“Who?” asked the Patrol-officer, much amazed.
“Oh! the fairy,” stammered the Wallach, with trembling lips, and he buried his glowing head in his hands.
“What’s all this about?” said Clement, turning to Zülfikar. “ ’Tis not a fairy that I’m after but a panther!”
“Pst! a key is turning in the lock,” cried Zülfikar. “Away back into the dark cave!”
The two men had to drag Sange Moarte away from the iron gate, which a moment afterwards opened noiselessly, and a girlish form stepped forth leading a panther by a golden chain.
Sange Moarte was right in calling her a fairy.
Before them stood a dazzlingly beautiful woman in oriental deshabille. Her locks were enveloped in a red fez, the long gold tassels of which fell across her white turban over her pale face; her ivory-smooth shoulders gleamed forth from the sleeves of her short, ermine-embroidered kaftan; her eyes sparkled in the dark; every movement of her lithe body was serpentine, fascinating, maddening.
The three men held their breath. The girl passed by without observing them.
“Ah, that is she,” whispered Zülfikar in amazement, when she had gone.
“Who? Do you know her?” asked Clement.
“It is Azrael, Corsar Beg’s former favourite.”
“What a place for her to be in!”
“Pst! she’ll hear us.”
Meanwhile the girl had reached the basin where the subterraneous waters poured their mingled flood, sat down on a stone bench, and commenced to unwind her turban. Her jasper-black hair fell down over her shoulders.
Sange Moarte’s hot panting resounded through the darkness.
The panther lay quietly at his mistress’s feet, his shrewd head resting on his front paws.
Azrael now removed her bright Persian shawl from her slim waist, and next prepared to slip off her light kaftan, taking a couple of steps towards a projecting rocky buttress which hid her from the eyes of the watchers.
Sange Moarte was about to rush after her. It was all the two men could do to hold him back.
“Are you mad?” growled Zülfikar in his ear. “Would you betray us with your infernal curiosity?”
“The poor devil is in love with the girl!” whispered Clement.
At that moment there came the sound of a splash, as of someone leaping into the water and playing with its waves.
Sange Moarte frantically tore himself loose from his companions’ arms, and with a furious yell rushed towards the basin.
At this yell Azrael, in all the maddening witchery of her charms, sprang out of her watery mirror, looked at the presumptuous wretch with flashing eyes, and cried savagely—
“Oglan! Seize him!”
The panther had hitherto remained motionless; but the moment his mistress called him to battle, he sprang up with a roar, seized the young Wallach, and threw him with a single jerk to the ground.
Sange Moarte did not think of defending himself against the savage beast, but stretched out his hands imploringly towards the odalisque; drank in her loveliness with thirsty looks; writhed closer to her, and, weeping and groaning, fell down at her feet, while Azrael stared wildly at him, threw her mantle hastily around her, and watched her darling panther tear to pieces the youth who had never loved anyone in his life in order that he might love her to the death.
“I’ll go and help him!” cried Clement, mad with horror, and drawing his sword.
“Softly! Don’t be a fool! Besides, we have something better to do. The iron gate remains open; let us creep in while the lady is otherwise engaged, and find out what there is here; that will interest our masters very much, especially mine.”
With that the two men crept through the iron door, groped their way along the narrow passage which seemed to have been cut out of the naked rock, and discovered at the end of it, by the light of a lamp hanging from the roof, several small doors to the right and left. They opened one door after the other, but only found empty rooms with no further outlets. At length a glimpse of the outer world reached them through one of the windows. They hastened forward in that direction, and coming upon a second iron door passed through it, and found themselves in a large courtyard surrounded by high walls, one of which they scaled, and beheld from the top of it the valley of the cold Szamos stretching far and wide before their eyes. Soon after they discovered a footpath which led them from the wall to the woodlands below, and off they set running, and never drew breath till they had safely reached the bottom. It was only then that the two men ventured to stop and look each other in the face. Clement fancied he still heard the wildly musical voice of the fair demoniac, the roaring of the panther, and the death-shrieks of the young Wallach.
“We may as well go on now,” remarked Zülfikar, “for to return the way we came without a guide is impossible, and we are bound to come out somewhere.”
And, indeed, they soon came upon two woodcutters, who were fastening their raft to the river’s bank.
“What is that castle yonder?” asked Clement.
The men stared at him.
“Where? What castle?”
Clement looked behind to show it to them, and behold! nowhere was anything to be seen with the remotest resemblance to a castle, nothing but rocks, each the counterpart of the other. The Wallachs laughed aloud.
“It were better not to mention it to them,” said Zülfikar. “They look as if they do not know what is going on under their very noses. But we’ll mark the place. Nothing but rocks are visible from the outside, the brushwood conceals the very opening through which we got into the open air.”
So the wanderers inquired their way; returned to Marisel, where they naturally did not stop to be questioned about Sange Moarte, but mounted their steeds and rode off.
Zülfikar wanted Clement to go on with him to Banfi-Hunyad. The Patrol-officer, however, declined to trespass on Denis Banfi’s domains, so the Turk went on alone to levy the new tax, though Clement prophesied that
