The people assembled in the monastery had been listening to all this in an agony of terror; only Magyari understood the meaning of it. When the brother came down from the tower, Kökényesdi was locked up with his two comrades, and the two reverend gentlemen embraced and magnified each other.
“After God, we have your Reverence to thank for our deliverance,” said Magyari with warm feeling, holding his trembling little daughter by the hand.
“But now we must save Klausenburg,” said Gregory.
“I will set out this instant; my horse is saddled.”
“Your Reverence on horseback, eh? How about the girl?”
“I will leave her here in your Reverence’s fatherly care.”
“But think.”
“Could I leave her in a better place than within these walls, which Providence and your Reverence’s fists defend so well?”
“But what if this robber rabble discover our trick and return upon the monastery with tenfold fury?”
“Then I will all the more certainly hasten to defend the walls of your Reverence, because my only child will be within them.”
With that the pastor kissed the forehead of his daughter, who at that moment was paler than ever, fastened his big copper sword to his side, seized his shaggy little horse by the bridle, opened the door for himself, and, with a stout heart, trotted away on the high road.
But the brother summoned into the chapel the whole congregation, and late at night intoned a thanksgiving to the Lord of Hosts; after which Father Gregory got into the pulpit and preached to the faithful a powerful and fulminating sermon, in which he stirred them up to the defence of their altars, and at the end of his sacred discourse he seized with one hand the gigantic banner of the church—which on the occasion of processions three men used to support with difficulty—and so stirred up the enthusiastic people that if at that moment the robbers had been there in front of the monastery, they would have been capable of rushing out of the gates upon them with their crutches and sticks and dashing them to pieces.
VII
The Panic of Nagyenyed
While the priests were girding swords upon their thighs, while the lame and the halt were flying to arms in defence of their homes and altars, the chief commandant of the town of Klausenburg, Mr. Ebéni, was calmly sleeping in his bed.
The worthy man had this peculiarity that when any of his officers awoke him for anything and told him that this or that had happened, he would simply reply “Impossible!” turn over on the other side, and go on slumbering.
Magyari was well aware of this peculiarity of the worthy man, and so when he arrived home, late at night, safe and sound, he wasted no time in talking with Mr. Ebéni, but opened the doors of the church and had all the bells rung in the middle of the night—a regular peal of them.
The people, aroused from its sleep in terror at the sound of the church-bells at that unwonted hour, naturally hastened in crowds to the church, where the reverend gentleman stood up before them and, in the most impressive language, told them all that he had seen, described the danger which was drawing near to them beneath the wings of the night, and exhorted his hearers valiantly to defend themselves.
The first that Mr. Ebéni heard of the approaching mischief was when ten or twenty men came rushing to him one after another to arouse him and tell him what the parson was saying. When at last he was brought to see that the matter was no joke, he leaped from his bed in terror, and for the life of him did not know what to do. The people were running up and down the streets bawling and squalling; the heydukes were beating the alarm drums; cavalry, blowing their trumpets, were galloping backwards and forwards—and Mr. Ebéni completely lost his head.
Fortunately for him Magyari was quickly by his side.
“What has happened? What’s the matter? What are they doing, very reverend sir?” inquired the commandant, just as if Magyari were the leader of troops.
“The mischief is not very serious, but it is close at hand,” replied the reverend gentleman. “A band of freebooters—some seventeen companies under the command of a robber chief—have burst into Transylvania, and with them are some regular horse belonging to the garrison of Szathmár. At this moment they cannot be more than four leagues distant from Klausenburg; but they are so scattered that there are no more than four hundred of them together anywhere, so that, with the aid of the gentlemen volunteers and the Prince’s German regiments, you ought to wipe them out in detail. The first thing to be done, however, is to warn the Prince of this unexpected event, for he is now taking his pleasure at Nagyenyed.”
“Your Reverence is right,” said Ebéni, “we’ll act at once;” and, after dismissing the priest to look after the armed bands and reconnoitre, he summoned a swift courier, and, as in his confusion he at first couldn’t find a pen and then upset the inkstand over the letter when he had written it, he at last hurriedly instructed the courier to convey a verbal message to the Prince to the effect that the Szathmárians, in conjunction with the freebooters, had broken into Transylvania with seventeen companies, and were only four hours’ march from Klausenburg, and that Klausenburg was now preparing to defend itself.
Thus Ebéni gave quite another version to the parson’s tidings, for while the parson had only mentioned a few horsemen from the Szathmár garrison he had put the Szathmárians at the head of the whole enterprise, and had reduced the distance of four leagues to a four hours’ journey which, in view of the condition of the Transylvanian roads, made all the difference.
The courier got out of the town as quickly as possible, and by the time he had
