In a few days Transylvania was ablaze from end to end. Towns, villages, farms, castles, country seats, strongholds, even the ancient walls of Alba Julia, all were surrounded by the flames, and were crashing and cracking into ruins.

The invaders, stupid in their destructiveness, spared nothing whatever; and their leaders and commanders, themselves as stupid as the brute-like herd over whom they were placed, occasioned loss to the Khan which was past all reckoning, for his object was plunder, and they in their rage for ruin, destroyed what the Khan might even have called treasure, as well as what might have provided food for hundreds of thousands of the army. What did the Khan Oktai, or Batu, or his thousands of leaders care! The latter were Little Tartars, Russian Tartars, German Tartars, and what not, to whom the conqueror had given the rank and t.i.tle of Knez, whom he favoured, promoted, and enriched, until his humour changed, or he had no further use for them, and then--why then he squeezed them, made them disgorge their wealth, and strung them up to the nearest tree. They were but miserable foreigners after all!

Transylvania was in the clutches of the enemy, who had entered her in two large divisions, north and south. But, thanks to the nature of the country, and the many hiding-places it afforded, she did not suffer quite so severely as her neighbour.

Orsolya Szirmay, of whom the travellers had heard at Frata, had married one Banko, a man of large property and influence, who owned vast estates both in Hungary and Transylvania; but Orsolya did not see much of her own relatives after her marriage, for her husband was a man of awkward temper, and they rarely paid her a visit; so that when, four or five years before the Mongol invasion, Banko died, she went to live on the Transylvanian property, which was in a most neglected condition, and required her presence. Banko had lived to be ninety-three, and his widow was now an old lady with snow-white hair, but with all her faculties and energies about her, and eyes as bright, hair as l.u.s.trous, as those of a young girl.

She had made her home in a gloomy castle among the mountains, but at the first rumour of the coming invasion, she left it for Frata, where she had an old house, or rather barn, which had been divided up into rooms, and was neither better nor worse than many another dwelling-house in those days.

During her short stay here, the old lady was constantly riding about the country accompanied by her elderly man-servant, and a young girl, who had but lately joined her, and was introduced as "a relation from Hungary."

One morning early all three disappeared without notice to anyone, and it was only later that it was rumoured that "Aunt Orsolya," as she was called throughout the country, had taken refuge in a large cavern among the mountains to the north of Frata.

It afforded plenty of s.p.a.ce, it was difficult of approach, and it had but one, and that a very narrow entrance; the streams which now flow through it not having then forced a pa.s.sage.

How Aunt Orsolya had contrived to stock it with food and other necessaries we are not told, but she had done it; neither did she lack society in this lonely abode after the first week or two, for she was joined in some mysterious way by between seventy and eighty persons belonging to the most distinguished families in the land.

She, of course, was the head, the queen of this strange establishment, for those who fled hither to save their lives, and, as far as they could, their most precious valuables, found the old lady already installed.

She received them, she was their hostess; and besides all this, she was a born ruler, one to whom others submitted, unconsciously as it were, and who compelled respect and deference.

Orsolya, then, had taken the part of house-mistress from the beginning, and no doubt enjoyed receiving more and more guests, and enjoyed also the consciousness that they all looked up to her, and were all ready to submit themselves to her wishes--we might say commands.

The old lady herself appointed to each one his place, in one or other of the many roomy caves which opened out of the great cavern, and she managed to find something for everyone to do.

In a short time the cavern was as clean as hands could make it. The driest parts were reserved for sleeping places; and one cave was set apart as a chapel, where service was regularly held by the clergy, of whom there were several among the refugees.

When the neighbourhood was quiet, the men went out hunting, and--stealing! Stealing! there is no polite word for it. They stole sheep, cattle, provisions anything they needed for housekeeping. Those who came in empty-handed Orsolya scolded in plain language; and the men who swept and cleaned at her bidding, and the women who boiled and baked, gradually became as much accustomed to the old lady's resolute way of keeping house and order as if they had served under her all their lives.

It was some time in March that Aunt Orsolya had retreated to the cavern, and there she and her companions had remained all through the spring, summer, and autumn, often alarmed, but never actually molested, hearing rumours in plenty, but knowing little beyond the fact that the whole country was in the hands of the Mongols, and that the King was a fugitive.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT ORSOLYA'S CAVERN.

Three fires were burning in different parts of the cavern, and round each was encamped quite a little army of women and children.

Of the men, some were lying outstretched on wild-beast skins, others were pacing up and down the great vaulted hall, and yet others were busy skinning the game shot during the day. Quite respectable butchers they were, these grandees, who had been used no long time ago to appear before the world with the most splendid of panther-skins slung elegantly over their shoulders.

Some of the women were filling their wooden vessels at the springs which trickled out from under the wall of rock; and as they watched the water sparkling in the fire-light they chattered to one another in the most animated way, or told fairy tales and repeated poetry for the general entertainment.

In her own quarters, in the centre of the cavern, close under the wall, Orsolya was seated in a chair of rough pine branches, beneath a canopy of mats, which protected her from the continual droppings of the rock.

