"He has only to bring him here and we will drive him out at once, together with his protector."

"Quite true. But the Prince is so wearied of this bitter hatred that he has decided, partly out of fright too, to pardon Zolyomi and permit him to return."

"Let him do so, in God's name."

"Right, quite right. But your Grace certainly knows that the estates of Zolyomi are at present in the possession of your Grace. The Prince, therefore, finds himself compelled to demand of your Grace that you should with all good feeling give over these estates to Zolyomi on his return."

"What!" cried Banfy, stepping back. "And you think that I will give up these estates! The Diet gave them over to me with the burdensome condition that I should equip two regiments for the defence of the country. This burdensome condition I have complied with, and do you think that now I will give up these estates that you may have one more fool in the country?"

"But if it is the Prince's wish?"

"It matters not who wishes it, I will not give them back."

"And shall I carry back this answer?"

"This unmistakable answer," replied Banfy, accenting every syllable.

"I do not give them up."

"Your most humble servant," said Nalaczy, bowed mockingly, and withdrew.

"Slave!" Banfy threw after him contemptuously. Then he looked out into the corridor and seeing some of his dependents waiting there hat in hand, he shouted: "Come in, what do you want?"

When the simple folk saw that their over-lord was in a bad humor they hesitated to enter until the castle steward pushed them in.

"We ought to have brought the tithe," began the oldest peasant, with eyes downcast and in tearful voice, "but we really could not. It was not possible."

"Why could you not?" said Banfy, harshly.

"Because we have nothing, gracious lord,--the rain has failed, crops have gone to ruin, we have not harvested enough corn for the sowing; the people in the village are living on roots and mushrooms, so long as they last. After that God knows what will become of them!"

"There it is," said Banfy. "A new blow of fortune and we are still longing for war. Here, steward, you must have the storehouses opened at once and furnish grain for sowing; and the poor must be provided with sufficient food for the winter."

The poor peasant wanted to kiss Banfy's hand but he would not allow it. The tears stood in his eyes.

"That is what I am your master for--to lighten your fate if I see you in need. My agents will carry out my orders; if my own granaries become empty they must order grain for you from Moldavia for cash,"

and with that he went away.

Banfy's wife listened with throbbing heart as the familiar footsteps came nearer. There she sat among the fragrant jasmine and quivering mimosa, as tremulous as the mimosa and as pale as the jasmine.

Everything about her shone with splendor. On the walls hung polished Venetian mirrors in gold frames, portraits of kings and princes, the most beautiful of which was John Kemeny's, painted when he was still attached to the Turk, with smooth shaven hair and a long beard, at that time quite fashionable with Hungarian gentlemen. On one side of the room was an artistic cabinet with countless drawers, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli and tortoise-shell. In the middle of the room stood a beautifully painted table with wonderfully wrought silver candelabra; in glass cases the family jewels were displayed to view, beakers covered with precious stones; stags enameled in gold, their heads made to unscrew; several large silver baskets of flowers, marvels of filagree work, hardly worth a dollar in weight; the bouquets in these baskets were of various-colored jewels; a gold butterfly alighted on an emerald leaf, so cunningly made that everything gleamed through its wings as it swayed gracefully. From the high windows heavy red silk curtains hung down to the ground and the sills were covered with the most beautiful flowers of those times.

Amid all these flowers only the quivering mimosa and the pale jasmine seemed suited to the lady, so melancholy a contrast did her face make to the splendor of her house.

The delicate little figure was almost lost in the high-vaulted room, in which she could with difficulty move one of the heavy armchairs or lift one of the huge candelabra or push aside a hanging. Every noise, every footstep set her nerves quivering. When the familiar step touched her threshold all the blood streamed into her face. She wanted to jump up to meet him but after the door opened she turned pale again and was unable to rise from her seat. Banfy hurried toward his trembling wife whose voice was too stifled for words, clasped both her hands, delicate as dewdrops, and looked kindly into the dreamy eyes.

