At the very hour when Kucsuk Pasha arrived at Stambul, Master Ladislaus SzÉkely, whom Master Michael Teleki had sent with rich presents to the Porte, likewise dismounted from his carriage. It was his mission to win the favour of the infuriated Grand Vizier and the Pashas, who had again begun violently to urge Paul BÉldi to accept the princely throne.

Master Ladislaus SzÉkely had also brought with him ZÜlfikar to be his guide and interpreter through the tortuous streets of Stambul.

As we already know, this worthy gentleman's particular hobby was the collection of jewels, and the Prince had sent through him such a heap of precious stones that the heart of the good gentleman when he saw them all spread out before him died away within him at the thought that the whole collection was ruthlessly to be broken up and distributed among a lot of foreigners and Pashas.

"What a shame to lose them all," he thought. "And even then who knows whether we shall be safe after all. It is like casting pearls before swine. A much quicker way would be to get Master Paul BÉldi assassinated. That would be cutting the knot once for all, and we should have no further danger from that quarter. Michael Teleki wouldn't kill me for a trifle like that, I know. You, ZÜlfikar, my son, could you undertake to poison someone?" he inquired, turning towards the renegade."The whole town if you like."

"No, only Master Paul BÉldi. It is all one to him whether he dies or remains a prisoner for life."

"I'll do it for two hundred ducats, if you pay me half in advance."

"I'll pay you, ZÜlfikar, but how will you get at him?"

"That's my affair, all you have to do is to get the money ready."

Accordingly Ladislaus SzÉkely gave the earnest-money to the renegade, and the renegade went home and wrote a letter in the name of the Beglerleg of the following tenour: "Be assured that our affairs are in the best order, and we shall shortly gain our object."

He strewed over these lines a fine blue dust which was the strongest of poisons, calculating that whoever wanted to read the letter would first brush the dust off it, whereupon the fine dust would rise in the air, and the person reading the letter would inhale the dust and die.

After attaching the letter to his turban, he began prowling round the dungeon of Paul BÉldi, awaiting an opportunity of worming his way into it.

Paul BÉldi was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the dungeon of Jedikula. At his feet lay his faithful bloodhound, KÖrtÖvely, with his eyes fixed sadly on his master. Whenever his master slept the dog would sit up, never take his eyes off him, and begin growling at the lightest noise.

BÉldi, with folded arms, was sitting on the stone bench to which he was chained. His face had grown terribly pale and as if turned to stone. The pale gleam of light which filtered through the narrow window and lit up his face, found there no trace of that weary longing which the dweller in prisons generally has for the sun's rays. The whole man, body and soul, was hardened into steel.

Suddenly the dog lying at his feet impatiently raised its sagacious head, and then with a whimper of joy ran towards the door; there it stood for a time merrily barking, and then ran back to its master and stood before him wagging its tail with one foot on his shoulder, whining and whimpering with such lively joy that one might almost have understood what it wanted to say.

"What's the matter? Good dog!" said BÉldi, stroking the dog's head. "What is it? Nobody's coming to see me that can make you happy."

At that moment the key turned in the door of the dungeon and a group of men by the light of torches descended the steps and entered BÉldi's prison; whereupon KÖrtÖvely quickly left his master and burrowing his way through the throng, began to yelp merrily over someone, and then rushing back to his master, planted his fore-paws on his breast and barked as if he would burst because he could not express more plainly the joy which his wonderful canine instinct had anticipated.

BÉldi, perceiving among those who visited him the Grand Vizier, Kiuprile, and Maurocordato, ordered his dog to be quiet, and standing up before them, saluted them with a deep bow.

"Well, thou obstinate man!" said the Grand Vizier, "how long wilt thou torment thyself and offend the Sultan and thine own good friends? Wilt thou ever perceive that to sit on a stone bench in a damp dungeon is a very different thing to sitting on a princely throne?"

"The more I suffer," said BÉldi, in a strangely calm voice, "the more reason I have to rejoice that my country does not suffer instead of me."

The Grand Vizier thereupon said something in Turkish which Maurocordato sadly interpreted: "The Grand Seignior informs thee that because of money thou hast been cast into prison, and only money can release thee; promise, therefore, two hundred and seventy purses, and thou shalt get the Principality to enable thee to pay it.""I have told you my determination," said BÉldi, "and I will not depart from it. I will not promise money to the detriment of my country. I will not lead an army against it, and I will not break my oath. These were and will be my words from which I can never depart."

"Never!" cried Kucsuk Pasha, pressing through the crowd. "Wilt thou not even now?"—and with that he led a pale female figure towards BÉldi.

"My wife!" exclaimed the captive, and he gripped fast his chains lest he should collapse for joy, terror, and surprise.

The pale woman in mourning fell upon his bosom, her tears became his fetters.

Paul BÉldi burst into tears, he fell back upon his stone bench, his very soul was shattered. He remained clinging upon his wife's neck, speechless, unable to utter a word, and the whining dog licked now the hand of his master and now the lady's hand.

"Let us turn aside," said Kucsuk Pasha; "let us leave them together"—and the Turks withdrew from the dungeon, leaving Paul BÉldi alone with his wife.

"I fancied," said Dame BÉldi when she was able to utter a word amidst her choking sobs. "I fancied I was suffering instead of you, and oh! you were suffering more than I."

"How did you come here?" asked BÉldi, in a low stifled voice.

"Kucsuk Pasha left his son as a hostage in my stead."

"Worthy man! What useless sacrifices he is making for my sake. And my children?"