Her face was covered with a perfect network of lines and wrinkles, but her dark eyes shone like live coals. Her beautiful silver hair was nearly hidden beneath a kerchief which had seen better days, and her dress, a plain, old-fashioned national costume, was neat and clean in spite of its age. She had a large spinning-wheel before her, and on a low stool by her side, sat a young girl, also employed with a spindle.

It was evident that this latter, a pale, slim creature with black eyes, was no Magyar. Her features were of a foreign cast, her hands were small and delicate, and the charm and grace of her every movement were suggestive rather of nature than of courts.

But the beautiful face looked troubled, as if its owner were haunted by the memory of some overwhelming calamity.

Evidently this young relation of hers was the light of the old lady's eyes, for her features lost their stern, rather masculine expression, and her whole face softened whenever she looked at her.

Some of the men interrupted their walk from time to time to loiter near the fires, or talk to the sportsmen as they came in, or drew near to Orsolya, as subjects approach a sovereign; and Orsolya talked composedly with each one, too well accustomed to deference and homage even to notice them.

"Dear child," said the old lady, as soon as they were left to themselves again, "how many spindles does this make? I'll tell you what, if you spin enough we will put the yarn on a loom and weave it into shirting."

The girl raised her beautiful eyes to the old lady's face, saying in good Magyar, though with a somewhat peculiar accent, "I think Mr. Bokor might set up the loom now, dear mother; I have such a number ready."

"I only hope we shall be able to make it do, my child," said Orsolya, leaning towards the girl, and stroking the raven hair which floated over her shoulders. "Good man!" she went on, smiling, "not but that he can be as obstinate as anyone now and then! and he has made the shuttle the size of a boat!"

The girl laughed a little as she answered, "We will help him, good mother," and she drew the old lady's hand to her lips, and kissed it as if she could not let it go.

"Yes," she went on slowly, "necessity is a great teacher; it teaches one all things, except how to forget!"

"Oh, my dear, and who would wish it to teach one that! There are some things which we cannot, and ought not to forget, and it is best so, yes, best, even when the past has been a sad one."

She stroked and caressed the girl in silence for a few moments, and then went on, "But you know, dear child, that life on this sad earth is not everything. G.o.d is good, oh, so good! Why did He create all that we see? Only because He is good. He, the Almighty, what need had He of any created thing? It is true that life brings us much pain and anguish at times, but then this is but the beginning of our real life. There is another, beyond the blue sky, beyond the stars, which you can no more realise now than a blind man can realise a view, or a deaf man beautiful music. We shall find there all that we have loved and lost here. G.o.d does not bring people together and make them love and care for one another only that death may separate them at last."

"No, don't forget anything, dearest child," Orsolya went on, with infinite love in her tone, as the girl laid her head in her old friend's lap. "Keep all whom you have loved, and honoured, and lost, warm in your heart."

"They are always there, dear mother, always before me! I see their dear, dear faces every moment!--oh! why must I outlive them?"

"That you may make others happy, dear child; perhaps, even that you may be a comfort and joy to me in my old age."

Maria threw her arms round the old lady and embraced her warmly.

"Dear, dear mother! how good you are to me! Don't think me ungrateful for what the good G.o.d has given me in place of those whom I have lost.

Yes, I wish to live, and I will live, if G.o.d wills, to thank you for your love, and to love you for a long time. But if you see me sad sometimes, don't forget, good mother, how much I have lost! and--I am afraid, I am afraid! I have only one left to lose besides you, dear mother, and if--if--I don't know how I could go on living then----"

Just then two or three men appeared in the pa.s.sage leading up from the mouth of the cave, and Maria went back to her stool.

Night had fallen, the men had been engaged in making all safe as usual by barricading the entrance with large pieces of rock, but they had suddenly left their work and were hurrying up to the cavern.

"Someone is coming, Maria! or--but no, we won't think any evil, G.o.d is here with us!"

"Mistress Aunt!" said the first of the men, bowing low, "we have brought you a visitor, a great man, Canon Roger, who has but lately escaped from the Mongols, and there are three others, strangers, with him. Leonard here found them all nearly exhausted and not knowing which way to turn."

"Well done, nephew! I'm glad you found them," said Orsolya, "theeing and thouing" him, as she did everyone belonging to her little community.

"Roger--Roger," she went on, "I seem to remember the name--why, of course, Italian, isn't he? and lived with my nephew Stephen at one time?"

"Bring them in! bring them in!" she cried eagerly; and in a few moments Father Roger and his companions appeared before the "lady of the castle."

"Glory be to Jesus!" said, or rather stammered, the Canon; and "For ever and ever!" responded Orsolya, who had risen to receive him; and for a moment her voice failed her, so shocked was she at the change in the fine, vigorous-looking man whom she remembered.

Attenuated to the last degree, bent almost double, he looked as if he were in the last stage of exhaustion. His clothes were one ma.s.s of rags and tatters, which hung about him in ribbons; his face, sunken and the colour of parchment, had lost its expression of energy and manliness, and wore for the moment a look of bewilderment, which was almost vacancy. He was the wreck of what he had once been.