“Thou dog!” cried Hassan Pasha to the peasant who alone received the terrible guests in the abandoned cloisters, “this region is far too beautiful for the like of you monks to dwell in. But you will not be in it long, my good sirs, for I mean to take it for myself. The peasant after all is lord here. He eats his own bread and he drinks his own wine, and he has a couple of good garments to draw over his head. But stop, things shall be very different, for I shall have a word to say about it.”
The honest peasant took off his cap. “God grant,” said he, “that more and more of you may dwell in my domains, and that I may build your houses for you.” The man was a gravedigger.
Hassan Pasha and his suite occupied the monastery, whose vestibule was filled with priests and magistrates from every quarter of the kingdom, whose duty it was to collect and bring in provisions and taxes due to the Turkish Government. And what they brought in was never sufficient, and therefore the poor creatures had to send deputies as hostages from time to time, who followed their lords on foot wherever they went, and relieved each other from this servitude in rotation; some of them had been here for half a year.
The Turkish army was more than 100,000 strong, and the right bank of the river was planted for a long distance with their tents. The monastery constituted the centre of the camp; there was the encampment of Hassan’s favourite mamelukes and the selected corps of cloven-nosed, gigantic negroes, who used to plunge into the combat half-naked, and neither take nor give quarter. Alongside of them was the cavalry of Kucsuk Pasha, a corps accustomed to the strictest discipline. Close beside the tents of this division, within a quadrilateral, guarded by a ditch, you could see the camp of the Amazon Brigade, whose first thought when they pitch their tents is to entrench themselves.
Close to the camp of Kucsuk lies the Moldavian army, from whose elaborate precautions you can gather that they have a far greater fear of their allies all around them than of the foe against whom they are marching. From beyond the monastery, right up to the vineyards of Nagyfalva, the ground is occupied by the noisy Janissaries of Ismail Pasha, who, if their military reputation lies not, are more used to distributing orders to their commanders than receiving orders from them. Beyond the vine-clad hills lies the cavalry of the Grand Vizier, Achmed Kiuprile, and all round about, wherever a column of smoke is to be seen or the sky is bloodred, there is good reason for suspecting that there the marauding Tartar bands are out, whom it was not the habit to attach to the main army. Far in the rear, along the mountain paths, on the slopes of the narrow forest passes, could be seen the endlessly long procession of wagons laden with plunder, intermingled with long round iron cannons and ancient stone mortars, each one drawn along by ten or twelve buffaloes, striving laboriously and painfully to urge their way forward, and if one of them stops for a moment, or falls down, all the others behind it must stop also.
It is now evening, and from one division of the army to another the messengers from headquarters are hurrying. Kiuprile’s messenger comes to inform Hassan that the army of the enemy has taken up its position on the opposite bank, between two forests, the French mercenaries and the German auxiliary troops have joined it, so that it would be well to attack it in the night, before it has had time properly to marshal its ranks.
“Thy master is mad,” replied Hassan; “how can I fly across the water? Before me is the river Raab. I should have to fling a bridge across it first—nay two, three bridges—which it would take me days to do, and I cannot even begin to do it till the old ammunition wagons have arrived. Go back, therefore, and tell thy master that if he wants to fight I’ll sound the alarm.”
The messenger opened his eyes wide, being unaware of the fact that Hassan was shortsighted, and consequently only knew the river Raab from the map, not knowing that at the spot where he stood the river was not more than two yards wide, and could be bridged over in a couple of hours without the assistance of old ammunition wagons—so back the messenger went to Kiuprile.
He had scarce shown a clean pair of heels, when the messenger of Kucsuk Pasha arrived to signify in his master’s name that the battle could not be postponed, because no hay had arrived for the horses.
Hassan turned furiously on the captive magistrates.
“Why have you not sent hay?”
The wisest of them, desirous to answer the question, politely rejoined: “It has been a dry summer, sir, the Lord has kept back the clouds of Heaven.”
“Oh, that’s it, eh!” said Hassan. “Tell Kucsuk Pasha that he must give his horses the clouds to eat; the hay of the Magyars is there, it seems.”
This messenger had no sooner departed than a whole embassy arrived from the Janissaries, and the whole lot of them energetically demanded that they should be led into battle at once.
“What?” inquired Hassan mockingly, “has your hay fallen short too, then?” The Janissaries are infantry, by the way.
“It is glory we are running short of,” said the leader of the deputation stolidly; “it
