So far all was well, but at that very moment two of the Tartars sprang up from the fire and called to the rider to stop. Clement, perceiving that they were both unarmed, argued therefrom that they had no murderous designs upon him, and therefore halted and awaited them.
No sooner had the two dog-headed figures come up to him, one on each side, than they caught hold of his legs and displayed no less an intention than to rob him of his beautiful boots.
“Would you? ye sons of Belial!” cried Clement, beside himself with rage, and grasping the hilt of his sword he tried to pull it from its leather sheath, in order to cut off the ears of his assailants forthwith. But the good blade, which had not quitted its sheath for ten years, had grown so rusty that Clement, despite all his endeavours, could not pluck it forth, and in the meantime the two Tartars pulled the wriggling rider hither and thither by the legs, naturally without succeeding in loosening the tight-fitting boots in the least. The Tartars reviled Clement, and Clement reviled the Tartars: their language was perfectly horrible.
The noise brought the Aga to the spot—an orangutan-like object whose mahogany features were framed by a white beard—and he asked in a hoarse whisper what was the matter.
Clement the Clerk at once drew his credentials from the pocket of his mente, and shook it in the Aga’s face—he was too wrathful to speak—while the Tartars, pointing with frantic gestures at the boots, jabbered something to the Aga.
“Who art thou, O bowlegged unbeliever!” asked the Aga, “that thou dost presume to wear on thy lowest extremities, on thy mud-wading feet, forsooth! the sacred colour of the Prophet, that radiant green which the faithful may only behold on the arches of their mosques and on the turban of the Padishah? Thou shalt be burned alive, thou godless Giaour!”
“I am the Patrol-officer of his Highness Prince Michael Apafi!” declaimed the ex-student, with terrified pathos. “My person is sacred and inviolable. I am he who provides the host of the sublime Sultan with meat and drink; I proclaim and collect the taxes, so let me go, for I am a very important personage.”
This mode of defence pleased the Tartars. The Aga exchanged glances with his subalterns, as much as to say—“This is the very man we want!” and addressed him again in a more friendly tone.
“Dost thou indeed collect the taxes? Look now! my master, Ali Pasha of Grosswardein, has sent me hither to notify to the people a fresh imposition. Allah hath clearly brought us together. Thou wilt act discreetly then by proclaiming the new tax at once. It is no more than thy duty.”
“I’ll do so gladly,” replied Clement, who made as if he were going.
“Stay, my son,” said the Aga, beckoning to him. “Thou dost not even know yet the amount of the new tax. ’Tis a mere trifle, and only imposed by way of showing that we are the masters here. ’Tis only a farthing per head. That’s not much, I’m sure.”
“Nothing at all!” assented Clement, eager to be off.
“Not so fast! not so fast!” remonstrated the Aga. “I shall not be best pleased if thou dost disobey my orders; but as I know that thou dost not regard it as perjury to break promises made to us, I’ll tell off one of my brave fellows here to accompany thee from village to village, and take care that thou dost duly proclaim the new tax whithersoever thou goest.”
“It is well, gracious sir,” said Clement meekly, with the mental reservation of ridding himself of the brave fellow at the very next village.
“Mount your horse, Zülfikar,” cried the Aga to one of his servants.
The person addressed was an evil-looking fellow with a malignant squint. Although just as dirty as the others, it was clear from his physiognomy that he was not made of the same stuff, and if we condescended to bestow any thought at all upon such low people, it might even occur to us that we had seen him somewhere else before.
“As for thee,” said the Aga to Clement, who was anxious to be off at any price, “take off thy boots as soon as thou gettest home, and if ever I meet thee with them on again, thou shalt receive from me five hundred strokes on the soles of thy feet, which thou wilt have cause to recollect even on thy wedding-day.”
Clement the Clerk said “Yes” to everything, rejoiced that he had got off at last, and trotted off towards Abrudbánya. His Tartar escort rode faithfully by his side.
From time to time the Patrol-officer cast a sidelong glance at his companion, only quickly to avert his eyes again, for as the Tartar squinted horribly, Clement could never exactly make out which way he was looking. Clement was thinking all the while how easily he would give the Tartar the slip, smiled to himself at the thought, winked with both eyes, and nodded his head with a self-satisfied air.
“Mr. Patrol-officer, don’t fancy you will circumvent me as you go your rounds!” exclaimed the Tartar suddenly, in the purest Hungarian, as if he could read Clement’s thought from his face.
Clement was so aghast that he almost fell from his horse. How the deuce could the fellow snap up his very thoughts, and speak Hungarian despite his Tartardom?
“Don’t bother your head about me any more,” continued the Turk calmly. “I am an Hungarian renegade who was once in the service of Emerich Balassa.
