“You are powerful, and that is a sufficient reason for killing you.”
“I care not. I’ll go, and what is more, alone. My wife is in their hands. They have the power to make me feel their wrath in the most painful way, and if there were no other reason for appearing, it is my knightly duty to release her.”
“You can save both her and yourself much more efficaciously by force of arms.”
“I have nothing to fear. I have done nothing for which I need blush in the sight of justice, and if they plot privily against me, are not you here? Summon hither my Somlyo troops as well, and only intervene if they practise foul play.”
“Oh, my lord! that army is good for nothing which is abandoned by its leader. Today it would go through fire and water for you, and is even ready to proclaim you Prince; but tomorrow, when it hears that you have appeared before the court, it will disperse and deny you.”
“They need know nothing of my resolution. I’ll immediately take coach and go to Fehervár. Tell the troops I’ve gone to Somlyo to collect my other forces, and keep them under arms till you hear from me.”
With that Banfi rode off to Klausenburg, and Michael Angel irritably stuck his sword into its sheath and told the troops that they might rest if they felt tired.
An hour later Banfi was rolling in a carriage-and-four towards Torda, on his way to Fehervár; a mounted servant led a spare horse after him by the bridle.
The further he withdrew from the seat of his power, the more anxious he became. His soul wavered. He began to see phantoms at every step. Only his pride prevented him from turning back again.
Everything now wore a different aspect. He could read in the looks and salutations of all whom he met what they thought of him. A smile was a sign of compassion; a mere nod, a token of ill-will. He stopped to speak to everyone, even to very slight acquaintances, even to those whom he had hitherto looked down upon or had never regarded at all. He even condescended to question them. In the hour of misfortune it is wonderful how a man recollects all his acquaintances. At such a time he who once haughtily rejected the hand of friendship is ready to meet his very enemy halfway.
Suddenly he perceived an open carriage coming towards him from Torda, and in it sat a man wrapped up in a grey cloak, in whom, as he passed, Banfi recognized Martin Kuncz, the Unitarian bishop; he called to him to stop for a moment. The bishop, not hearing him for the clatter of the wheels, simply doffed his hat and drove on. Banfi thought he did it on purpose, and took it for a very bad omen. He who ordinarily treated all danger so lightly, now recoiled before the veriest bugbears. He stopped his carriage, and taking horse bade his coachman drive on to Torda and await him there. In the meantime he galloped after the bishop’s carriage, whereupon the bishop, catching sight of him, stopped and awaited the magnate, who cried to him from a distance—
“So you will not answer when I speak to you, eh?”
“I am at your lordship’s command. I did not know that you wished to speak to me.”
“You know my situation, I suppose? What do you think of it? What ought I to do?”
“In such a case, my lord, it is as difficult to give advice as to take it.”
“I have resolved to appear to the citation.”
“Really, my lord?”
“I have nothing to fear. I feel that my cause is just.”
“No doubt; but it does not follow that you will get justice because your cause is just. In this world anything is possible.”
Banfi understood the allusion. He had formerly said the very same words to the bishop, and now he had not even sufficient strength of mind to leave him and go on his way defiantly; on the contrary, he dallied with him for some time longer.
“The Prince indeed is my enemy; but the Princess has always defended me, and I have every confidence in her Highness.”
“Yes; but unfortunately the Prince has quarrelled with his consort. They say that he even forbids her to enter his apartments.”
This answer seemed to quite confound Banfi; but he had still one hope left.
“I don’t believe they’d dare to do me mischief, for they know that at Klausenburg and Somlyo I have armies in battle array which can call them to account at any moment.”
“Oh, my lord, it is difficult to direct an army from the walls of a prison, and you know very well that a live dog is stronger than a dead lion.”
These words seemed to produce a great change in Banfi. For a time he moodily rode by Kuncz’s carriage; then, after a long pause, he replied in a very low voice—“You are right,” gave his horse the spur, and rode back to Klausenburg with the firm resolve of not allowing himself to be enticed from his stronghold.
On reaching the spot where scarcely six hours before he had restrained the enthusiastic ardour of his troops, he was much surprised to find a band of gypsies apparently searching for something on the ground.
“What are you doing here?” cried he, as he came up to them.
At this question their leader came forward, and recognizing Banfi, humbly doffed his cap.
“Verily, your Excellency, the gypsies have come hither to collect the cartridges which the brave and noble gentlemen have scattered about here.”
“But where then are the gentlemen?”
“Gone, your Excellency.”
“But why, and whither?”
“The moment they heard your lordship had quitted Klausenburg—whew!—they dispersed in all directions.”
“And Michael Angel?”
“He was the first to depart.”
Banfi felt sick and dizzy. The tears rushed to his eyes. To be so abandoned by everyone, by Fate, by his fellow-men, and even
