The cavasses were considerably startled at these words, and, looking up at the imperious lady, began to see that she really meant what she said. For a while they laid their heads together, and then turned round and departed.
Apafi sighed deeply.
“There is some hidden trick in this,” said he, “but what it is God only knows.”
A few moments later a müderris appeared from Olaj Beg at the gate of the Prince, and, being all alone, was admitted.
“Olaj Beg greets thee, and thou must come to him quickly,” said he.
Anna had drawn near to greet her guest, but hearing that Olaj Beg summoned the Prince to appear before him, she approached the messenger, boiling over with wrath.
“Whoever heard,” she said, “of a servant ordering his master about, or an ambassador summoning the Prince to whose Court he is accredited?”
But Apafi could only take refuge in a desperate falsehood.
“Poor Olaj Beg,” he explained, “is very sick and cannot stir from his bed, and, indeed, he humbly begs me to pay him a visit. There is no humiliation in this—none at all, if I am graciously pleased to do it. He is an old man of eighty. I might be his grandson, he is wont to scold me as if I were his darling; I will certainly go to him, and put this matter right with him. You go to your sick guest and comfort her. I give you my word I will do everything to get her set free. For her sake I will humble myself.”
The Princess Apafi’s foresight already suggested to her that this humiliation would be permanent, but, perceiving that her own strength of mind was not contagious, she allowed her husband to depart.
Apafi prepared himself for his visit upon Olaj Beg. With a peculiar feeling of melancholy he did not put on his princely dolman of green velvet, but only the köntös of a simple nobleman, imagining that thus it would not be the Prince of Transylvania but the squire of Ebesfalu who was paying a visit on Olaj Beg. He went on foot to the house of Olaj Beg, accompanied by a single soldier, who had to put on his everyday clothes.
The dogs had been let loose in the courtyard, for the Beg was a great protector of animals, and used to keep open table in front of his dwelling for the wandering dogs of every town he came to.
Making his way through them, Apafi had to cross a hall and an antechamber, brimful with praying dervishes, who, squatting down with legs crossed, were reading aloud from books with large clasps, only so far paying attention to each other as to see which could yell the loudest.
The Prince did not address them, as it was clear that he would get no answer, but went straight towards the third door.
The chamber beyond was also full of spiders’-webs and dervishes, but a red cushion had been placed in the midst of it, and on this cushion sat a big, pale, grey man in a roomy yellow caftan. He also was holding a large book in front of him and reading painfully.
Apafi approached, and even ventured to address him.
“Merciful Olaj Beg, my gracious master, find a full stop somewhere in that book of yours, turn down the leaf at the proper spot, put it down, and listen to me.”
Olaj Beg, on hearing the words of the Prince, put the book aside, and turning with a sweet and tender smile towards him, remarked with emotion:
“The angels of the Prophet bear thee up in all thy ways, my dear child. Heaven preserve every hair of thy beard, and the Archangel Izrafil go before thee and sweep every stone from thy path, that thy feet may not strike against them!”
With these words the Beg graciously extended his right hand to be kissed, blinking privily at the Prince; nor would Apafi have minded kissing it if they had been all alone, but in the presence of so many dervishes it would have been derogatory to his dignity; so, instead of doing so, he took the Beg’s hand and provisionally placed it in his left hand and gave it a resounding thump with his right, and then shook it amicably as became a friend.
“Don’t trouble thyself, my dear son, I will not suffer thee to kiss my hand,” cried Olaj Beg, drawing back his hand and making a show of opposition so that everyone might fancy that Apafi was angry with him for not being allowed to kiss it.
“You have deigned to send for me,” said Apafi, taking a step backwards; “tell me, I pray, what you desire, for my time is short. I am overwhelmed with affairs of state.”
These last words Apafi pronounced with as majestic an intonation as possible.
Olaj Beg thereupon folded his hands together.
“Oh, my dear son!” said he, “the princely dignity is indeed a heavy burden. I see that quite well, nor am I in the least surprised that thou wishest to be relieved of it; but be of good cheer, the blessing of Heaven will come upon us when we are not praying for it; when thou dost least expect it the Sublime Sultan will have compassion upon thee, and will deliver thee of the heavy load which presses upon thy shoulders.”
Apafi wrinkled his brows. The exordium was bad enough; he hastened towards the end of the business.
“Perchance, you have heard, gracious Olaj Beg! that the unfortunate Mariska Sturdza has taken refuge with us.”
“It matters not,” signified the Beg, with a reassuring wave of the hand.
“She took refuge in my palace without my knowledge,” observed Apafi apologetically, “and what could I do when she was all alone? I couldn’t turn her out of my house.”
“There was no necessity. Thou didst as it became a merciful man to do.”
“If you had seen her you would yourself have felt sorry for her—sick, half-dead, desperate, she flung herself at my feet, imploring compassion, and before I could reply to her she
