Dame Apafi grew as pale as death, her head drooped, and she clasped her hands together.
“So we have come to this at last? Formerly valour was the national virtue, now it is cowardice. What is our own fate likely to be if we reject this poor woman? What has happened today to a Princess Ghyka might easily happen to the wives of Kornis and Csaky and Béldi tomorrow. For their husbands’ faults they may be carried away captive, brought to the block, if only God does not have mercy upon them, for you yourselves say that this would be right. Why do you look at us? You, Béldi, Kornis, Teleki, Csaky, Bethlen, here stand your wives and daughters. Draw forth your coward swords, and if you dare not slay men, at least slay women; kill them before it occurs to the Turkish Padishah to drag them by the hair into his harem.”
As Dame Apafi mentioned the names of the men one after another, their wives and daughters, loudly weeping, rushed towards them, and hiding their heads in their bosoms, with passionate sobs, begged for the unfortunate Princess, and behold the eyes of the men also filled with tears, and nothing could be heard in the room but the sobbing of the husbands mingled with the sobbing of their wives.
On Teleki’s breast also hung the gentle Judith Veér and his own daughter Flora, and the great stony-hearted counsellor stood trembling between them; and although his cast-iron features assumed with an effort a rigorous expression, nevertheless a couple of unrestrainable tears suddenly trickled down the furrows of his face.
The Prince turned aside on his throne, and covering his face, murmured: “No more, Anna! No more!”
“Oh, Apafi!” cried the Princess bitterly; “if perish I must it shall not be by your hand. Anna Bornemissza has strength enough to meet death if there be no choice between that and shame. Be content, if Olaj Beg demands my death, I shall at least be spared the unpleasantness of falling at your feet in supplication. And now, pronounce your decision, but remember that every word you say will resound throughout the Christian world.”
Teleki dried the tears from his face, made his wife and daughter withdraw, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion:
“In vain should I deny it, my tears reveal that I have a feeling heart. I am a man, I am a father, and a husband. If I were nothing but Michael Teleki, I should know how to sacrifice myself on behalf of persecuted innocence; and if my colleagues around me were only companions-in-arms, I should say to them, gird on your swords, lie in wait, rush upon the Turkish escort of the Princess, and deliver her out of their hands—if we perish, a blessing will be upon us. But in this place, in these chairs, it is not ourselves who feel and speak. The life, the death of all Transylvania depends upon us. And my last word is that we incontinently deliver up Mariska Sturdza to the ambassador of the Porte. If my colleagues decide otherwise, I will agree to it, I will take my share of the responsibility, but I shall have saved my soul anyhow. Speak, gentlemen, and if you like, vote against me.”
The silence of death ensued, nobody spoke a word.
“What, nobody speaks?” cried Dame Apafi in amazement. “Nobody! Ah! let us leave this place! There is not a man in the whole principality.”
And with these words the lady withdrew from the council chamber. Her attendants followed her sorrowfully, one by one, tearfully bidding adieu to the unfortunate Princess. Aranka Béldi was the last to part from her. During the whole of this mournful scene her eyes had remained tearless, but she had knelt down the whole time by Mariska’s side, holding her closely embraced, and assuring her that God would deliver her, she must fear nothing.
When all the ladies had withdrawn, and Dame Béldi beckoned her daughter to follow her, she tenderly kissed the face of her friend and whispered in her ear: “I have still hope, fear not, we will save you!” and smiling at her with her bright blue eyes like an angel of consolation, got up and withdrew.
The Princess, tearless, speechless, then allowed herself to be conducted away by the officers of the council chamber.
The men remained sitting upon their chairs, downcast and sorrowful. Every bosom was oppressed, and every heart was empty, and the thought of their delivered fatherland was a cold consolation for the grief they felt that the Government of Transylvania should fling an innocent woman back into the throat of the monster which was pursuing her.
The silence still continued when, suddenly, the door was violently burst open, and shoving aside the guards right and left, Yffim Beg entered the room. He had been sent by Hassan Pasha to levy contributions on the Prince and the people.
The rough Turkish captain looked round with boorish pride upon the silent gentlemen, who were still depressed by the preceding incident, and perceiving that here he had to do with the humble, without so much as bowing, he strode straight up to the Prince, and placing one foot on the footstool before the throne, and throwing his head haughtily back, flung these words at him:
“In the name of my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, I put this question to thee,
