Far different was the appearance of his visitor. He was a tall well-formed man, between thirty and forty years of age. His dress, which he displayed as he threw aside his cloak, cut in the cumbrous fashion of the day, was that of a man of pretensions to a certain rank; and hiscoiffure, with its necessary appendage of pigtail, might be seen, in spite of his hasty journey, to have been arranged with care, and powdered. Although his person was prepossessing, there was, however, a certain dash of therouéin his appearance, and a look of design and cunning in his dark eyes, long fine-drawn nose, and thin lipless mouth, which would speedily have removed the first more agreeable impression of an observer.
"All's well that ends well!" said the stranger, as he removed his hat and cloak. "It is perhaps better, after all, that I should make my entry thus. I have ridden hard, Master Bandini, and Briccone carried me well; but the road was longer than I had surmised, and I had a matter or two to dispose of on my way."
"Better late than never, noble cavaliere!" replied the man addressed as Bandini.
"Hush! no names, man, until I be assured that we have no listeners here," said the cavaliere.
Without replying, the old man removed the shutters from a window, forming a thorough light to that by which the stranger had entered, and looked out into the winding steep descent which forms the first street of the city of Presburg from St Michael's gate. It was faintly lighted by a lantern, but empty of all passengers.
"How now, man!" said the stranger impatiently.
"Why! if it must be said," replied the old man, closing the shutter andreturning; "I have a lodger here, in my apartment. But he is still without; nor will he yet return."
"A lodger!" exclaimed the other, in an angry tone—"and at such a moment! How could you be so incautious, Bandini? This is one of your miserly tricks: you would expose your best friends for a few miserable kreutzers more or less."
"Live and let live, is my maxim," answered Bandini with a growl.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders with vexation.
"And who is this lodger, man?" he cried.
"Only a poor Hungarian country noble," replied Bandini in a more cajoling tone. "A youth! a very youth! a poor unsuspecting youth! He has come, like all the other nobles of the land, great and small, to obey the call of her they call theirKing, to attend this Diet summoned at Presburg; and he occupies my other rooms with his servant—a rustic!—a mere rustic!—a rude untutored rustic!"
"It was ill done, Bandini," continued the stranger, with still evident marks of discontent. "A lodger in the house, when you must know that I need privacy! It was ill done, I tell you."
The old man only muttered something between his teeth by way of a reply.
"Have a care, man," resumed his visitor, "how you juggle with me in this matter. You are richly paid by my employers for the support you give me, and the concealment your house affords; but should evil befall us—be it through your treachery or your imprudence, it matters not—per Jovem, the evil shall fall a hundred-fold upon your own head. I swear it to you; and you know I am a man to keep my word."
"Jehovah! here's a turmoil about the mere miserable lodging of a poor youth!" growled the old man doggedly, although the rapid passing of a long skeleton finger over the tip of his huge nose betrayed a certain degree of nervous agitation.
"Master Bandini," interrupted the stranger, unheeding him, "I have a word to speak with you—and one that nearly concerns yourself, Master Bandini—before we proceed further in business."
"Look ye!" he pursued, in a more indifferent tone, throwing himself down on to a chair, and crossing his legs composedly, but fixing the man called Bandini at the same time with his keen eye. "Look ye, friend druggist, physician, usurer, miser, secret agent, spy—or whatever other name you bear in designation, avocation, character, orcreed"—and he laid a slight emphasis on the word—"there are no friends so sure as those who are convinced we know then thoroughly—a right understanding is sympathy,amico mio, and sympathy is bond and union."
The old man looked through his beetling brows at his visitor without any evidence of trouble; but he ceased irritating the tip of his nose only to twitch more nervously at the sleeves of his coat, as if to give himself an air of composure and dignity by adjusting them, as a modern fop might do by pulling up his shirt-collar.
"Think you I have forgotten," continued the stranger with a slight sneer, "that when we first met in Italy—no matter upon what business, or to what intent—Master Bandini bore the name of Israeli, and that, when forced to leave that country—persecuted, as he himself would say, for some little matter of flagrant usury, and mayhap also of a drug or two that lulled some rich old uncle to a sleep from which he woke not, and made a spendthrift debtor his heir—he returned to the land of his birth, I will not say of his fathers, and, for reasons good, under another name and a foreign guise, thinking that the name of Israel, spite of its adopted termination, smacked somewhat too notoriously of his origin, his Jewish origin, Master Bandini?"
The Jew druggist tossed his heavy head with an expression that, however ill assured, was meant to say, "Well! and what then?"
"Think you I know not that, fearing the prejudices against his race might injure the gains of his various trades, perhaps also that the name he bore might recal reminiscences better forgotten for ever, he assumed a Christian appellation, passed for an honestChristian man—honest, humph!" added the stranger with a sniggering laugh—"and infringed the severe laws of Hungary, which compel all of his tribe to dwell within one prescribed street in each city, and wear one distinctive dress—laws that, if called into execution, would bring him contumely, imprisonment, ruin—ay ruin, Master Israeli—humph, I forgot—Bandini? Think you I have no eyes to see yon cross ostentatiously displayed to Christian visitors, now turned against the wall, with the contempt of one of your accursed race—a deed in itself a crime to merit mortal punishment?"
The Jew stole a glance at the cross, and was evidently moved.
