“Oh, poor child!” cried Olaj Beg, folding both his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven.
“Her husband had left her in great misery, and alone she plunged into jeopardy,” continued Apafi, trying to justify the persecuted woman in every possible manner.
“Oh, poor, unhappy child!” cried Olaj Beg, shaking his head.
“And more than that,” sighed Apafi, “the poor woman is big with child.”
“What dost thou say?”
“Yes, sir, and flying day and night in all sorts of weathers from her pursuers in such a condition, you can imagine her wretched condition; she was scarce alive, she was on the very threshold of death.”
“Allah be gracious to her and extend over her the wings of his mercy!”
Apafi began to think that he had found Olaj Beg in a charitable humour.
“I knew that you would not be angry about her.”
“I am not angry, my son, I am not angry. My eyes overflow at her sad fate.”
“She, you know, had no share in her husband’s faults.”
“Far from it.”
“And it would not be right that an innocent woman should atone for what her husband has committed.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then do you think, my lord, that the Sublime Sultan will be merciful to this woman?”
“What a question! Have no fear for her!”
Apafi was not so simple as not to be struck by this exaggerated indulgence, the more satisfactory were the Beg’s replies the keener grew his feeling of anxiety. At last, much perturbed, he ventured to put this question:
“Gracious Beg! will you allow this unfortunate woman to rest in peace at my house, and can you assure me that the Sublime Sultan will espouse her cause?”
“The Holy Book says: ‘Be merciful to them that suffer and compassionate them that weep.’ Therefore, behold I grant thee thy desire: let this poor innocent woman repose in thy house in peace, let her rest thoroughly from her sufferings and let her enjoy the blessedness of peace till such time as I must take her from thee by the command of the Grand Seignior.”
Apafi felt his brain reel, so marvellous, so terrible was this graciousness of the Turk towards him.
“And when think you you will require this woman to be handed over?”
Olaj Beg, with a reassuring look, tapped Apafi on the shoulder, and said with a voice full of unction:
“Fret not thyself, my dear son! In no case will it be earlier than tomorrow morning.”
Apafi almost collapsed in his fright.
“Tomorrow morning, do you say, my lord?”
“I promise thee she shall not be disturbed before.”
Apafi perceived that the man had been making sport with him all along. Rage began to seethe in his heart.
“But, my lord, I said nothing about one day. One day is the period allowed to condemned criminals.”
“Days and seasons come from Allah, and none may divide them.”
“Damn you soft sawder!” murmured Apafi between his teeth. “My lord,” he resumed, “would you carry away with you a sick woman whom only the most tender care can bring back from the shores of Death, and who, if she were now to set out for Buda, would never reach it, for she would die on the way?”
Olaj Beg piously raised his hands to Heaven.
“Life and death are inscribed above in the Book of Thora, and if it there be written in letters embellished with roses and tulips that Mariska Sturdza must die tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, die she will most certainly, though she lay upon musk and were anointed with the balm of life, and neither the prayers of the saints nor the lore of the Sages could save her—but if it be written that she is to live, then let the Angels of Death come against her with every manner of weapon and they shall not harm her.”
Apafi saw that he would have to speak very plainly to this crafty old man.
“Worthy Olaj Beg! you know that this realm has a constitution which enjoins that the Prince himself must not issue ordinances in the more weighty matters without consulting his counsellors. Now, the present case seems to me to be so important that I cannot inform you of my resolution till I have communicated it to my council.”
“It is well, my dear son, I have no objection. Speak with those servants of thine whom thou hast made thy masters; sit in thy council chamber and let the matter be well considered as it deserves to be; and if thereafter ye decide that the Princess shall accompany me, I will take her away and take leave of thee with great honour; but if it should so fall out that ye do not give her up to me, my dear son, or should allow her to escape from me—then will I take thee instead of her, together with thy brave counsellors, my sweet son.”
The Beg said these words in the sweetest, tenderest voice, as old grandfathers are wont to address their grandchildren, and descending from his pillows he stroked the Prince’s face with both his hands, and kissed him on the temples with great good will, quite covering his head with his long white beard.
Apafi felt as if the whole room were dancing around him. He did not speak a word, but turned on his axis and went right out. He himself did not know how he got through the first door, but by the time he had shut the second door behind him he bethought him that he was still the Prince of Transylvania, and by descent one of the first noblemen of the land, whereas Olaj Beg was only a nasty, dirty Turkish captain, who had been a camel-driver in the days of his youth, and yet had dared to speak to him, the Prince, like that! By the time he had reached the third door he had reflected that in the days when he was nothing but the joint-tenant of Ebesfalu, if Olaj Beg had dared to treat him so shamefully, he would have broken his bald head for him with
