It was Andy who came galloping up, with waving handkerchief and loosely hanging reins.
“Well, Andrew! what has happened?” cried Apafi with a beating heart to his servant while he was still a long way off.
“Good news, sir!” cried Andy: “our most gracious lady has just now given birth to a son, and she herself, thank God! is quite out of danger.”
“Blessed be the name of the Lord!” cried Apafi, with a lightened heart; and as he dismissed the messenger, the idea which was at the bottom of all his griefs vanished from his brain, and with it all his griefs also. He thought of his newborn son, and in the light of that thought he began to regard his Turkish escort with other eyes: they now seemed to him as good, honourable, civilized a set of people as it was possible to find on the face of the earth.
It was late at night when they reached Ali Pasha’s camp. The sentinels slept like badgers; you might have carried off the whole camp bodily so far as they were concerned. Apafi had to wait in front of the Pasha’s tent till the latter had huddled on his clothes. The curtains of the tent were then drawn aside, and he was invited to enter. Ali Pasha was sitting with folded arms on a carpet spread out in the back part of the tent; behind him stood two gorgeously-dressed Moors with drawn scimitars. The outlines of a couple of figures were distinctly visible through the tapestry wall which separated the back part of the tent from the audience chamber—no doubt the Pasha’s wives, on the alert to pick up something of what was going on.
“Art thou that same Michael Apafi who was for some years the prisoner of the Tartar Mirza?” asked the Pasha, after the usual greetings.
“The same, most gracious Pasha, to whom also the Khan compassionately remitted the remainder of the ransom money.”
“Think no more of that. The Mirza remitted the remainder of the ransom money because my master, the Sublime Sultan, commanded him so to do, and the illustrious Padishah will do yet more for thee.”
“Wonderingly I listen, and gratefully; not knowing how I have deserved such grace,” returned Apafi.
“The Sublime Sultan has heard how honestly, discreetly, and manfully thou hast borne thy doleful captivity, and how thou didst win the hearts of thy fellow-captives, insomuch that they all looked up to thee, though among slaves there is no distinction of rank. For which cause therefore, and also having regard to the fact that the present Prince of Transylvania, John Kemeny, would fain rebel against the Sublime Porte, the illustrious Padishah, I say, has for these reasons resolved to raise thee without delay to the throne of Transylvania and keep thee there.”
“Me! You are pleased to jest with your servant, most gracious sir!” stuttered Apafi.
His eyes were blinded by excess of light.
“Nay, thou hast not the slightest cause to be amazed thereat. The Padishah has but to nod, and pashas and princes become slaves, beggars, or corpses. He nods again, and beggars and slaves rise up into their places. Thou art highly favoured, for thou hast found grace before him. Use it discreetly then, but beware of abusing it!”
“But, most gracious sir, does it occur to you how I’m to become a prince?”
“Leave that to me. I’ll make thee one.”
“But Transylvania has got another prince, John Kemeny.”
“Leave that to me also. I’ll dispose of him.”
Apafi shrugged his shoulders. He felt that he had never been in such a mess in all his life.
“My wife was quite right in her presentiment that a great misfortune was about to befall me,” thought he to himself.
The Pasha began again.
“Summon therefore a Diet at once, so that the installation may take place as speedily as possible.”
“I summon a Diet! I should like to know who would appear to my summons. Why, sir, I am the least amongst the gentry of the land; people will laugh in my face, and say that I am mad.”
“In that case they will soon see that it is they who are mad.”
“But how am I to send out the writs? for, excepting the land of the Szeklers,9 Kemeny10 holds every place.”
“Then summon the Szeklers. They, at any rate, will come.”
“But I don’t even know their chief-men, for I am not a born Szekler. The only persons I know amongst them are Stephen Kun, John Daczo, and Stephen Nalaczi.”
“Then summon hither Stephen Kun, John Daczo, and Stephen Nalaczi, if you consider them fit and proper persons.”
Apafi began to scratch his head.
“But supposing they do appear, where shall we hold our Diet? There is no place for us. At Klausenburg the governor, my brother-in-law, Denis Banfi, is my sworn enemy, while at Hermannstadt lies John Kemeny in person.”
“We can assemble here in Kis-Selyk.”
Harassed as he was, Apafi could not help laughing aloud.
“Why, here there is not a house large enough to hold thirty men,” cried he energetically.
“What! is there not the church?” interrupted the Pasha. “If that house be sufficiently fine for the honour of God, I suppose it will do to honour men in!”
Apafi saw no further escape.
“Can you write?” asked the Pasha.
“Yes, I can do that,” replied Apafi, sighing deeply.
“Very well, for I cannot. So sit down and issue the writs for a Diet.”
A slave then brought in a writing-table, a scroll of parchment, and an inkhorn. Apafi sat down like a lamb about to be slaughtered, and began with a caligraphic flourish so large that the Turk sprang up in affright, and asked what it meant.
“It is a W,” answered Apafi.
“You won’t leave any room for the remaining letters.”
“That is only the initial letter, the others
