Clement duly informed Ladislaus Csaky of what he had seen, and received one hundred ducats for his discovery, to say nothing of the green top-boots.
Zülfikar fared much more strangely.
On arriving at Grosswardein, he gave the tribute-money to Ali Pasha, informing him at the same time of all that he had found out about Azrael.
This girl, when only thirteen years old, had been carried off from Ali Pasha’s harem by Corsar Beg. Ali, her original possessor, had promised a reward of two hundred ducats to whomsoever should discover the whereabouts of his favourite.
Zülfikar on quitting the Pasha had in his hand a purse of two hundred ducats. This came to the ears of the Aga, Zülfikar’s superior officer, who straightway picked a quarrel with the renegade, and condemned him to one hundred strokes of the bastinado, unless he preferred redeeming each stroke with a ducat.
“I won’t do that,” returned Zülfikar, “but I’ll hand over to you the gift which Denis Banfi sent to Ali Pasha when I told him he was to pay the new tax. Give it to the Pasha, and I’ll wager he’ll so reward you that you’ll remember it all your life.”
The Aga greedily caught at the offer, took charge of the carefully-sealed casket which Zülfikar himself ought to have handed to the Pasha, and presented it to his Excellency with the following respectful salutation—
“Behold, most gracious Pasha, I bring you that princely gift which Lord Denis Banfi has sent you in lieu of taxes.”
Ali Pasha seized the casket, cut through the silken cords, broke the seal, and took off the cover, when lo! a horrible, shrivelled pig’s tail fell out of it on to his kaftan—the direst, most abominable outrage which can befall a Mussulman!
Ali Pasha in his fury sprang almost up to the ceiling, and throwing his turban to the ground, immediately ordered that the Aga, who stood rooted to the spot with horror, should be impaled outside the camp.
But Zülfikar went gaily on his way with the two hundred ducats in his pocket.
III
An Hungarian Magnate in the Sixteenth Century
There was a great commotion at Bonczhida Castle. The lord of the manor, Denis Banfi, was expected home from Ebesfalva. The castle gates (on the midmost panel of which blazed a huge family coat-of-arms between the claws of two golden lions rampant) were overshadowed by green branches and bravely-coloured banners; in the street, the schoolchildren, in gala costume, were drawn up in a long line headed by their teachers; further back, with bright Sunday faces, stood the vassals; and, marshalled in front of the hillock which marked the bounds, the mounted gentry of the County of Klausenburg, some eight hundred horsemen or so, all of them stalwart, sturdy forms, armed with morning stars and good broadswords, had come out to meet their leader, the Marshal of the Nobility.
On the bastions are to be seen Banfi’s own soldiers, consisting of about six hundred mail-clad heroes, with long Turkish muskets and Scythian helmets. On the walls facing the Szamos six mortars are placed. A few yards further off a coal fire is burning, at which the cannoneers are heating the ends of their long iron staves so as to use them as linstocks.
At every gate, at every buttressed window, stand a couple of pages in crimson dolmans and tightly-fitting, cornflower-blue hose, richly garnished with silver-embroidered lace.
At the window of the highest donjon sits the castellan, ready to proclaim the arrival of his liege lord by the blast of a horn. Over his head the wind is wrestling with a gigantic purple banner, the huge dependent gold tassels of which it can only raise with difficulty.
Out of all the windows, inquisitive domestics and expectant knights and dames peep forth, or rather, out of all the windows but three, which are altogether bare of festal groups, for there nothing is to be seen but fragrant jasmines and quivering mimosas in snow-white porcelain vases, behind which one can dimly distinguish a pale and delicate form leaning dreamily on the embroidered window-cushions. This is Denis Banfi’s wife.
It might have been ten o’clock in the morning when the castellan, perceiving clouds of dust on the highway, announced the approach of his Excellency with a blast of his horn, whereupon the roar of the mortars scared everyone into his proper place; the priests and teachers reviewed their pupils, the officers marshalled their troops, and the trumpeters on the ramparts played the latest marches.
Shortly afterwards the Lord-Lieutenant arrived, escorted by the banderia of half-a-dozen counties. Before and behind him trotted squadrons of horsemen, whose arms and caparisons gleamed with all the colours of the rainbow. There were to be seen horses of every race and every hue—Arabian stallions, Transylvanian full-bloods, little Wallachian ponies, slim English racers, and light-footed Barbary steeds. There were horses with flesh-coloured manes, jewelled bits, variegated reins, and embroidered schabracks. There were all the weapons with which the art of war was then familiar—the slender Damascus blade, the toothed morning-star, the curved csakany,36 the serpentine crease, and those long, gorgeously-fashioned firearms which could seldom be discharged more than once; here and there, too, was visible a specimen of those three-edged, six feet long Turkish scimitars, which were just then coming into vogue.
Each squadron brought its banner, on which the arms of the respective counties were gaily embroidered, and sturdy standard-bearers bore them aloft on their saddlebows. In front of the martial bands rode their captain, George Veer, a muscular man of about forty, with a grey-speckled beard, stiffly waxed moustaches, and sunburnt face. A stately heron’s plume, fastened by an opal agraffe, waved from his marten-embroidered kalpag; his gorgeous bearskin was held together in front by a gold chain as broad as a man’s hand, set with gems. Chrysolites as large as filberts gleamed, instead of eyes, in the bear’s head looking over his shoulder; his body was encased in a coat of silver mail,
