

"Guards!" cried Apafi in a commanding voice, "seize this shameless fellow, tie him on to a horse's back and drive him out of the town."

They needed not another word. One of the guards immediately rushed forward to where Yffim Beg was still sitting on a footstool with legs crossed, and took him under the arm, while another of them grasped him firmly by the collar, and raising him thus in the air, kicking and struggling, carried him out of the room in a moment. The Beg struck, bit, and scratched, but it was all of no avail. The merciless drabants set him on the back of a horse in the courtyard, without a saddle, tied his feet together beneath the horse's belly, placed the bridle of the steed in the hands of a stable-boy, while another stable-boy stood behind with a good stout whip; and so liberally did they interpret the commands of the chief counsellor, that they escorted the worthy gentleman, not only out of the town, but beyond the borders of the realm.