Yffim Beg gazed around him, and after a brief inspection, not discovering what he sought, he addressed Olaj Beg:
“I want to speak to Hassan Pasha,” said he.
Olaj Beg looked at him, rose with the utmost aplomb, and approached a table on which was a silver dish covered by a cloth. This cloth he removed, and a severed bloody head stared at Yffim Beg with stony eyes.
“There he is—speak to him!” said Olaj Beg gently.
XXI
Other Times—Other Men
Great men are the greatest of all dangers to little States. There are men born to be great generals who die as robber-chiefs. If Michael Teleki had sat at the head of a great kingdom, his name perchance would have ranked with that of Richelieu, and that kingdom would have been proud of the years during which he governed it. It was his curse that Transylvania was too small for his genius, but it was also the curse of Transylvania that he was greater than he ought to have been.
The Battle of St. Gothard was a painful wound to Turkish glory, and it left behind it a constant longing for revenge, though a ten-years’ peace had actually been concluded; and presently a more favourable opportunity than the prognostications of the Ulemas or the wisdom of the Lords of Transylvania anticipated presented itself, an opportunity far too favourable to be neglected.
Treaty obligations had compelled the Kaiser to take part in the War of the Spanish Succession against Louis XIV, and the Kaiser’s enemies at once saw that the time for raising their standards against him had arrived. The war was to begin from Transylvania, and the reward dangled before the Prince of Transylvania for his participation in this war was what his ancestors had often but vainly attempted to gain in the same way—the Kingdom of Hungary.
It was, of course, a dangerous game to risk one kingdom in order to gain another, for both might be sacrificed. There was even a party in Transylvania itself which was indisposed to risk the little Principality for the sake of the larger kingdom, and though the most powerful arm of this party, Dionysius Banfi, had been cut off, it still had two powerful heads in Paul Béldi and Nicholas Bethlen.
So one fine day at the Diet assembled at Fogaras, the Prince’s guard suddenly surrounded the quarters of Paul Béldi and Nicholas Bethlen, and informed those gentlemen that they were State prisoners.
What had they done? What crime had they committed that they should be arrested so unceremoniously?
Good Michael Apafi believed that they were aiming at the princely coronet. This was a crime he was ready to believe in at a single word, and he urged the counsellors who had ordered the arrest at once to put the law into execution against the arrestants. But that is what these gentlemen took very good care not to do. It was much easier to kill the arrestants outright than to find a law which would meet their case.
In those days worthy Master Cserei was the commandant of the fortress of Fogaras, and the castle in which the arrestants were lodged was the property of the Princess. As soon as Anna heard of the arrest she summoned Cserei, and showing him the signet-ring on her finger, said to him: “Look at that ring, and whatever death-warrant reaches you, if it bears not the impression of that seal, you will take care not to execute the prisoners; the castle is mine, so you have to obey my orders rather than the orders of the Prince.”
The Prince and his wife then returned together to Fejérvár. On the day after their arrival the chief men of the realm met together in council at the Prince’s palace, and it was Teleki’s idea that only those should remain to dinner who were of the same views as himself. So they all remained at the Prince’s till late in the evening, and thoroughly enjoyed the merry jests of the court buffoon, Gregory Biró, who knew no end of delightful tricks, and swallowed spoons and forks so dextrously that nobody could make out what had become of them.
Apafi had not noticed how much he had drunk, for every time he had filled his beaker from the flagon standing beside him, the flagon itself had been replenished, so that he fancied he had drunk nothing from sheer forgetfulness. But his face had got more inflamed and bloodshot than usual, and suddenly perceiving that the chair next to his was empty, he exclaimed furiously: “Who else has bolted? It is Denis Banfi who has bolted now, I know it is. What has become of Denis Banfi, I say?”
The gentlemen were all silent; only Teleki was able to reply:
“Denis Banfi is dead.”
“Dead?” inquired Apafi, “how did he die?”
“Paul Béldi formed a league against him and he was beheaded.”
“Béldi?” cried Apafi, rising from his seat in blind rage, “and where is that man?”
“He is in a dungeon at present, but it will not be long before he sits on the throne of the Prince.”
“On the scaffold, you mean!” thundered Apafi, beside himself, in a bloodthirsty voice, “on the scaffold, not the throne. I’ll show that crafty Szekler who I am if he raises his head against me. Call hither the protonotarius, the law must be enforced.”
“The sentences are now ready, sir,” said Nalaczi, drawing from his pocket three documents of equal size; “only your signature is required.”
He was also speedily provided with ink and a pen, which they thrust into the trembling hand of the Prince, indicating to him at the same time the place on the document where he was to sign his name. The thing was done.
“Is there any stranger among us?” asked Teleki, looking suspiciously around.
“Only the fool, but he doesn’t count.”
The fool at that moment was making a sword dance on the tip of his nose, and on the sword he had put a