"Think you I divine not," pursued his visitor, hastily snatching from the table the heavy book closed upon his entrance, and flinging it open upon his knees, "that this jargon of the devil is your Hebrew book of worship, in which Master Bandini seeks for rules of conduct for the further welfare of his soul—if so be he have one—in the persecution and torture of Christian men—a pretty religion,cospetto!—or may be, practises sorcery?" And the stranger laughed ironically at his own suggestion. "Think you I know not all this, Master Bandini?"
"And if the Cavaliere Caracalli knows me, what have I to fear from him?" said the Jew sullenly, with a look of defiance.
"Ha! that would seem a threat!" answered the cavaliere haughtily. "Once more, have a care, man, how you deal with me! What you have to fear I will tell you, Master Bandini, rogue—all that your worst fears can contemplate, should I have reason to believe you a traitor." And, at these words, he sprang up from his chair, and confronted the old man, with an evident desire to intimidate him by his movement.
The Jew druggist did not flinch; but he answered with less of defiance.
"I am no traitor—no traitor to you; and, though you know me, why should I not serve you still? Why should we not be friends?"
"Friends! you and I!" said the cavaliere with scorn. "But no matter! This affair of the lodger looks ill, I tell you."
"Times are bad—times are bad, noble cavaliere," stammered the Jew, in a whining and apologetic tone. "Our contract stipulated not that I should not strive to earn an honest livelihood where I could."
"And who prevents you, man," said the cavaliere, with a sneer, "from earning what you please to term an honest livelihood, as far as it interfere not with my interests? But this imprudence"——
"Heavy losses! heavy losses!" continued the old man, interrupting him, to pursue his apology. "I have had heavy and serious losses, which I must strive to cover by what scanty means are left me—to say naught of drugs unpaid, and services to the rich ill recompensed and scouted. I am a needy man. I am, indeed, a needy man." The cavaliere shrugged his shoulders. "Ah! You feel not that, noble sir. But the God of my fathers knows that it is true. Was there not the Illok affair, in which the poor money-lender was cheated of his honest earnings? Did not the Count Csaki leave the country, a bankrupt, and cause me all but utter ruin? And, worse than all, did not the Baron Bartori, after he had made over to me his estates, in return for moneys lent him in his need, die with the intent and purpose, as one would say, to defraud me of my just dues? and did not his son, without whose signature to destroy the entail, I cannot obtain possession of my rights—the God of Israel's curse be on the Philistine laws of this unjust country!—disappear, no one knows whither? He is an honest youth, and a just, they say, who would not deprive a poor needy man of his own: but he may be dead—he may be dead, without giving his precious sign-manual; and I should be a ruined man—a ruined man—alas! alas!"
The cavaliere had borne impatiently the lamentations thus uttered as apologies for his love of gain by the Jew money-lender: and he now broke in upon them with disgust.
"A truce to all this comedy of woe, man! If you be shorn of a lock or two of your ill-gotten golden fleece, we well know that it is still a full and warm one. Come, come—no more of this!" he pursued, as the Jew continued to squeeze alternatelythe skeleton fingers of each hand, as though he pretended to be wringing them in despair. "We must to business; and since the mischief has been done—and, mark me! it must be remedied forthwith, and this boy driven from the house—see that the coast be clear!"
"He is from home, I tell you," was Bandini's reply; and he was continuing to murmur, with sunken head, the words, "Heavy losses! heavy losses! Why did he die? And were aught to happen to his son, as is likely in these troublesome times, I were ruined—utterly ruined. Oh! heavy losses!"—when an angry exclamation and an imperative gesture from his visitor, repeated the order to look that they were alone and undisturbed.
The old man lighted a small hand-lamp at that which stood upon the table, undrew the bolts that fastened the door, and left the room with sullen look and step. He was gone for a very brief space of time; but this short interval was employed by the stranger in turning over, with rapid hand and scrutinizing eye, the papers which lay upon the table. He shook his head with a sneer of indifference, as if he had found nothing worthy of his attention, and had scarcely time to resume his seat with an air of unconcern, when the Jew returned, and, eyeing him narrowly, advanced into the room with that haste of suspicion and fear, which induced even the usurer to forget his usual precautions of bolts and bars.
"There is no one in the house but ourselves," he said, with still sulky air.
"Then seat yourself, man, and open to me your wallet of sayings and doings; and let's see what scraps of information you may have gleaned. It should be crammed full, ere this. Seat yourself, I say, and clear that gloomy brow of yours," said the cavaliere with a laugh. "What has passed since I last saw you?"
"The city is already thronged with the nobility of Hungary, convoked by this woman, who still asserts her rights over them, in the hope that they may aid her in her troubles;" commenced the Jew, seating himself, in obedience to his visitor's command. "Jehovah! what a stir they make! What moneys do they lavish upon foolish pomp! What spendthrift profusion do they display! It curdles the very blood of a poor thrifty man within him, to witness such insensate prodigality. But they must rue their folly. They will need moneys; they will seek to obtain moneys of the poor druggist. Ah!" And the usurer rubbed his hands with satisfaction; but then, seeing the gestures of impatience displayed by his companion, he proceeded: "But there is much discontent, I hear, among them; and, where she has not enemies, she has lukewarm friends. They will no longer, they say, be governed by a weak woman, who can so ill wield the reins of power, and who has already staked and lost all the other inheritance of her father"——
"Unjustly herited—unjustly held. Forget not that, Master Bandini!" interrupted the Italian.
