Here Forval coughed to conceal his annoyance.
“As for Sobieski,” continued Banfi, “depend upon it he will not attack his present ally the Emperor for our sweet sakes; nor will the Sultan break his oath as lightly as Master Michael Teleki seems to imagine. What then remains for us to do? Call the nomadic Tartars into Hungary, I suppose! The poor Hungarian population would certainly express their gratitude for such assistance as that! Your ideal Hungarian, Nicolas Zrinyi, used to tell a tale which deserves to be handed down to our latest posterity. The devil was carrying a Szekler away on his back. The Szekler’s neighbour met and thus accosted him: ‘Whither away, gossip?’ ‘I am being carried to hell,’ said he. ‘Eh! but that is a very bad job,’ returned the other. ‘Yes, but it might be much worse,’ replied the rogue. ‘Just fancy if he were to sit on my back, dig his spurs into me, and compel me to carry him instead!’—Let everyone apply this fable as he thinks best. For my part, I cannot quite decide which I fear the most, the enmity of the Emperor or the amity of the Sultan. For, tell me, what will be the end of this war? If we conquer with the aid of the Sultan, Transylvania will become a Turkish Pachalic; if we are conquered, we shall sink into an Austrian province, while now we are a free and independent State by the grace of God! In any case Hungary’s fate is bound to improve, and that fate touches my heart quite as much as theirs who fancy they can heal the sick man with the sword. But nothing is to be won in that way. How much blood has not already been shed without the slightest result? Let us try some other way. Surely the Magyar has sense enough to subdue by his intellectual superiority those whom he cannot overcome by force of arms? Subdue your conquerors, I say. You who are second to none in sense, energy, wealth, and the beauty of manliness, why do you not take the highest posts which belong to you of right? If you were to sit where the Pázmáns49 and the Esterhazys50 have sat, there would be no room left for a Lobkovich.51 If instead of fighting petty, fruitless battles now and then, you were to use your intellects and your influence, you might make your land happy without costing her a drop of blood. It rests with you to restore once more the age of Louis the Great,52 that foreign prince who became enamoured of his adopted people, turned Magyar, and made the nation as great and as powerful as the nation made him. The Estates of Transylvania will undertake to mediate between Hungary and the Emperor, and so get you back your privileges and your possessions. I will be the first to stretch out a helping hand, and assuredly Master Michael Teleki will be the second. If, however, you do not accept this offer, then, I say, beware of what you do. As to the prophecy—Our turn today, yours tomorrow! I’ll only say, Fear nothing for Transylvania. I’ll be bold to say, that whoever invades her by force of arms, will always find a host of equal strength ready to meet him; but let me tell you, that that same host will never be so foolhardy as to invade a foreign land.”
“Then Hungary is to you a foreign land?” cried a mocking voice from the crowd.
This interruption was too much for Banfi’s composure. He turned furiously towards the quarter whence the question came, and meeting the cold, contemptuous looks of the Hungarians assembled there, he quite forgot himself; everything around him seemed to be in a whirl, and dashing his kalpag to the ground, he cried—
“Right, right—indeed! A foreign land—nay more, a stepmother you have always been to us. We have always had to suffer for your sins. We have won victories, and you have frittered away the fruits of our victories. Your discords have thrice brought Hungary low, and thrice have we raised her from the dust. We have given you heroes; you have given us traitors!”
These last words Banfi was obliged to roar out at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the ever-increasing din. The uproar was general. Everyone tried to shout down his neighbour. The Hungarian gentlemen sprang from their seats and reviled Banfi. The graver members of the peace party shook their heads when they saw how Banfi’s indiscretion had let loose the passions of the Assembly.
Beldi now arose. All lovers of order cried at once—“Let us hear Beldi!”
Then a young man suddenly leaped over the barrier, and placing his hand on Teleki’s armchair, planted himself in front of Banfi with a flushed and defiant face. It was Emerich Tököli.
“I too have got a word to say,” cried he, in a voice audible above the tumult. “I also have the right to say a word or two within this barrier. If you will deny your mother, Hungary, and draw boundaries between her and you, it is time for me to speak. I am just as good a territorial noble here in Transylvania as that proud and petty demigod, whose father before him was just such another reviler of his mother country!”
Beldi was making his way towards Tököli to stop him from speaking, when someone from behind seized his hand, and turning round, he was astonished to see his own son-in-law, Paul Wesselenyi, who begged him to step outside for a moment.
Beldi retired into the lobby, while Tököli’s voice thundered through the hall above the never-ending din.
A veiled lady awaited Beldi in the lobby, whom, when she had unveiled her
