Brother Gregory was beside himself with joy; the best room was prepared for his right reverend colleague, and brother cook, brother cellarer, and brother gardener were ordered to see to it that meat, drink, and heaps of flowers were provided for the honoured guests. No two people in the wide world were so suited to each other as Father Gregory and Dean Magyari; their hearts were equally good, and each of them had a head upon his shoulders. They rose up early in the morning to argue with each other on dogmatic questions—to wit, which faith was the best, truest, happiest, most blessed, and surest, and kept it up till late in the evening, by no means neglecting the frequent emptying of foaming beakers during the contest, pounding each other with citations, entangling each other with syllogisms, flooring each other with authorities, and overwhelming each other with anecdotes; and it always ended in their shaking hands and agreeing together that every faith was good if only a man were true to himself.
While her father was thus manfully battling, pretty pale Rosy would be amusing herself in the garden or by the spring with little girls of her own age, and the fresh air, the scent of the flowers, and the beneficent water of the spring gradually restored to her face its vanished bloom; and Magyari joyfully thought how delighted her mother would be if she were able to embrace her convalescent child, and, in sheer delight at the idea, spun out his disputatious evenings whilst Rosy in an adjacent cell was sleeping the sleep of the just.
The two worthy gentlemen were sitting over their cups one beautiful evening, when a loud knocking was heard at the outer gate. The rule was that at sundown the pilgrim mob was to betake itself to the courtyard of the cloister, and the gate should be closed. The friar who kept the gate came to announce that four queer-looking monks demanded admission, were they to be let in?
“There can be no question about it,” said Father Gregory. “If any desire admission, bring them to us, and provide refreshment for them.”
In a few moments the four friars in question entered. They were dressed in coarse black sackcloth habits, with the cowls drawn down over their heads. All that was to be seen of them was their eyes and shaggy beards. With deep obeisances, but without a word, they approached the two reverend gentlemen. The Father rose politely and greeted them respectfully in Latin: “Benedicite nomen Domini.” They only kept on bowing and were silent.
“Nomen dei sit benedictum!” repeated Gregory, fancying that his guests did not hear what he said, and as they did not reply to that, he asked with great astonishment:
“Non exandistis nomen gloriosissimi Domini, fratres amantissimi?”
At this the foremost of them said: “We do not understand that language, worthy brother.”
“Then what sort of monks are ye? To what confession do ye belong? Are ye Greeks?”
“We are not Greeks.”
“Then are you Armenians?”
“We are not Armenians.”
“Arians, then?”
“Neither are we Arians.”
“Are you Patarenes?”
“No, we are not.”
“Then in gloriam aeterni to what order do you belong?”
“We are robbers,” thereupon exclaimed the one interrogated, throwing aside the fold of his cloak, beneath which could be seen a belt crammed with daggers and pistols. “My name is Feri Kökényesdi,” said he, striking his breast.
Magyari thereupon leaped from his chair, which he immediately converted into a weapon; it at once occurred to him that he had an only daughter to defend, and he was ready to fight the robbers on behalf of her. But the father pulled him by the cassock and whispered: “Pray be quiet, your Reverence,” and then with an infinitely placid face he turned towards the robbers. “So that is the order to which you belong,” said he. “Still, if you have come as guests, sit down and eat what you desire.”
“But that is not sufficient. Outside this monastery there are 1700 of us, and all of them want to eat and drink, for it is only the ancient prophets who, when hungry, were content with the meat of the Word.”
“Let them also satisfy their desires.”
“However, the main thing is this: in your Reverence’s chapel is a whole lot of very nice gold and silver saints, who certainly befriend those who sigh after them, and as we cannot come running to them here every day in order to entreat their aid, we had better take them along with us, that they may be helpful to us on the road.”
“Thou hast a pretty mother-wit, frater! Who could refuse thee anything?”
“It is also no secret to us, Father Gregory, that your Reverence’s cellar is crammed with kegs full of good money, silver and gold. May we be allowed to relieve your Reverence of a little of this burden?”
“He is quite welcome to it,” thought the father, well aware that there was absolutely nothing at all.
“Do not imagine, your Reverence,” continued the robber, “that we cannot extort a confession, if it should occur to your Reverence to conceal anything. It would be just as well, therefore, if your Reverence were to reveal everything before we cut up your back with sharp thongs.”
The brother smiled as good-humouredly as if he were listening to some pleasing anecdote.
“Have you any other desires, my sons?”
“Yes, a good many. There is a great crowd of women collected together in your Reverence’s courtyard. We have taken no vows of celibacy, therefore we should like to choose from among them what would suit us.”
Magyari felt the hairs of his head rising heavenwards, a cold shiver ran through him from head to foot, and he would have risen from his place had