"Unjustly—well, well! I am no legist to understand these things," pursued the Jew; "only a poor thrifty physician"——
"And usurer," again broke in his companion.
Bandini smiled a sour smile, and continued:
"Call me usurer, if you will. I see no scorn in the term; and I have turned my money-lending to account in this matter. Yes! and in your service; although you but now called me traitor. Have I not refused moneys to those who offered me good securities and values, and at my own loss—at my own loss, cavaliere—because I would not deal with those who would hazard their all in a war to aid this woman in her desperate need? And although my friend Zachariah has lent them sums of precious metal, has it not been upon such great interest, and at such peril to themselves, that they cannot risk so dangerous a venture as the espousing her cause, and upon their written engagement also—and this as by my advice, mark me, noble cavaliere!—that they should not take up arms? Have I not done this to serve you?—at my own loss, I say; and can you call me traitor now?"
"So far all goes well," said the Italian, unheeding the importanceattached by the Jew to the supposed services rendered. "Maria Theresa will be foiled in her last attempt at opposition to her enemy's force, by seeking succours from her so-called faithful Hungarians. Success, also, has crowned my efforts in my expedition throughout the land, Master Bandini," he pursued, raising himself from his listless posture, with a look of animation and triumph. "The seeds of discord and discontent have every where been sown. I have visited these proud eagles, the Hungarian nobles, in their country-nests; and I have employed all means to turn them from listening to the appeal of their fugitive queen. To the worldly-wise, I have urged the ruin of war to their already troubled and impoverished country,—to the lovers of their fatherland, the independence of Hungary, and freedom from the House of Austria, if they will seize this opportunity to shake off its yoke, instead of again cringing to its call,—to the man, the weakness of submitting to a woman's sway,—to the needy and the grasping, I have promised, and even already lavished, the bribes of France, Spain, and Sardinia, to induce them to refuse their aid,—to the ambitious, place, rank, orders, courtly favour from my powerful employers, should they espouse their cause. I have studied men's characters, and read men's minds, to turn them to my will; and although I have met with opposition, endangered my life indeed, and risked my safety from ill-will, yet I have so strewn my grain, that, when Maria Theresa shall appear upon the field, she shall reap tares where she hoped to gather wheat. The cause is lost, I tell you!"
The Jew rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction, which seemed to show that the profits to be divided from his association in the political manœuvres of his visitor were to be proportionate to the success of these hazardous schemes, and that visions of golden reward already floated before his eyes.
"And the opening of the Diet is still fixed for the 11th?" inquired the Italian, after a pause, in which he had allowed his unwonted enthusiasm to cool down to a bearing of indifference, which was more his nature.
"Yes—the day following the morrow," answered Bandini.
"Has she already made her appearance in the city?" again asked his visitor.
"It is supposed that she is not yet here. There has been no solemn entry; but she must be here every hour," was the reply.
"In that morrow we have as yet time for much," said the cavaliere. "I must pursue my measures here with caution. My great scheme, of which more, perhaps, hereafter, may be tried at any issue; and woe betide Maria Theresa, if"—
As he uttered these words, the Italian was startled and interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door of the apartment. The Jew turned round with surprise, whilst his companion, checking the first involuntary movement, which induced him to look in the same direction, buried himself in his chair, so as to conceal himself as much as possible from the intruder.
The person who entered was a tall old man, whose erect figure and firm step proved how little time had weighed upon his natural vigour. His features were bold and rude, although not deficient in that species of manly beauty which an expression of confidence and energy bestows, and were fully displayed by the disposal of his grizzled hair, which, torn back from his forehead, and plastered over his head with an evident profusion of grease, descended on to his back in a long braided tail. His dress was of that description known in other parts of Europe as the hussar uniform, which was worn by certain of the domestics belonging to the Hungarian nobility. The yellow braid profusely bestowed across the breast of his jacket, and upon the pockets and sides of his tight blue pantaloons, was of a colour that showed what good service his attire had already seen. In his brawny hands he held his shako, as he advanced into the room, with more of rudeness than of deference in his manner.
"Is it you, Master Farkas?" said the Jew, rising to meet him. "I did not hear you enter."
"I opened the street door below with the pass-key you gave us," replied the man; whilst, at these words,the cavaliere stamped his foot in anger.
"You made but little noise," resumed Bandini suspiciously.
"I suppose you were too much engaged to hear us; for I see you have a visitor," said the old man, fixing his eyes upon the form whose back was turned to him, and advancing familiarly further into the room.
But the Jew intercepted him.
"What do you want here, Master Farkas?"
"Teremtette!" said the fellow roughly. "Would you have my lord up to bed in the dark, like a rat or a gipsy thief? I want a light."
"I will attend your master forthwith," said the Jew, taking up the hand-lamp, and hastening to the door.
"My master, ugh! My lord, if it please or please not your worship," growled Farkas, preceding the landlord out of the apartment.
When the Jew returned, his visitor confronted him with angry looks.
