“Yes, yes!” roared the incendiaries; and dancing in their fetters they followed the provost-marshal upstairs, who turned his extraordinary small head back from time to time to smile at them, at the same time twisting the ends of his poor thin moustache with an air of crafty self-satisfaction.
One day two letters reached Grosswardein from Stambul. One of these letters was from Kucsuk Pasha to his son, the other was from the Sultan to Ajas Pasha.
The letter to Feriz Beg was as follows:
“My Son,—Let thy heart rejoice: Kiuprile and Maurocordato have not been wasting their time. The Grand Vizier is very wrath with the Prince and his Court. The death of the four-and-twenty Spahis is an affair of even greater importance in Stambul just now than the capture of Candia. I fancy we shall very soon get what we want.”
Feriz Beg understood the allusion, and went at once to the Pasha in the best of humours.
“Listen to what the omnipotent Sultan writes,” said the Pasha, producing a parchment sealed with green wax, adorned below with the official signature of the Sultan, the so-called Tugra, which was not unlike a bird’s-nest made of spiders’-webs.
Feriz Beg pressed the parchment to his forehead and his lips, and the further he read into it the more his face filled with surprise and joy.
“Valiant Ajas Pasha my Faithful Servant!—I wish thee always all joy and honour. Inasmuch as I learn from thee that the faithless servants of the Prince, in time of peace and amity, have slain four-and-twenty Spahis, and that their masters not only have not punished this misdeed but even presumed to deceive me with lying reports thereof, thereby revealing their ill-will towards me, now therefore I charge and authorise thee in case the counsellors of the Prince do not surrender the murderers in response to my ultimatum, which even now is on its way to them, or in case they make any objection whatsoever, or even if they simply pass over the matter in silence; in any such case I charge and authorise thee instantly to invade Transylvania with all the armies at thy disposal, and by the nearest route. Kucsuk Pasha also will immediately be ready at hand with his bands at Vöröstorony, and the Tartar King hath also our command to lend thee assistance. This done, I will either drive the Prince into exile or take him prisoner, when I will at once strike off the chains of Master Paul Béldi—who, because of his stubbornness, now sits in irons at Jedekula—and whether he will or not, I will place him incontinently on the throne of the Prince, etc., etc.”
“Dost thou believe now that we shall get the murderers?” asked Ajas Pasha triumphantly.
“Never!” said Feriz Beg, laughing aloud and beside himself with joy.
“What dost thou say?” growled the astonished Ajas; “but suppose we go for them ourselves?”
“Well!” said Feriz, perceiving that he had nearly betrayed himself, “in that case—yes.” But he said to himself “Not then or ever; and Paul Béldi will be released, and Paul Béldi will become Prince, and his wife will be Princess Consort, and Aranka will be a Princess too, and we shall see each other again.”
At that moment an aga entered the room and announced with a look of satisfaction:
“Master Ladislaus Székely has now sent the murderers.”
Feriz Beg reeled backwards. The word “impossible” hung upon his lips, and he nearly let it escape. It was impossible.
“Let them come in!” said Ajas Pasha viciously. He would have preferred to carry out the Sultan’s conditional command, seize the Principality, and conduct the campaign personally.
Feriz Beg fancied he was dreaming when he saw the forty or fifty selected rascals who, led by Martin Pók, drew up before Ajas Pasha; the rogues were dressed up as soldiers but thief, criminal, was written on the face of each one of them.
Master Martin Pók exhibited them to the Pasha and Feriz Beg, and very wisely stood aside from them. Feriz Beg clapped his hands together in astonishment. He knew better than anyone that these fellows had never seen the Spahis, and he waited to hear what they would say.
Ajas Pasha sat on his sofa with a countenance as cold as marble, and at a sign from him a file of Janissaries formed behind the backs of the rascals, who tried to look as pleasant and smiling as possible before the Pasha to gain his favour.
“Ye are Master Ladislaus Székely’s men, eh?” inquired the Pasha of the false heroes.
“We are—at thy service, unconquerable Pasha,” they replied with one voice, folding their hands across their breasts and bowing down to the very ground.
The Pasha beckoned to the Janissaries to come softly up behind each one of them.
“Ye were at Élesd at midnight on the day of St. Michael the Archangel, eh?” he asked again.
“We were indeed—at thy service invincible Pasha!” they repeated striking their knees with their foreheads.
Feriz Beg rent his clothes in his rage. He would have liked to have roared at them: “Ye lie, you rascals! You were not there at all!” but he was obliged to keep silence.
Ajas beckoned again to the Janissaries, and very nicely and quietly they drew their swords from their sheaths, and, grasping them firmly, concealed them behind their backs.
The Pasha put the third question to the robbers.
“Ye met Feriz Beg, eh?”
“Lie not!” cried Feriz furiously. “Look well at me! Have you ever seen me anywhere before? Did you ever meet me at Élesd?”
The interrogated, bowing to the earth, replied with the utmost devotion: “Yes—at your service, invincible Pasha and most valiant Beg!”
At that
