"I don't know exactly, my child. Andy has always brought back a paper on which the Tartar has written the amount received and what still remains to be paid, and the noble lady keeps it very carefully. Of course I do not like to ask any questions."

The maiden became silent and seemed thoughtful; the spindle went twice as fast in her hands and her heart beat more rapidly.

"My son Andy has gone on such a journey now, and I am expecting him back every hour; from him we shall know something certain."

At that very moment the outside gate creaked; a small wagon was driven noisily into the courtyard and the joyous barking of the dogs showed that it was no stranger who had come.

"They've come," cried the two serving women, and had just time to rise from their seats when Anna Bornemissa, wife of Michael Apafi, entered,--a well-built woman, almost as tall as a man; through the plain grey linen gown showed the slender but rounded outlines of a strong figure; she might have been thirty-six years old. Her face was one of those that give no trace of time until far on in years. She was sunburned, but with the bloom of youth and her healthy color this only heightened her peculiar beauty. Her glance was quick and masterful but its charm lay in the soul which it reflected. In her features there was nothing hard, rough or masculine; her brow was arched, smooth, free from wrinkles and full of nobility; her eyebrows were delicately marked, her eyes exquisitely shaped, with long lashes that only half shaded them; they were not the fierce black, but rather nut-brown eyes, showing fire and light, yet now so cold. The nose and the oval of her face were delicately formed, her lips when her mouth was closed were gentle and delicate. The rest of her features seemed to be making an effort not to share her smile, and the mouth when open was proud and authoritative.

"What, still awake!" she said to her maids. Her voice had a pleasant ring although the lower tones were subdued by sorrow.

"We wished to sit up for your ladyship so that you would not have to wait outside for us," answered the old woman, bustling about her mistress and taking the heavy cloak from her shoulders.

"Is not Andy back yet?" asked Madame Apafi, in a voice almost stifled.

"Not yet, but I am expecting him every moment." The lady sighed deeply. How much suppressed sorrow, how many vanishing hopes, what depths of resignation lay in that sigh! Before the strong soul of this woman passed the many sufferings of her joyless life, her struggles with fate, mankind and her own heart; her love had been grafted upon pain that could bring forth wishes only--no pleasures. Another year of her life had passed, rich only in struggles. With the industry of a bee, she had succeeded in getting together a few offerings for the single purpose of her life, and who knew how many more such years there must be before she could attain it: thus far, she had only work, patience and a joyless love. Madame Apafi forced her countenance back into its wonted coldness, bade her servants good-night and was just going to her room, when Clara kissed the hand of her mistress, causing her to look at the maid with astonishment. She felt a hot tear on her hand, which had come in spite of the maiden.

"What is the matter with you?" asked the lady, taken aback.

"Nothing is the matter with me," sobbed the maiden, "but you--most gracious lady--I am so sorry for you. I have for a long time been thinking of something, but have never dared tell it. We often talk of it--how our master has been taken prisoner, and how hard it is to get his ransom;--I mean my friends in the village;--all of us have necklaces with much useless gold and silver coin on them, and so we girls have agreed to put this money together that we have no use for and give it to you, gracious lady, to send off as ransom for our master." Madame Apafi pressed the hand of her maidservant and a tear came to her eye.

"I thank you, my girl," she said, touched. "I prize this offering of yours far more than I should if my sister Banfy had placed ten thousand gold necklaces at my disposal. But God will help us." Just then a horse's hoofs were heard in the courtyard and the dogs began a tremendous barking.

"Who's that? Robbers, perhaps,--the redcoats," stammered the old woman, and neither of the serving women dared go to the door; but Madame Apafi took the light from the table, and boldly going to the door opened it so that the light shone far out into the courtyard.

"Who is that?" she called, in a strong firm voice.

"Us--I mean me," answered somebody, confusedly; and all three at once recognized Andy by the voice.

"Oh, it's you, is it? Come, be quick," called Madame Apafi, joyously, and pulled the evidently confused servant into the house. He stood twirling his cap, not knowing how to begin.

"Did you see him--speak with him?--is he well?" asked Madame Apafi, quickly.