"See to what you expose me, fellow, by your villanous meanness!" exclaimed the cavaliere. "And, not content with harbouring vagabonds in your house, that, for aught I know, may be spies upon us, you furnish them with pass-keys, to surprise us when they will—to ear-wig at the doors, hear our discourse, betray our secrets. How now, fellow, what have you to answer?"
"I tell you that they are most innocent and unsuspecting rustics, both," stammered the Jew—"both master and man. There can be no danger."
"No danger!" continued the angry cavaliere. "No danger, fellow!Cospetto!this very circumstance may be my ruin! That voice, too, was not unknown to me. I have heard it somewhere, although I know not where. It sounded to me as the reminiscence of some past evil—a raven's croak, announcing still more ill to come.Santa Vergine!If we are lost, I will have your life, with my own hand;" and he half drew his sword from the scabbard.
Bandini drew back sulkily, with further protestations, deprecations, and endeavours to mollify his visitor: but it was long before the cavaliere could be appeased. Once he left the room and listened in the passage, and at the young Hungarian's door. Then he descended to the street entrance, and examined the lock: and only when convinced that the other inhabitants of the house were still, and had probably retired to rest, did he come back. When he returned to the Jew's room, his brow was still knitted angrily; but, after drawing a bolt across the door, he sat down with less of agitation.
More unfriendly words again passed between the confederates; but, after a time, the Italian spy and the Jew money-lender were again conversing, in lowered tones, upon the schemes of the former.
On the following afternoon, the sun shone brightly; and the whole atmosphere, in spite of the slight haze which faintly silvered the distant hills, was imbued with that exhilarating freshness and lightness, which sheds a poetic charm of animation, vividness, and—did it not appear a paradox—it might be added, youth also, over an Hungarian autumn, unknown in other European countries.
The streets of Presburg were thronged by the crowds whom the approaching opening of the Diet, convoked by Maria Theresa, had attracted to that city; and highly picturesque and varied was the scene composed by the multifarious parties, pushing and thrusting along, or gathered in groups and knots, discussing the momentous events of those troubled times, between the rows ofantique houses, which bestow upon Presburg the aspect rather of an old town of the German Empire, than of less civilized Hungary.
In the middle space pranced upon their richly caparisoned steeds, glittering with the hanging trappings of that semi-oriental taste which, although somewhat modified, still forms a striking characteristic of the country, several of the Hungarian magnates, already attired in the national costumes—the richly embroidered attila, or long frock-coat, loaded with ornament—the furred cloak, clasped with glittering jewels to the shoulder—the high flat cap of fur or velvet, displaying an egret of rare feathers, which dashed upwards from the diamond broach—the tight gold-braided pantaloons—the tasselled boots—their powdered hair alone displaying, in some instances, their submission to the fashion of the day in other countries. Thronging among them were many of the lesser nobles, either on horseback or on foot, all dressed in the same characteristic style, with less of richness and embroidery, according to their lesser ranks or lesser means—each dress cut, and fashioned, and braided, according to the taste or whim of the wearer. Now and then rumbled along a cumbrous gilded and fantastically painted coach, swinging heavily between its monstrous gilded wheels, and sometimes adorned upon the four corners of its broad projecting roof with clumps of feathers, not unlike an ancient tester-bed—the coachman in richly-laced Hungarian livery, or in the silver-buttoned vest, hanging white sleeves, and broad white trowsers of the peasant; but of finer stuff, gayer embroidery, and richer fringe to the trowsers' edge, than the humbler of his class, as befitted the elevation to which he had been raised—the six horses, loaded with studded sparkling harness, and hanging strips of metal-behung leather, which streamed down the flanks and shoulders. Within them sat alone the proud dames of the Hungarian magnates, in even costlier dress than was the wont of that period of costly and cumbrous attire—their powdered heads adorned with the bejewelled caps of the national costume; for in those days a man, who really deemed himself a man, disdained to show himself the lazy tenant of these moving houses; and more especially the Hungarian, who considered the name of horseman as synonymous with that of man, and himself as born to be "a tamer of horses." Amidst these heavier vehicles, the light wooden carts of the peasant-noble, ignorant of all attempt at springs, of all harness but the rudest cords, endeavoured in vain to advance rapidly, in obedience to the impatience of the small, meagre, but impetuous horses of Tartar race which were lightly attached to them.
Among the crowded pedestrians was the scene still more checkered with kaleidescope variety. Here the embroidered pantaloons, the braided dolmans, and the feathered bonnets, were mingled with the long-fringed, full white trowsers, the large hanging shirt-sleeves, the broad-brimmed upturned hats—from beneath which streamed long black shaggy mane-like locks, over dark swarthy countenances, adorned with immense hanging moustaches—and the huge sheepskin cloaks, decorated on the exterior with fancifully embroidered flowers, and patches of bright cloth; the jaunty, dancing, bold, easy air of the Hungarians, all booted and spurred even to the very children, contrasting with the slouched gait of the Sclavonians, with their curiously sandled feet—the Croat, still attired like the Dacian of old, thronging along with the demi-brigand of the southern provinces, whose savage bandit aspect would have struck terror in the streets of any more civilized land—the purple talas, and long flowing beard of the followers of the Greek Pope, sweeping against the dark robe of the bald monk from the neighbouring convent—the smoother, finer gown of the richer Catholic priest brushing past the white uniform of the Austrian grenadier, with his conical headpiece, and long powdered pigtail.