"How beautiful you are, and yet how sad!"

The lady tried to smile.

"This smile even is melancholy," said Banfy, gently, and put his arm around his fairy wife.

Madame Banfy drew close to her husband, put her arms around his neck, drew his face down to hers and kissed it.

"This very kiss is sorrowful!"

She turned away to hide her tears.

"What is the matter with you?" Banfy asked, and smoothed her brow.

"What has happened to you? why are you so pale? what is the matter?"

"What is the matter with me?" replied Madame Banfy, raising her eyes full of tears and sighing deeply; then she dried her eyes, put her arm in her husband's and led him to her flowers as if to turn the conversation. "Just see this poor passionflower, how faded it is; yet it is planted in a porcelain vase and I water it daily with distilled water. Once I forgot to raise the curtains, and just see how the poor thing is faded. It lacks nothing except sunlight."

"Ah," whispered Banfy in subdued voice. "It seems we speak with each other in the language of the flowers."

"What is the matter with me?" said Madame Banfy with a sob, as she clung to her husband's neck;--"my sunlight is wanting--your love!"

Banfy felt himself unpleasantly affected. He sat down beside his wife, drew her gently toward him and asked in the most friendly, though excited voice,

"Do I not know how to express this to you as well as formerly?"

"Oh yes, but I see you so rarely. You have been away now nearly six weeks, and I could not be with you."

"Wife, are you ambitious? would you shine at the Prince's court?

Believe me your court is more splendid than his and not nearly so dangerous."

"Oh, you know that I do not seek splendor nor fear danger. When you were banished, when a little hut sheltered us and often only a tent covered us in the snow, then you would lay my head on your breast, cover me with your cloak--and I was so happy! Often noise of battle and thunder of cannon would frighten sleep from our eyes and yet I was so happy! You would mount your horse while I sank down in prayer, and when you came back covered with blood and dust, how happy I was!"

"Heaven grant that you may be so again. But there is a fortune that stands higher than that of family life. There are times when your mere glance would hinder me--would stand in my way"--

"Yes, I know them. Gay adventures, beautiful women--am I not right?"

said Madame Banfy in a jesting tone, but perhaps not without significance in the background.

"Certainly!" said Banfy, springing hastily from his chair. "I was thinking of the fatherland." With that he paced angrily the length of the room.

When a husband falls into a rage over such a jest it is a sign that he feels himself hit. With smoothed brow Banfy stood before his trembling wife, who in the few moments since her husband had entered the room had been a prey to the most varied feelings; joy and sorrow, fear and anger, love and jealousy struggled in her excited bosom.

"Margaret," he began, in a dull voice, "you are jealous, and jealousy is the first step toward hatred."

"Then hate me, rather than forget me!" said his wife, bursting out vehemently, and then regretting it at once.

"What then do you wish of me? have you any ground for your suspicions?

You certainly do not wish me to give you an account of the roads I have taken and the people I have spoken with, like the simpleton Giola Bertai, who when he goes away from home takes a diary with him and makes out a report of every hour for his other half. Neither do I keep you under lock and key the way Abraham Thoroczkai does his wife. He has a lock put on his wife's room during his entire absence and when he returns requires the whole village to give an oath that his wife has not spoken with any one in the interval."

Madame Banfy laughed, but the laugh ended in a sigh.

"You evade the question with a jest. I do not accuse you, I do not keep watch of you, and if you should deceive me I should never find it out. But listen; there is in the heart of woman a something, a certain distressing feeling which causes pain without one's knowing why, which knows how to give information whether the love of one who is our all is coming or going, without being able to support itself by reasons. I do not know, and I will not learn where you spend your time, but this I do know, that you stay away a long while at a time and do not make haste to come home. Banfy, I suffer--suffer more than you can imagine."

"Madame," said Banfy, looking at her coldly as he stood before her; "in this country a suit for divorce does not require much time."