"Yes, well," answered the boy, glad to find a starting point. "He sends you greetings and kisses, my noble lady."

"Why do you look around that way?--whom are the dogs barking at outside?"

"Perhaps at the black horse; they are so glad to see him again."

"Did you give the money to Murza?"

Instead of answering Andy began rummaging in the pocket of his fur coat, and as the opening of the pocket was very high and the bottom seemed very deep, he turned all colors while he was searching for the paper, and trembled as he handed it over to his mistress.

"Is there much left yet? What did Murza say?" asked Madame Apafi, in a tone almost trembling.

"There is not much more,--you could almost say there was very little more," answered Andy, with downcast eyes, in his embarrassment fumbling with his hat.

"How much? how much more?" They all cried at once. Andy turned red.

"There isn't any more!" he blurted out, and burst into a loud laugh followed by tears;--at once the lady caught the meaning of his words.

"Man," she cried passionately, seizing him by the shoulders, "you have brought my husband with you!" Andy pointed behind him and nodded in silence. He wept and laughed all at once but not a word could he speak.

With a cry such as one utters only in deepest joy, the lady ran to the half open door and there stood listening, Michael Apafi, long waited and oft lamented.

"Michael, my own dear husband!" cried his wife, trembling with feeling; and, beside herself, she fell on her husband's neck, whispering to him words too low to be heard, expressions of tenderness, joy and love. Apafi pressed his wife to his heart; no sound was to be heard save low sobbing.

"You are mine, mine at last," stammered his wife, after a long pause, recovering from the violence of her feelings.

"I am yours. And I swear to you that no country, no world can tear me from you again."

"Oh, my God, what happiness!" cried Anna, raising to heaven her face covered with tears of joy. "What joy you have brought back to me,"

again leaning on her husband and burying her face on his breast.

"If the whole world were mine I should not be rich enough to repay you for your loyalty to me. If I could call a kingdom my own I would give it to you, and that would be only a beggarly reward."

The husband and wife, exultant in their joy and love, remained undisturbed in their happiness. Until late in the night the light burned in their room,--how much, how much they had to say!

CHAPTER III

A PRINCE BY COMPULSION

A year had passed since Apafi's return. In the manor house at Ebesfalva all was excitement. Before one pair of horses could rest another started out on the road. The servants were sent in every direction. There seemed to be great confusion in the house, yet nobody appeared troubled. To those who asked confidentially it was whispered that the wife of Michael Apafi might give birth to a child at any hour. The master did not for one instant leave the chamber of his suffering wife.

Suddenly a wild noise rang out in the courtyard; about twenty-four horsemen had arrived, led by a Turkish Aga. To the terror of the serving people the Turkish troops carried lances and knives.

"Is your master at home?" the Aga said, haughtily, to Andy, who in his terror had remained riveted to the spot. "If he is," he went on without waiting for an answer, "tell him to come out, I wish to speak to him."

Still Andy could not speak, at which the Turk with emphasis added, "If he will not come out I will go after him."

With these words he sprang from his horse and crossed the space before the entrance. Andy ventured to stammer a brief--"But, gracious lord,"--when the Turk cut him off with--"I should like it better, my boy, if you would stop your talk and go into the house."

Just then Apafi, attracted by the rattling of the lances, came out of his wife's room. He was terror-stricken when he faced his unexpected guest.

"Are you Michael Apafi?" asked the Turk, angrily.

"At your service, gracious lord," replied Apafi, quietly.

"Good. His majesty, the celebrated Ali Pasha, sends you word to enter this carriage without delay and come to my lord in camp at Klein-Selyk, and that without any attendants."

"That's a pretty story," muttered Apafi to himself. "I beg your pardon, worthy Aga," he added aloud, "just at present it is quite impossible for me to carry out this wish, as my wife is in travail, and any moment may decide her life or death. I cannot leave her now."

"Call a doctor if your wife is sick; and remember that you will not restore her to health by bringing down the anger of the Pasha on you."

"Grant me only one day and then it does not matter if it costs me my life."