Amidst the hum of the many voices, the salutations of friends, the laughter of some of the squeezing throng, the oaths of others, the cries of the coachmen and the shouts of the horsemen to those who obstructed the streets, arose, nevertheless, one unwearied and endless sound—the sound of ringingmetal—from the rattling of the universal spurs, and the clashing of the many sabres.
But if the scene was varied, more varied still were the emotions of the crowd—among those, at least, who were more deeply interested in the result of the event which had called together a great part of the nation within the walls of the city of Presburg; according as their party feelings or private interests led them to desire that resistance should be shown to the appeal made by her whom the Hungarians styled their "King," to her faithful subjects of Hungary, for succour under her distresses; or as their enthusiasm or attachment to the House of Austria induced them to wish that every assistance should be bestowed to enable her to restore her fallen fortunes.
The situation of Maria Theresa was indeed desperate. Her right to the countries inherited by her from her father Charles VI., emperor of Germany, were contested by almost all the other states of Europe. Her friends and allies were few; and those few seemed to have deserted her at this critical juncture. And yet with what confidence, with what a well-assured prospect of a glorious reign, had she mounted the throne secured to her!
As early as the year 1713, the Emperor Charles VI. had issued, in his privy council, a solemn ordinance, by which the female succession was secured throughout his states, in case of the failure of male issue—an ordinance well known in history, under the name of the "Pragmatic Sanction." It was published throughout the Austrian states as inviolable law, was made known to all the European courts, and by degrees guaranteed by all, forming the ground and basis of all their treaties and alliances with the House of Austria, and was moreover confirmed by oath by the princes allied to the family by their intermarriage with Austrian princesses. It was this ordinance, which only afterwards came into effect upon the death of the Archduke Leopold, the only son of Charles VI., that secured the right of succession to his daughter Maria Theresa, who at his decease, which occurred in October 1740, and closed the male succession of the House of Hapsburg, succeeded him, with the title of Queen of Hungary and Bohemia, in these and all the other Austrian States, including, Milan, Parma, Placentia, and the Netherlands. All these lands gave in their oath of adherence.
In spite of the triple right, however, which gave the States of Austria to Maria Theresa—the right of nature, the law of the Pragmatic sanction, and the sureties given by all the European states—several powers shortly afterwards rose to contest her heritage. The Elector of Bavaria laid claim to the succession, in virtue of a will of the Emperor Ferdinand the First, dated in the year 1543; Augustus of Poland, in virtue of the earlier rights of his wife, Maria Josepha, daughter of the Emperor Joseph, the elder brother of Charles the Sixth. The King of Spain, Philip the Fifth, went back as far as the rights of the wife of Philip the Second, a daughter of the Emperor Maximilian the Second, from whom he was descended in the female line. The King of Sardinia, Charles Emmanuel, laid claim to the duchy of Milan; and Louis the Fifteenth of France supported the Elector of Bavaria and the King of Spain. All Europe was quickly in flames upon the subject of the succession. Not only princes, but many private individuals, took an eager and active part in the quarrel. But the war, at last, broke out from an unexpected quarter. Frederic the Second of Prussia now laid claim to four duchies in Silesia, in spite of the renunciations of these lands frequently made by his predecessors in favour of the House of Austria, and suddenly, in December 1740, invaded the country, which, being almost entirely undefended, was soon completely overrun by the Prussian army. Maria Theresa, in spite of the alliance offered her by the King of Prussia against her other enemies, in case Silesia should be yielded up to him, stoutly and valiantly refused all compromise, declared herself noways disposed to dismember, in the least degree, the States left her by her father, and bade defiance to Frederic. Her enemies now took this opportunity to attack her. Bavaria declared war, and wassupported by France, Spain, Savoy, and Saxony. In spite of the opposition of Cardinal Fleury, the French minister, who was favourable to the cause of the young Queen, Louis the Fifteenth placed under the command of Marshal Count de Belle-Isle, a large French army, which crossed the Rhine in August 1741; whilst the Chevalier de Belle-Isle was sent from court to court in Germany, to rouse the powers against Maria Theresa; and numerous spies and agents were dispatched, in every direction, to undermine the last support she might have to hope for from her few remaining allies. Linz quickly fell into the hands of the enemy, who approached upon Vienna. Utter ruin lay before the persecuted Queen, who was obliged to leave her capital, and seek refuge in Hungary. And under these circumstances it was, that she had convoked at Presburg the Diet of the four orders of the kingdom, the opening of which now caused the city to throng with crowds of Hungarians from all quarters of the country.
Among the mass of persons that thus swarmed in the main street of Presburg, like ants upon the chief passage to the anthill, in seeming confusion in which each individual atom has, nevertheless, its own purpose and design, was a young man, whose striking personal appearance continually attracted attention among those who crossed his path, and caused many a head to turn and gaze after him, even in that favoured land where beauty of the most romantic kind is common among all classes. He was a youth of scarcely more than twenty years, as might be seen by the fresh bloom upon his cheek, and the first down of dark moustaches which faintly painted his upper-lip. His figure was slim, but yet his carriage had all the bold ease of Hungarian youth; his features were regularly and beautifully fashioned, although not of that extreme symmetry which mars expression by its coldness; his dark-grey eyes, shaded by long black lashes, which bestowed on them an Oriental cast, wore a look of hardihood and languor combined, which spoke of a romantic temperament; and his dark-brown hair, unconcealed by the fashion of the times, streamed free and unfettered on to his neck and temples. He was attired in a sombre dress, which well became his figure and poetic look. His braided attila and pantaloons were of black cloth slightly relieved with velvet of the same colour upon the cuffs and collar; and a black velvet Hungarian cap, surmounted by a plume of black eaglet's feathers, sat boldly upon his head. The silver-mounted belt and chains of his sabre were the only ornaments that glittered on his dress.