"They remain in the dungeon whither also I must return, if you will not accept the Sultan's offer."

"Have they taken away my girl Aranka also?" asked BÉldi, with a heavy heart.

"Yes, they have taken her too, and if we are released we shall have no whither to go. They have taken everything of ours. The Bethlen property has become the prey of Farkas Bethlen; the Haromszeki estate is now in the hands of Clement Mikes, although it is not lawful to deprive a SzÉkler of his lands, even for high-treason. Our castle at Bodola has been totally destroyed, our escutcheon has been torn to pieces, and your name has been recorded in the journals of the Diet as a traitor."

"Oh, ye men!" roared BÉldi, shaking his chains in the bitterness of his anger; "if I were not Paul BÉldi the wrath of God would descend upon your heads. But ah!—I love my country even if worms are gnawing it. Dry your eyes, my good wife! you see I am not weeping. What we suffer is the visitation of God upon us. I remain a Christian and a patriot. I leave my cause to God!"

"You will not accept the offer of the Sultan?" inquired Dame BÉldi, approaching her husband with fear and despair in her eyes.

"Never!" replied BÉldi, in a low voice.

The wife, with a loud scream, flung herself at the feet of her husband, and, seizing his knees in a convulsive embrace, begged and besought him: "You would send me back to my dungeon? You would separate me from you for ever? Never, never, not even in the hour of death, shall I see you again."

"Comfort yourself with the thought that you loved me, and were worthy of me, if you can suffer as I do and for the same reason."

"You would plunge your children into eternal captivity?"

"Tell them that their father lived honourably and died honourably, and teach them to live and die like him."

"Think of your girl, Aranka; your favourite, your dearest child."

"Rather may she fade away than Transylvania be plunged in the flames of war."

"BÉldi! drive me not to despair!" cried the wife trembling violently. "I am afraid, horribly afraid, of my dungeon. Twice have I had fever from the close, damp air. There was none to care for me in my sickness; I was calling your name continually, and you were far from me; I saw your image, and was unable to embrace you. Oh, BÉldi! I shall die without you! The most terrible form of death—despair—will kill me!"

BÉldi knelt down by the side of his wife and embraced and kissed her. The woman fainted in his arms as the Turks entered his prison. BÉldi beckoned Kucsuk Pasha to him. A sort of leaden, death-like hue had begun to spread over his face; he could scarce see with whom he was conversing. He laid his swooning wife in the arms of the Pasha, and stammered with barely intelligible words: "I thank you for your good will. Here is my wife—take her—back to her dungeon!"

The Turks, in speechless astonishment, lifted up the fainting woman, and left the dungeon without plaguing BÉldi with any more questions.

BÉldi stood stonily there as they went out, with open lips and a dull light in his eyes. When the last Turk had gone, and he saw his wife no longer, his head began to nod and droop down, and suddenly he fell prone upon the floor.

KÖrtÖvely, the old hound, began sorrowfully, bitterly, to whine.

At that moment ZÜlfikar entered the dungeon with the poisoned letter.

He was too late. Paul BÉldi had already departed from this world.

When Ladislaus SzÉkely heard of BÉldi's death he gave a magnificent banquet, and when the company was at its merriest ZÜlfikar came rushing in.

"Come! out with those hundred ducats!" he whispered in the ear of Master Ladislaus SzÉkely.

"What do you mean?" cried SzÉkely in a voice flushed with wine. "Paul BÉldi had a stroke; be content with what you have had already.""Thou faithless dog of a giaour!" cried the renegade at the top of his voice so that everyone could hear him, "is this the way thou dost deceive me? Thou didst bargain with me for the death of Paul BÉldi for two hundred ducats, and now thou wouldst beat me down by one half. Thou art a rogue meet for the hangman's hands. Is it thus thou dost treat an honest man? I'll not kill a man for thee another time until thou pay me in advance, thou faithless robber!"

The company laughed aloud at this scene, but Master Ladislaus SzÉkely seemed very much put out by the joke. "What are you talking about, you crazy fellow?" said he. "Who asked you to do anything? I never saw you in my life before!"

"What!" cried ZÜlfikar. "I suppose thou wilt deny next that thou didst write this letter to Paul BÉldi!" and with that he gave Ladislaus SzÉkely the poisoned letter. He seized it, broke the seal, brushed away the dust, and ran his eye over it, whereupon he flung it at the feet of ZÜlfikar, exclaiming: "I never wrote that."

Then he beckoned to the servants to seize ZÜlfikar by the collar and pitch him into the street. But the renegade stood outside in front of the windows and began to curse SzÉkely before the assembled crowd for not paying him the price of the poison.

Inside the house the guests laughed more heartily than ever, and at last SzÉkely himself began to look upon the matter in the light of a joke, and laughed like the rest; but when he returned home to Transylvania he felt a pain in his stomach, and did not know what was the matter. He became deaf, could neither eat nor drink, and his bowels began to rot.

Nobody could cure him of his terrible malady, till at last he fell in with a German leech, who persuaded him that he could cure him with the dust of genuine diamonds and sapphires. Ladislaus SzÉkely handed to the charlatan his collection of precious stones. He abstracted the stones from their settings, but ground up common stones instead of them in his medical mortar, and stampeded himself with the real stones, leaving Ladislaus SzÉkely to die the terrible death by poison which he had intended for Paul BÉldi.

Paul BÉldi they buried in foreign soil; none visited his grave. Only his faithful dog sat beside it. For eight days it neither ate nor drank. On the ninth day it died on the deserted grave of its master.