The gates of the seraglio were thrown wide open, the discordant, clanging, and ear-piercing music was put to silence by a thundering roll of drums, and twelve mounted cavasses with great trouble and difficulty began clearing a way for the corps of viziers among the thronging crowd, belabouring all they met in their path with stout cudgels and rhinoceros whips. The indolent, gaping crowd saw that it was going to be flogged, yet didn't stir a step to get out of the reach of the whips and bludgeons.

The members of the DivÁn dismounted from their horses in the courtyard and ascended the steps, which were guarded by a double row of Janissaries with drawn scimitars, the blue and yellow curtains of the assembly hall of the DivÁn were drawn aside before them, and the mysterious inner chamber—the hearth and home of so much power and splendour, once upon a time—lay open before them.

It was a large octagonal chamber without any of those adornments forbidden by the Koran; its marble pavement covered by oriental carpets, its walls to the height of a man's stature inlaid with mother-o'-pearl. Along the walls were placed a simple row of low sofas covered with red velvet and without back-rests, behind them was a pillared niche concealing a secret door where Amurath was wont to listen unperceived to the consultations of his councillors.

Through the parted curtains passed the members of the Council of the DivÁn. First of all came the Grand Vizier, a tall, dry man with rounded projecting shoulders; his head was constantly on the move and his eyes peered now to the right and now to the left as if he were perpetually watching and examining something. His brown, mud-coloured face wore an expression of perpetual discontent; every glance was full of scorn, rage, and morbid choler; when he spoke he gnashed his black teeth together through which he seemed to filter his voice; and his face was never for an instant placid, at one moment he drew down his eyebrows till his eyes were scarce visible, at the next instant he raised them so that his whole forehead became a network of wrinkles and the whites of his eyes were visible; the corners of his mouth twitched, his chin waggled, his beard was thin and rarely combed, and the only time he ever smiled was when he saw fear on the face of the person whom he was addressing; finally, his robes hung about him so slovenly that despite the splendid ornaments with which they were plastered he always looked shabby and sordid.

After the Grand Vizier came Kiuprile, a full-bodied, red-faced Pasha, with a beard sprawling down to his knees; the broad sword which hung by his side raised the suspicion that the hand that was wont to wield it was the hand of no weakling; his voice resembled the roar of a buffalo, so deep, so rumbling was it that when he spoke quietly it was difficult to understand him, while on the battle-field you could hear him above the din of the guns.

Among the other members of the DivÁn there were three other men worthy of attention.

The first was Kucsuk Pasha, a muscular, martial man; his sunburnt face was seamed with scars, his eyes were as bright and as black as an eagle's; his whole bearing, despite his advanced age, was valiant and defiant; he carried his sword in his left hand; his walk, his pose, his look were firm; he was slow to speak, and rapid in action.

Beside him stood his son, Feriz Beg, the sharer of his father's dangers and glory, a tall, handsome youth in a red caftan and a white turban with a heron's plume.

Last of all came the Sultan's Christian doctor, the court interpreter, Alexander Maurocordato, a tall, athletic man, in a long, ample mantle of many folds; his long, bright, black beard reaches almost to his girdle, his features have the intellectual calm of the ancient Greek type, his thick black hair flows down on both shoulders in thick locks.

The viziers took their places; the Sultan's divan remains vacant; nearest to it sits the Grand Vizier; farther back sit the pashas, agas, and begs.

"Most gracious sir," said Maurocordato, turning towards the Grand Vizier, "the poor Magyar gentlemen have been waiting at thy threshold since dawn."

The Grand Vizier gazed venomously at the interpreter, protruding his head more than ever.

"Let them wait! It is more becoming that they should wait for us than we for them."

And with that he beckoned to the chief of the cavasses to admit the petitioners.

The refugees were twelve in number, and the chief cavasse, drawing aside the curtains from the door of an adjoining room, at once admitted them. Foremost among them was Paul BÉldi, the others entered with anxious faces and unsteady, hesitating footsteps; he alone was brave, noble, and dignified. His gentle, large blue eyes ran over the faces of those present, and his appearance excited general sympathy.

Only the Grand Vizier regarded him with a look of truculent indifference—it was his usual expression, and he knew no other.

"Fear not!—open your hearts freely!" signified the Grand Vizier.

BÉldi stepped forward, and bowed before the Grand Vizier. One of the Hungarians approached still nearer to the Vizier and kissed his hand; the others were prevented from doing the same by the intervention of Maurocordato, who at the same time beckoned to BÉldi to speak without delay.

