The two gentlemen are at the present moment standing before the table, which is covered with all sorts of ancient coins. Apafi wears a short grey coat with loose sleeves, which is fastened round his loins by a silken cord. His headgear consists of a round skin cap. Passai is buttoned up in a dark-green, fur-lined mente, which reaches from his chin to his heels. His thick white hair is shoved back and held together by a large circular comb. His face, despite the wrinkles which cover it, is fresh and ruddy, and his teeth are as perfect as those of a youth.
Apafi is attentively regarding a gold piece, which he poises between his fingers and holds against the light. Passai stands hat in hand before the Prince like a log, with his wrinkled countenance fixed intently on his Highness.
Apafi petulantly turns and twists the coin in all directions.
“These are not Roman letters,” he angrily murmurs; “neither are they Greek nor Cyrillic, and least of all Hunnish symbols. Where was it found?” he asked, turning to Passai.
“In Vasarhely, as the Wallachs were removing the ruins of the old temple.”
“Deuce take them! They might have been better employed.”
“It was a very ancient ruin, what they call a Roman temple.”
“But it cannot have been a Roman temple, for this is not a Roman coin.”
“That’s my opinion too; but the Wallachs have a way of regarding all the ruins in Transylvania as Roman monuments.”
“But why did they take it to pieces?”
“The villagers wanted to make lime of the statues.”
“The impious wretches!” cried Apafi indignantly, “to turn such precious masterpieces of art into lime. And you have not striven to save at least a part of it from destruction?”
“I bought the lid of a sarcophagus adorned with sculptures, and a sphinx in a perfect state of preservation; but the Wallach who was charged with their removal was too lazy to have them lifted up as they stood, so he broke up the statues into five or six pieces, so that he might have less trouble in loading his cart.”
“That man deserves to be impaled. I will issue a decree that no one shall henceforth lay a hand upon such antiquities.”
“I am afraid your Highness will arrive too late, for when the people found that I was paying for these stones, the belief spread among them that I was seeking for diamonds and carbuncles therein, so they smashed the whole mass into such tiny morsels that they could now be offered for sale as sand.”
“Have you spoken to that nobleman of Deva about the mosaic?”
“He won’t part with it at any price. He said that none of his ancestors had ever carried their property to market. If only he would remove it from the place where he found it, it would be something. But he won’t even do that, and now the cow-house stands over it, and the oxen make their beds on the prostrate figures of Venus and Cupid.”
“I should very much like to confiscate that man’s property, and so come into possession of that priceless curiosity,” cried Apafi, with a scholar’s zeal, and again he busied himself with the investigation of the enigmatical letters.
At that moment Teleki entered the room with a busy, important look, and drawing from his silken pocket a MS. roll, placed it open in Apafi’s hand. The Prince made as though he were reading the document attentively, and wrinkled his brows. Suddenly he looked up and exclaimed joyfully—
“They are Dacian letters!”
“What!” cried Teleki, opening his eyes wide in his astonishment. He was at a loss to explain how the Prince could have found Dacian letters in the Latin MS. which he had just put into his hands.
“Yes; there can be no doubt about it,” continued the Prince. “I recollect reading somewhere—in Dion Cassius, I think—that the Romans, after the fall of Decebalus,24 had commemorative medallions struck off with Dacian inscriptions, and the figure of a decapitated man on the reverse. Don’t you see the emblem?”
“But your Highness,” interrupted Teleki impatiently, “the memorial which I have handed to you—”
And now for the first time Apafi perceived that a parchment was in his hand awaiting perusal. He returned it sulkily to Teleki.
“I have already told you that I can speak to no one today. In a month the session of the Diet will begin, and then the Hungarian gentlemen can ventilate their affairs to their hearts’ content.”
“I cry your Highness’ pardon!” replied Teleki caustically; “this document is not from the Hungarian lords, but from his Excellency the Tartar Khan.”
“And what does he want?” cried Apafi, throwing a glance upon the parchment, but when he perceived how long it was he laid it aside. “I will be brief with him. Who brought the letter?”
“An emir.”
Apafi immediately threw his attila over his shoulders, girded on his sword, and stepped into the reception-room.
“Good day! good day!” he cried hastily to those assembled there. He wished to cut short their long ceremonious greetings, and looked about among them with inquiring eyes.
“Where is the emir?”
The Tartar envoy at once stepped forward. He was a truculent, swarthy fellow, with small sparkling eyes. A heron’s plume as long as the shaft of a lance waved from his large turban. He wore a red, richly-fringed jacket, and the gold inlaid hilt of his scimitar peeped forth from his broad girdle. Defiantly he