Whatever the purpose of the seemingly capricious wanderings of the young man, as he thrust obstinately and somewhat rudely through the crowds which opposed his progress, he was not to be diverted from it by the objurgations of some of those whom he thus elbowed on his passage, or the commendatory remarks of others, who noticed his good mien. His eye roved perpetually to every window at which a female form appeared; and, upon the approach of each coach that passed, he pushed boldly forward, to obtain as near a view as possible of its fair inmates. But he evidently sought some one particular form, which he found not in his unwearying scrutiny; for, as often as some fresh female face had been narrowly examined, followed sometimes with a moment's doubt, and then abandoned, he gently shook his head, with knitted brow, and an expression of disappointment, and, falling back, uttered an impatient sigh.
At a short distance from the youth followed a tall old man, in the hussar dress of an Hungarian domestic, who, in turn, pushed sturdily after him, never losing him entirely from his sight, and utterly heedless of the exclamations of those thrust aside, who, however they might spare their angry comments to the handsome young noble, bestowed them with double wrath upon his rude attendant. The look of the old man was one of discontent, as he thus pursued the capricious movements of the youth; and he gave vent to a continued string of muttered rough Hungarian oaths, whilst he pushed on, and muttered such phrases as, "he is distraught—he is utterly distraught with this silly boyish fancy!"
At length, as the dusk of approachingevening began slowly to fall upon the streets, as the crowd gradually lessened, as no more carriages rumbled heavily along the causeway, and as no more faces appeared at the windows, the young man paused in his hurried walk, uttered a still deeper sigh of disappointment, and leaning himself wearily against a doorway, sank his head downwards, and seemed lost in painful meditation.
His old attendant approached him, and after a time, seeing that his presence was unnoticed, and that the gloomy reverie of the young man continued, he addressed him in a tone in which rude familiarity and respect were strangely combined—
"Is my lord's young blood so hot, then, that he seeks to cool it by taking up his night-quarters under this airy gateway?" But seeing that the young man heeded him not, he muttered an inpatient "Teremtette!" between his teeth, and then, plucking at his master's dress, he continued—
"Have you no orders to give me, Master Otmar?"
"None, Farkas. No, leave me!" was the only reply vouchsafed.
"Look you, Master Otmar," pursued his attendant—"You are observed here—you are an object of attention, perhaps of mockery, to the passers-by."
"What mean you, Farkas?" cried the young man, in a tone of displeasure.
"Nay! if my lord is angry, I have no more to say," replied Farkas, drawing back.
"Perhaps you are right," said the young man, with a sigh; "although your words were rude." And without further comment, he removed himself from his reclining position, and walked away with hurried steps.
The old domestic followed rapidly, and, as they approached the St Michael's gate, evidently expected that his young master would enter his lodging close by; but, seeing that he still walked on, Farkas paused for a moment, and murmured the words, "He bade me leave him. But he is utterly distraught. He knows not what he says; he has forgotten his command ere now; and who knows what may happen to the poor foolish boy!" And having thus reassured his conscience upon his act of disobedience, he pursued the young man's footsteps at a respectful distance, through the gateway, over the bridge, and along the suburb.
Beyond lay a more open road, skirted by gardens, and enlivened here and there by summer pavilions, belonging to some of the wealthier nobles; and, at about a quarter of a mile from the town, stood, to the left of the wanderers, a stately palace, built in the heavy but ornamented style of the commencement of the same century, and backed by gardens, that stretched out behind it to the foot of that richly wooded and romantic ridge of low mountains which gives so peculiar a charm to the environs of the fine old city of Presburg.
Passing through a side entrance of the court of this palace, which served as a summer residence to the Archbishop Primate of Hungary—at that period the Prince Immeric Esterhazy—and entering the gardens beyond, which the liberality of the wealthy primate opened to public recreation, but which were now empty, the young noble sauntered on, lost in meditation, through statues of heathen divinities, which seemed ill in accordance with the abode of a Christian bishop; and tritoned fountains, and stiff parterres, and huge incommodious stone benches; until, reaching an alley of shady planes and clustering chestnut-trees, he flung himself listlessly down on the mossy bench of a shell and pebble-studded niche. The glow of the last rays of the setting sun faintly penetrated the entrance of the avenue, adding a still richer colour to the rich green shades of the trees, as yet untouched by the influence of autumn; while, in the distant opening of the dark vista, framed, as it were, by the circling trees, appeared a hazy landscape of calm vine-covered hills, dotted with white cottages. It was a spot peculiarly adapted to meditation and repose, the solitude of which was enhanced, rather than disturbed, by its sole occupant—a misanthropic stork, that with its wings folded on its back, like a sulky old gentleman with his arms behind him, placed slowly and deliberately one foot before the other, as it stepped on in lonely thoughtfulness.