"Your Excellencies!" began BÉldi, "our sad fate is already well-known to you, as fugitives from our native land we come to you, as beggars we stand before you; but not as fugitives, not as beggars do we petition you at this moment, but as patriots. We have quitted our country not as traitors, not as rebels, but because we would save it. The Prince is rushing headlong into destruction, carrying the country along with him. His chief counsellor lures him on with the promise of the crown of Hungary in the hope that he himself will become the Palatine. Your excellencies are aware what would be the fate of Hungary after such a war. A number of the great men of the realm joined me in a protest against this policy. We knew what we were risking. For some years past I have been one of those who disapproved of an offensive war—we are the last of them, the rest sit in a shameful dungeon, or have died a shameful death. Once upon a time, as happy fathers of families, we dwelt by our own firesides; now our wives and children are cast into prison, our castles are rooted up, our escutcheons are broken; but we do not ask of you what we have lost personally, we ask not for the possession of our properties, we ask not for the embraces of our wives and children, we do not even ask to see our country; we are content to die as beggars and outcasts; we only petition for the preservation of the life of the fatherland which has cast us forth, and which is rushing swiftly to destruction—hasten ye to save it."

Kucsuk Pasha, who well understood Hungarian, angrily clapped his hand upon his sword, half drew it and returned it to its sheath again. Feriz Beg involuntarily wiped away a tear from his eyes.

"Gracious sirs," continued BÉldi, "we do not wish you to be wrath with the Prince for the tears and the blood that have been shed; we only ask you to provide the Prince with better counsellors than those by whom he is now surrounded, binding them by oath to satisfy the nation and the Grand Seignior, for none will break such an oath lightly and with impunity; and these new counsellors will constrain him to be a better father to those who remain in the country than he was to us."

When BÉldi had finished, Maurocordato came forward, took his place between the speaker and the Grand Vizier, and began to interpret the words of BÉldi.

At the concluding words the face of the interpreter flushed brightly, his resonant, sonorous voice filled the room, his soul, catching the expression of his face, changed with his changing feelings. Where BÉldi calmly and resignedly had described his sufferings, the voice of the interpreter was broken and tremulous. Where BÉldi had sketched the future in a voice of solemn conviction, Maurocordato assumed a tone of prophetic inspiration; and finally, when in words of self-renunciation he appealed for the salvation of his country, his oratory became as penetrating, as bitterly ravishing, as if his speech were the original instead of the copy. Passion in its ancient Greek style, the style of Demosthenes, seemed to have arisen from the dead.

The listening Pashas seemed to have caught the inspiration of his enthusiasm, and bent their heads approvingly. The Grand Vizier contracted his eyelids, puckered up his lips, and hugging his caftan to his breast, began to speak, at the same time gazing around abstractedly with prickling eyes, every moment beating down the look of whomsoever he addressed or glaring scornfully at them. His screeching voice, which he seemed to strain through his lips, produced an unpleasant impression on those who heard it for the first time; while his features, which seemed to express every instant anger, rage, and scorn in an ascending scale, accentuated by the restless pantomime of his withered, tremulous hand, could not but make those of the Magyars who were ignorant of Turkish imagine that the Grand Vizier was atrociously scolding them, and that what he said was nothing but the vilest abuse from beginning to end.

Mr. Ladislaus Csaky, who was standing beside Paul BÉldi, plucked his fur mantle and whispered in his ear with a tremulous voice:

"You have ruined us. Why did you not speak more humbly? He is going to impale the whole lot of us."

The Vizier, as usual, concluded his speech with a weary smile, drew back his mocking lips, and exposed his black, stumpy teeth. The heart's blood of the Magyars began to grow cold at that smile.

Then Maurocordato came forward. A gentle smile of encouragement illumined his noble features, and he began to interpret the words of the Grand Vizier: "Worshipful Magyars, be of good cheer. I have compassion on your petition, your righteousness stands before us brighter than the noonday sun, your griefs shall have the fullest remedy. Ye did well to supplicate the garment of the Sublime Sultan; cling fast to the folds of it, and no harm shall befall you. Now depart in peace; if we should require you again, we will send for you."

Everyone breathed more easily. BÉldi thanked the Vizier in a few simple sentences, and they prepared to withdraw.

But Ladislaus Csaky, who was much more interested in his SÓva property than in the future of Transylvania, and to whom BÉldi's petition, which only sought the salvation of the fatherland, and said nothing about the restitution of confiscated estates, appeared inadequate, scarce waited for his turn to speak, and, what is more, threw himself at the feet of the Vizier, seized one of them, which he embraced, and began to weep tremendously. Indeed, his words were almost unintelligible for his weeping, and Mr. Csaky's oratory was always difficult to understand at the best of times, so that it was no wonder that the Grand Vizier lost his usual phlegm and now began to curse and swear in real earnest; till the other Magyar gentlemen rushed up, tore Csaky away by force, while Maurocordato angrily pushed them all out, and thus put an end to the scandalous scene.

"If you kneel before a man," said BÉldi, walking beside him, "at least do not weep like a child."

Before BÉldi could reach the door he felt his hand warmly pressed by another hand. He looked in that direction, and there stood Feriz.

"Did you say that your wife was a captive?" asked the youth with an uncertain voice.

"And my child also."

The face of Feriz flushed.

"I will release them," he said impetuously. BÉldi seized his hand. "Wait for me at the entrance."

