He strewed over these lines a fine blue dust which was the strongest of poisons, calculating that whoever wanted to read the letter would first brush the dust off it, whereupon the fine dust would rise in the air, and the person reading the letter would inhale the dust and die.
After attaching the letter to his turban, he began prowling round the dungeon of Paul Béldi, awaiting an opportunity of worming his way into it.
Paul Béldi was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the dungeon of Jedikula. At his feet lay his faithful bloodhound, Körtövely, with his eyes fixed sadly on his master. Whenever his master slept the dog would sit up, never take his eyes off him, and begin growling at the lightest noise.
Béldi, with folded arms, was sitting on the stone bench to which he was chained. His face had grown terribly pale and as if turned to stone. The pale gleam of light which filtered through the narrow window and lit up his face, found there no trace of that weary longing which the dweller in prisons generally has for the sun’s rays. The whole man, body and soul, was hardened into steel.
Suddenly the dog lying at his feet impatiently raised its sagacious head, and then with a whimper of joy ran towards the door; there it stood for a time merrily barking, and then ran back to its master and stood before him wagging its tail with one foot on his shoulder, whining and whimpering with such lively joy that one might almost have understood what it wanted to say.
“What’s the matter? Good dog!” said Béldi, stroking the dog’s head. “What is it? Nobody’s coming to see me that can make you happy.”
At that moment the key turned in the door of the dungeon and a group of men by the light of torches descended the steps and entered Béldi’s prison; whereupon Körtövely quickly left his master and burrowing his way through the throng, began to yelp merrily over someone, and then rushing back to his master, planted his forepaws on his breast and barked as if he would burst because he could not express more plainly the joy which his wonderful canine instinct had anticipated.
Béldi, perceiving among those who visited him the Grand Vizier, Kiuprile, and Maurocordato, ordered his dog to be quiet, and standing up before them, saluted them with a deep bow.
“Well, thou obstinate man!” said the Grand Vizier, “how long wilt thou torment thyself and offend the Sultan and thine own good friends? Wilt thou ever perceive that to sit on a stone bench in a damp dungeon is a very different thing to sitting on a princely throne?”
“The more I suffer,” said Béldi, in a strangely calm voice, “the more reason I have to rejoice that my country does not suffer instead of me.”
The Grand Vizier thereupon said something in Turkish which Maurocordato sadly interpreted: “The Grand Seignior informs thee that because of money thou hast been cast into prison, and only money can release thee; promise, therefore, two hundred and seventy purses, and thou shalt get the Principality to enable thee to pay it.”
“I have told you my determination,” said Béldi, “and I will not depart from it. I will not promise money to the detriment of my country. I will not lead an army against it, and I will not break my oath. These were and will be my words from which I can never depart.”
“Never!” cried Kucsuk Pasha, pressing through the crowd. “Wilt thou not even now?”—and with that he led a pale female figure towards Béldi.
“My wife!” exclaimed the captive, and he gripped fast his chains lest he should collapse for joy, terror, and surprise.
The pale woman in mourning fell upon his bosom, her tears became his fetters.
Paul Béldi burst into tears, he fell back upon his stone bench, his very soul was shattered. He remained clinging upon his wife’s neck, speechless, unable to utter a word, and the whining dog licked now the hand of his master and now the lady’s hand.
“Let us turn aside,” said Kucsuk Pasha; “let us leave them together”—and the Turks withdrew from the dungeon, leaving Paul Béldi alone with his wife.
“I fancied,” said Dame Béldi when she was able to utter a word amidst her choking sobs. “I fancied I was suffering instead of you, and oh! you were suffering more than I.”
“How did you come here?” asked Béldi, in a low stifled voice.
“Kucsuk Pasha left his son as a hostage in my stead.”
“Worthy man! What useless sacrifices he is making for my sake. And my children?”
“They remain in the dungeon whither also I must return, if you will not accept the Sultan’s offer.”
“Have they taken away my girl Aranka also?” asked Béldi, with a heavy heart.
“Yes, they have taken her too, and if we are released we shall have no whither to go. They have taken everything of ours. The Bethlen property has become the prey of Farkas Bethlen; the Haromszeki estate is now in the hands of Clement Mikes, although it is not lawful to deprive a Szekler of his lands, even for high-treason. Our castle at Bodola has been totally destroyed, our escutcheon has been torn to pieces, and your name has been recorded in the journals of the Diet as a traitor.”
“Oh, ye men!” roared Béldi, shaking his chains in the bitterness of his anger; “if I were not Paul Béldi the wrath of God would descend upon your heads. But ah!—I love my country even if worms are gnawing it. Dry your eyes, my good wife! you see I am not weeping. What we suffer is the visitation of God upon us. I remain a Christian and a patriot. I leave my cause to God!”
“You will not accept the offer of the Sultan?” inquired Dame Béldi, approaching her husband with fear and despair in her eyes.
“Never!” replied Béldi, in a low voice.
The wife, with a loud scream,
