"Well, if ever I saw a match for that since I lived at Kiliti!"

exclaimed the perplexed peasant, rubbing his eyes.

But what were mine host Vendel's feelings during all this excitement?

he who loved peace and quiet, to what had he come at last? Disorder and misrule had taken possession of his house, he heard oaths which made his hair stand on end, his snuff-box was rifled without permission, his poodle's tail trod upon, he himself laughed at, and finally, open war carried on in his presence, and his favourite tankard, which had been esteemed and honoured, and had grown old in his house, was destroyed for ever, never to be used again, even beyond the grave, where he hoped to meet the three wives who had gone before him! It was more than a Bohemian-German brewer, who wore a night-cap, and was married for the fourth time, could be expected to bear.

"Go to your beds, my good folk!" he exclaimed, addressing his household in piteous accents, and rising solemnly from his seat; "let me get away from hence, Viczikam; let my bed be warmed with hot irons, for I am ill, very ill, and perhaps I may die. Alas! I am sick, sick!

Vicza, I am dying!"

"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" cried his wife in a tone of great alarm, which was echoed by all the servants, who were of course much alarmed also.

"Bring elder-flowers from the attics," cried Mistress Vicza; "get a linseed poultice directly, boil water for the tea, and warm the pans; you, Hanzli, run to the barber's for leeches. Beatrice, lay down the bed immediately, and prepare hot irons--the gazda is sick, very sick; his head burns like an oven, and his hand is as cold as a frozen turnip; make haste--fly! two steps for one!"

The servants dispersed right and left to their various appointments, and some, directed by Mistress Vicza, seized Vendel by the arms and legs, and carried him off, neck and crop, to his bedroom, where they rolled him up in three feather-beds and half-a-dozen pillows, and made him drink a quart of camomile and as much elder-tea; while Mistress Vicza sat beside him with a hand-brush, which she applied unmercifully if he attempted to move hand or foot from under the feather-beds.

This is the village cure for every complaint. The patient is boiled in his own soup, and if he does not suffocate, or die of apoplexy, he is sure to be cured.

Vendel-gazda was at first only shamming ill. He wished to be in peace and quiet, and he wished to be made much of; but Mistress Vicza had fairly outwitted him, and he ended by believing what he had himself invented; he felt that it was either the heat or the cold, but some sort of fever it certainly was. The hot tea which he had drunk, the sack of linseed porridge which had been placed on his stomach, the vesicatorium applied to his soles, the anxious faces about him, the tiptoe tread, the odour of vinegar poured on heated iron to carry off infection, the hands laid on his forehead, the whispered opinions, all gave rise to those peculiar sensations experienced at the beginning of an illness--a sort of congealment in the head, and a swarming sensation throughout the whole system.

"Vicza!" whispered the patient from beneath the feather beds, from which only his nose was seen rising like a main-mast; "Vicza, I am thirsty!"

"The czerjo fu[72] will be here directly, my dear old man, and then you can drink it; meanwhile, you may suck your lips a little."

[Footnote 72: Thousand-sweets, an herb.]

Alas! it was not czerjo-fu tea that Vendel wanted to drink, but he did not dare to say so.

"See, here it is, hot and bitter, for my dear old man! wait, I will pour some into the saucer--now, drink it, and you will be quite well; but take care not to burn your mouth."

"Brrrrrphu!" exclaimed the self-made patient, shuddering, as he took the first mouthful; "this must be poison!"

"Poison indeed! it is excellent physic. I will drink some myself; there now--delightful! it will cure you perfectly--drink now, my old man, drink it, quick! come now, drink it when I tell you."

In short, _nolens volens_, Vendel was obliged to open his mouth, and swallow what is erroneously called a thousand sweets, but is, in truth, a hundred thousand bitters.

It is a well-known fact that strong bitters produce a strong appet.i.te, and this was the case thirty years ago, just as at present.

Vendel-gazda contented himself for some time by sighing deeply, and grimacing with his nose, which was the only part of his body in active condition, till at last, no longer able to control his impatience, he beckoned to Mistress Vicza, and whispered something in a beseeching tone, accompanied by a cannibal expression of countenance.