The Hungarian refugees withdrew, everyone of them weaving for himself fresh hopes from the assurances of the Vizier. Only Ladislaus was not content with the result, and going to his quarters he immediately sat down and wrote two letters, one to the general of the Kaiser, and the other to the minister of the King of France, to both of whom he promised everything they could desire if they would help forward his private affairs, thinking to himself if the Sultan does not help me the Kaiser will, and if both fail me I can fall back upon the French King; at any rate a man ought to make himself safe all round.

Scarce had the refugees quitted the DivÁn when an Aga entered the audience-chamber and announced:

"The Magyar lords."

"What Magyar lords?" cried the Grand Vizier.

"Those whom the Prince has sent."

"They're in good time!" said the Vizier, "show them in;" and he at once fell into a proper pose, reserving for them his most venomous expression.

The curtains were parted, and the Prince's embassy appeared, bedizened courtly folks in velvet with amiable, simpering faces. Their spokesman, Farkas Bethlen, stood in the very place where Paul BÉldi had stood an hour before, in a velvet mantle trimmed with swan's-down, a bejewelled girdle worthy of a hero, and a sword studded with turquoises, the magnificence of his appointments oddly contrasting with his look of abject humility.

"Well! what do ye want? Out with it quickly!" snapped the Grand Vizier, with an ominous air of impatience.

Farkas Bethlen bent his head to his very knees, and then he began to orate in the roundabout rhetoric of those days, touching upon everything imaginable except the case in point.

"Most gracious and mighty, glorious and victorious Lords, dignified Grand Vizier, unconquerable Pashas, mighty Begs and Agas, most potent pillars of the State, lords of the three worlds, famous and widely-known heroes by land and sea, my peculiarly benevolent Lords!"

All this was merely prefatory!

Kiuprile began to perspire; Kucsuk Pasha twirled his sword upon his knee; Feriz Beg turned round and contemplated the fountains of the Seraglio through the window.

"Make haste, do!" interrupted Maurocordato impatiently; whereupon Farkas Bethlen, imagining that he had offended the interpreter by omitting him from the exordium, turned towards him with a supplementary compliment:

"Great and wise interpreter, most learned and extraordinarily to be respected court physician of the most mighty Sultan!"

Kiuprile yawned so tremendously that the girdle round his big body burst in two.

Farkas Bethlen, however, did not let himself be put out in the least, but continued his oration.

"Our worthy Prince, his Highness Michael Apafi, has been much distressed to learn that those seditious rebels who have dared to raise their evil heads, not only against the Prince but against the Sublime Porte also, as represented in his person, in consequence of the frustration of their plans, have fled hither to damage the Prince by their falsehoods and insinuations. Nevertheless, although our worthy Prince is persuaded that the wisdom of your Excellencies must needs confute their lying words, your goodwill confound their devices, and your omnipotence chastise their audacity, nevertheless it hath also seemed good to his Highness to send us to your Excellencies in order that we may refute all these complaints and accusations whereby they would falsely, treacherously and abominably disturb the realm ..."

Maurocordato here took advantage of a pause made by the orator to take breath after this exordium, and before he was able to proceed to the subject-matter of his address, began straightway to interpret what he had said so far for the benefit of the Grand Vizier, being well aware that the Vizier would not allow anyone to speak a second time before he had spoken himself.

The speech of the interpreter was this time dry and monotonous. All Farkas Bethlen's homiletical energy was thrown away in Maurocordato's drawling, indifferent reproduction.

The Grand Vizier replied with flashing eyes, his face was twice as venomous as it had been before, and his gestures plainly indicated an intention to show the envoys the door.

Maurocordato interpreted his reply.

"The Grand Vizier says that not those whom ye persecute but you yourselves are the rebels who have broken the oath ye made to the Sublime Porte, inasmuch as your ambitious projects aim at the separation of Transylvania from its dependence on the Porte and at the conquest of Hungary—both sure ways of destruction for yourselves. Wherefore the Grand Vizier gives you to understand that if you cannot sit still and live in peace with your own fellow-countrymen, he will send to you an intermediary, who will leave naught but tears behind him."

The Hungarian gentlemen regarded each other in astonishment. Not a trace of simpering amiability remained on the face of Farkas Bethlen, who was furious at the failure of the speech he had so carefully learnt by heart. He bowed still deeper than before, and sacrificing with extraordinary self-denial the remainder of his oration, especially as he perceived that any further parleying would not be permitted, he had resort to more drastic expedients.

"Oh, sir! how can such accusations affect us who have always been willing faithfully to fulfil your wishes? We pay tribute, we give gifts, and now also our worthy Prince hath not sent us to you empty-handed, having commanded Master Michael Teleki not to neglect to provide us with suitable gifts, who has, moreover, sent to your Excellencies through me two hundred purses of money,20 as a token of his respect and homage, beseeching your Excellencies to accept this little gift from us your humble servants."

20 Equivalent to 100,000 thalers.