For a time the young man sat lost in reflection; and it was not until he at length raised his head to gaze upon a scene congenial to his feelings, that he became aware of the form of old Farkas, standing erect against a tree, like a sentry in his box, at no great distance from him.
"This is a persecution to which I cannot submit," he murmured to himself; and then rising, and calling angrily to his attendant, he cried,
"Did I not bid you leave me, Farkas?"
"Leave you, my lord?" said the attendant, advancing with an air of surprise.
"Yes, leave me. Do you hear now?"
"My duty"—continued the old man, in an expostulatory tone.
"Is to obey me."
"My attachment"——
"Becomes importunate," broke in his master, "if my footsteps are to be thus dogged, and my solitude to be disturbed, fellow."
Farkas tossed his head, with a sigh, that perhaps might be more appropriately termed a grunt, and moved a few steps backwards; but then, as if unable to obey, he again lingered and returned.
"Master Otmar," he said, "call me rude, unmannered, disobedient. Bid me leave you—yes, leave you for ever, if you will. But, out it must,teremtette!in spite of all. I cannot see you thus, and quit you, without a word—you, your father's son. You, Master Otmar, whose heels I was the first to spur, whom I first set on horseback to gallop alone over the Puszta, whom I first taught a good round Hungarian oath. I could not do it, were I to know it were the last word I spoke."
"Speak then! What have you to say?" cried Otmar, in a tone of vexed impatience; but then, as he saw the eyes of the old man fixed in such mournful earnestness and solicitude upon him, he seemed to repent his harshness, and stretched out his hand, which his attendant took and kissed with reverence, according to the custom of the country.
"Speak!" he said more mildly; "I know you love me, although sometimes you show your love after a strange rude fashion, Farkas!"
"Are you a man, Master Otmar," began the old attendant, bluntly, "that you should be thus cast down because you have seen a pretty face that smiled upon you?" The young man showed evident marks of impatience at these words; but Farkas had seized his advantage, and continued, "Is a chitfaced woman's glance, seen only once, to break a man's bold spirit thus? You are in love, you will tell me. That's a boy's answer to all; but"—
"Peace, foolish man! what do you know of love?" said Otmar, impatiently.
"Foolish!" echoed the old man, with a toss of the head, as if he were for a moment inclined to argue which were the more foolish, he or his master. "Be that as it may. Perhaps I understand little of this love, at least now. But I remember the time I understood it better; and,teremtette!that was another sort of thing. When I was in love, I danced and sprang, and drank and swore, and flung up my cap on to the very horns of the young moon! There was some spirit in love then! But you have saved a fair lady from danger, as her unruly devils of horses were about to plunge her travelling coach from the bank into the broad stream of the Danube, and you are as cast down about it as if you had caused her death, instead of saving her from destruction.Eb adta!it is for her to whine and pine, and lament that she sees the bright eyes of her handsome deliverer no more; not for you, boy!"
"And with how sweet a smile! with what a dignity and grace! with what a look of angel brightness, did she hold out her hand to thank me!" muttered the young man to himself, as he again sank down upon the bank.
"Be a man, Master Otmar!" pursued Farkas, with more animation and earnestness. "Call back again your energy and spirit! Where is the bold young fellow, now, who challenged that cursed outlandish rascal, who not long since strove to tamper with his loyalty, and throw doubts upon the rights of our King—God blessher!—and pricked him, too, rightthrough the sword-arm, and did it well, right well?"
"And would again, Farkas!" said Otmar, raising his head proudly.
"Although, to be sure, you would not allow me to cudgel him soundly, and beat his treacherous brains out afterwards," continued the man, with a grim smile; "but, no matter for that, he had half his deserts, and shall have the other half one of these days. An honest man pays his just debts."
"Leave the villain to his fate!" cried the young man with a look of scorn.
"That's right!" pursued his attendant. "Now, you are yourself again. Look you, Master Otmar! I cannot bear to see you thus unhappy and cast down, and all for the look of a bright eye. It goes nigh to break my heart, I tell you." And the old man's voice began to falter with emotion.
"But I am not unhappy," said Otmar, smiling; "I am happy, very happy. Let that re-assure you, Farkas. You tell me, be a man. Can I be a man, and not indulge grave thoughts in these times of strife and trouble?"
The old man shook his head.
"You love me, Farkas," continued the young noble. "Let, then, the assurance that I am far from unhappy suffice you. Now leave me, in all earnest. I shortly will return home—Home!" he murmured to himself, "have I a home now?"
The old attendant still lingered; but, as his master stretched forth his hand, he again kissed it reverently, and, turning up the alley, disappeared from sight.