"You insatiable cormorant!" said Mistress Vicza angrily, "what will you want next?" and, drawing the capacious night-cap over his head, she bade him go to sleep, and left the room.

A deep and heavy sigh burst from poor Vendel's lips.

What the mystic word may or may not have been, has remained a secret to historians. Psychologians and philosophers, however, who are initiated in the sacred mysteries of gastronomy, may explain it in the simple expression, "I am hungry."

Mistress Vicza, however, recommended the sufferer to forget his tortures in sleep.

But Vendel could not sleep. Fearful and strange apparitions rose before his hungry imagination. Now a gigantic mast of Augsburg sausage sailed past, followed by an immeasurable side of bacon; now a host of rosy, smiling Bohemian pampuskas, their preserves squeezing out from every corner, came flying and leaping around him; anon a respectable beer-flask floated gravely by, with its venerable crown of white foam, accompanied by a roasted pig of unusual dimensions; then followed in diverse rotation, the whole system of bakes, stews, and roasts, and all sorts of nameable and nameless hashes, minces, and rich soups, emitting their savoury odours and aromatic flavours.

"Oh, hundredfold unhappy man that I am, not to be able to devour all these!" said the hungry brewer to himself, as swallowing his saliva, he turned to the wall, and tried to say his prayers.

But how could he pray under such circ.u.mstances? hungry and thirsty, with the water actually running from his mouth; besides which, the loud voices in the next room scolding, laughing, and fighting, were by no means calculated to inspire devotional feeling.

While he was thus suffering and struggling within himself--now whimpering, and now gnawing his coverlet--all at once, he thought he felt the pillow begin to move under his head, while certain mysterious whisperings met his ear; at last, something laid hold of his head.

"What is that!"

"Ja--ha--hai! it is me, master," said a voice, accompanied by a chattering of teeth.

Vendel looked round. Hanzli stood before him, his face of a livid green, his knees knocking together, and his hair standing on end.

Vendel thought he beheld a spectre. He tried to cry out, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he could not articulate a syllable.

"Master!" exclaimed the youth with upturned eyes; and, trembling violently, he fell upon both knees, and seized the collar of Vendel's night-dress so tightly, that the latter thought he was going to choke him, but he did not--no, he did not; on the contrary, Hanzli began to weep bitterly, and to kiss his master's huge hand, while he could only exclaim in a voice choked with sobs, "Master, master!"

"I hear, my lad; but what is the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing the matter with me; but my master is ruined for ever; they are going to seize him and carry him off, and make a terrible job of him!"

"What are you talking of, Hanzli, my lad?" exclaimed the amazed brewer; "what do you mean?"

"Well, do you know, master, what the enemy, this terrible, vitriol-drinking enemy, has come for?"

"Not I."

"Nor did I know it before, but now I know it all. Oh! to think that it was for _that_ they have come across kingdoms and worlds with fire and sword! to think that they have been searching governments and realms for _that_!"

"For what?"

"Why, did I not say it?"

"For my wife, perhaps?" cried the ex-patient, starting up, hunger and thirst alike forgotten.

"That would have been a good idea!" thought Hanzli; "they might have done that, but they did not. It is for you yourself, my beloved master--for you alone that all this war is waging," he whispered, with upraised eyes, pointing with his long ape-like arms to his master, who had fallen on his back; for though he did not understand the circ.u.mstances of the affair, he was very much alarmed for all that.

He stared at Hanzli, and Hanzli stared at him; both seemed afraid of renewing the conversation.

"But why--what does the French Emperor want with me?" asked Vendel at last, in a voice faint with suspense and terror.

"Ay," replied Hanzli, "that is the thing! They have a great project about you, master. I saw the green csako hussars whispering together, and shaking their heads. 'That is the man,' I heard them say, 'and no other;' and I came as near as possible to listen who or what it could be, and what should I hear"--

"Well, and what did you hear?"

"They said--whispering as low as possible, that n.o.body might hear them--that the French Emperor would not cease devastating the land with fire and sword, until they delivered him up as a ransom"--

"Well?"

"Until they gave him, as a ransom, a man weighing five hundredweight"--

"And what do they want with him?" gasped Vendel.