“My dear!” cried Apafi in astonishment, “you are really a born princess.”
Anna took her husband softly by the arm, led him to the dais, and made him sit down.
“The sceptre is no plaything, Apafi,” said she earnestly. “Never forget that posterity will sit in judgment on princes. A ruler’s every act and word may mean the ruin or the salvation of thousands. Think of that in all you do and say. And now, God be with you. Be firm!”
Anna, with an exalted look, kissed the Prince on the forehead. At that very moment her eye fell on the parchment roll of the itinerant scholar.
“What plan of campaign is this?” cried she, taking up the parchment.
Apafi would have snatched it from her, but it was too late; Anna had already unrolled it, and after casting a rapid glance over the lickspittling pedigree, looked with an expression of overwhelming reproach at the discomfited Prince, who stood before her with downcast eyes.
“Did you get anyone to compose it?” she softly asked.
“Certainly not,” replied Apafi energetically; “a shameless poet brought it to me.”
“Then throw it into the fire,” replied his wife, much relieved.
“That is just what I was going to do. I can then get rid of him with a few ducats.”
“A few strokes with a whip would be much more appropriate,” exclaimed Anna wrathfully; but soon her features grew mild again, and steadfastly regarding her husband she said to him kindly—“Be strong! Be a prince! Protect the loyal! Forgive the repentant! Despise flatterers!”
With that she curtseyed low, kissed her husband’s hand, and had vanished from the tent before he could return the salute.
Apafi immediately called Cserey and commanded him to readmit the gentlemen, who were still waiting in the antechamber.
On the countenances of the courtiers could be read, as plainly as if it were written there, the persuasion that they might now ask for and expect from the Prince anything they liked, on the presumption that the blissful antecedent domestic scene had left him in a state of mental flabbiness which could say no to nobody. Stephen Apafi was alone sufficiently sober-minded to perceive the change which had come over his brother’s face in the meantime. Apafi’s features now wore an expression of dignity, firmness, and energy worthy of a prince.
“My loyal friends,” he cried, in a hard, firm voice, without waiting for anyone to address him. “As concerning the petitions preferred to us, we would dismiss you with fit and proper answers. We accept your homage with all due appreciation, and trust you will ever persevere in your loyalty. You, Ladislaus Csaky, we permit to return home. We will no longer deprive you of your family joys. As for your son, we will have him educated abroad at our own cost, till he be suitable for our service.”
Count Ladislaus Csaky, with a very wry face indeed, expressed his gratitude for the Prince’s gracious permission to return home, although he would willingly have remained at Court all his life with the whole of his family.
Gabriel Haller the Prince passed over altogether, as if he absolutely did not see him, but he turned pointedly towards Nalaczi and Daczo, who made desperate efforts to appear meek and humble.
“Having regard to the zeal and affection which our faithful Stephen Nalaczi has always testified for our person, we appoint him herewith first gentleman-in-waiting at our Court. And you, John Daczo, we appoint commander of Csikszerda.”
Both gentlemen made the grimace usual in suitors who have expected much and got little. Nalaczi smiled, but within he was all wormwood and gall. Daczo tried to look contented, but he coloured up to the ears. They were scarcely able to thank the Prince for his goodness.
Meanwhile Master Pok, in order not to be left altogether out of sight, had elbowed his way to the front, completely covering honest Cserey, who modestly made way for him.
Apafi beckoned to him, however.
“Why do you keep so much in the background?” said he.
Master Pok, under the impression that the hint was meant for him, drew still nearer.
“ ’Tis Master Cserey whom we address,” continued the Prince, “or do you think that we are unable to distinguish our faithful from our feigning followers? Your fidelity and prudence, Master Cserey, are well known to us, wherefore we appoint you forthwith governor of our fortress of Fogaros.”
In his consternation Master Pok looked up at the ceiling as if he expected it to fall on his head.
“Master Martin Pok, on the other hand,” pursued the Prince, “we confirm in his former post. He will continue to be jailer at the same fortress.”
Master Martin Pok sobbed aloud. Cserey was about to raise objections, but the Prince beckoned him to be silent.
Next came Master John Szasy’s turn.
“You are accused of grievous crimes, from which we have neither the will nor the power to absolve you. You will therefore be conveyed to Hermannstadt with a strong escort, there to clear yourself as best you can.”
John Szasy, with a stupefied air, looked first to the right and then to the left. He could not understand it at all.
“You, Master Moses Zagoni, we command to present your accounts for examination to our officers of the Exchequer thereunto appointed.”
To hide his own confusion, Zagoni thought he could not do better than whisper consolation to Szasy.
The deputy of Olahfalva had now to take his turn. It was indeed high time that something amusing should happen, for while the Prince had thus been distributing rewards and punishments, the smile had gradually vanished from every face; nothing short of the discomfiture of the quaint and crafty boor could now restore the general hilarity.
“What I promised you,” said the Prince, scarcely able to repress his inward merriment, “is yours. If it give you any satisfaction, you may henceforth regard Olahfalva as