"No! I am not unhappy," muttered Otmar, when he found himself alone. "Why should I not be happy, when she smiled upon me so sweetly? But should I not see her again? Oh no! Fate cannot be so cruel. And who was he that sat by her side, and took her hand in his, as she again entered the coach? Her husband—her lover, perhaps. I will not believe it. Her brother, may be. No! I am not unhappy. I should be happy that I can place between myself and the dark realities of life a bright barrier of fancy, of poetry, of love—like unto those glorious painted windows in the old cathedral, which spread out, between the inclemencies of the atmosphere without, and the mysteries of the calm sanctuary within, the thousand glories of a thousand colours, a radiant curtain of purple, and crimson, and gold, in such wise that the passing cloud, with all its variations of shade, only develops fresh treasures of harmony and beauty; and if a ray of sun bursts forth—oh then!—it might almost seem as if, in those dazzling showers of light and radiance, a whole celestial choir of angels descended upon the altar! Thrice happy should I be, that, on the sanctuary of my heart, shines such a ray of light! Yes, in the midst of the darkness of my life," pursued the young man to himself, still following up the same images of his poetic fancy, "my thoughts should be as the thousand particles of dust that may be seen to turn, and whirl, and gambol in the golden shaft of light which streams through a peephole into a darkened prison! No, I should not be—I am not unhappy!" And yet Otmar sighed, as he bent his head again to the earth.
From this poetic reverie he was roused, however, by the noise of footsteps; and, as he lifted up his head, he saw that the entrance to the alley was darkened by the forms of three persons who were advancing towards him. That which immediately attracted his attention, and caused him to spring up from his seat as if struck by an electric shock which darted through his heart, was a young female, whose features and expression, as she approached nearer, might be seen, spite of the gathering darkness, to be of singular beauty. She was attired in a dark brocaded dress, the long and slim waist of which was set off by a small hoop, in accordance with the custom of the times; a thick veil, or rather Spanish mantilla, of similar stuff was fastened into the top of her powdered edifice of hair, and covered her neck and shoulders; and from beneath its folds protruded a small hand, the fingers of which rested gently upon the arm of a young man. This second personage was dressed in all the rich extravagance of the French fashion of the day—his long lappeted coat, hanging waistcoat, and breeches,all laced and spangled, and behung with knots of ribands—his three-cornered hat flung under the arm which did not serve as support to the lady—and an embroidered handkerchief, the perfumes of which scented the air even at a distance, ostentatiously flourished in his hand; and if Otmar's heart beat involuntarily at first sight of the female, it was twinged with an equally involuntary pang of painful emotion as his eye wandered to her companion. The group was completed by an aged man, in the plain costume of a Catholic ecclesiastic of the day, to whom the lady turned her head to address some remark, as he lingered somewhat behind the other personages.
The first instinctive movement of Otmar's heart had not deceived him. As the lady approached still nearer, the lingering doubt gave way to full conviction. It was she—she of whom he had dreamt so fondly-she whom he had sought all day so eagerly among the crowds that thronged the city streets! And now that she stood before him, his knees trembled, whilst his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground, and his tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Had she passed him unnoticed where he stood, he could not have moved to claim a look, or framed a word to address her. But, as she drew closer to him, she checked her steps with a slight exclamation of surprise, almost of alarm, at the sight of the half-concealed stranger in the dusk. Her companion moved forward hastily, and, dropping her arm, advanced his hand to his sword; but, before he could say a word, she had in turn come forward.
"Forbear, my friend!" she said; and then, advancing to Otmar, she continued, "I am not deceived. It is my noble rescuer. I have sought you, sir, in vain, to tender you my thanks for your good services, if my poor thanks, indeed, can be a recompense for service so beyond all price."
"Madam, I did but the duty of a gentleman," stammered Otmar; "and for you, who would not——?"
"I owe you, indeed, more than thanks can pay," interrupted the young female. "You left us so hastily, after accomplishing that deed of courage at the risk of your own life, that I had no time to learn who was my bold deliverer from peril. In the confusion and trouble of the moment, I allowed you to depart; and, believe me, my heart has not ceased to reproach me since for a seeming want of gratitude, that, the Saints of Heaven know, was far from it."
"Oh! I am repaid, fully repaid, fair lady, by these words," interrupted the eager youth in his turn.
"But I may still repair my error," resumed the lady. "Alas! I have little to bestow," she continued, with a sigh, "save empty words of gratitude. But the time may come. Let me know, at least, the name of him who has done me such essential service."
"It were unworthy of your ears, fair lady," stammered Otmar timidly
"Again, I reclaim the favour of your name, sir," said the young female. "You are noble; your mien proclaims it, did not the sabre by your side attest it." And her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon the figure of the handsome youth. "You have more—you have the true nobility of heart. You will not refuse your name to a lady who demands it."
Otmar was about to speak, when the noise of several persons advancing into the alley with rapid steps, caused the heads of all parties to turn in that direction. A troop of five or six men, with drawn swords, and black masks upon their faces, rushed violently upon them.
"Seize her! It is she!" cried a tall man, who appeared the leader of the party, as he darted forward.
A violent scream issued from the mouth of the female—exclamations of alarm, and shouts of rescue from those of her companions. Otmar instinctively drew his sabre with cry of rage, and the next moment all was skirmish and confusion.
"Ruffian!" exclaimed the young Hungarian, attacking the taller mask, who had now seized with rude grasp the hand of the female, and causing him, by the violence of the onset, to let go his hold.
"Ha! he once more! God's curse on him!" cried the leader, parrying the attack as best he might, whilst he endeavoured to regain possession of the lady.
"Let her not escape! let her not escape!" he shouted again to his followers, finding himself hardly pressed upon. "I will dispatch this fellow, on whom I reckoned not." And he, in his turn, attacked Otmar with fury.
Even in the midst of the skirmish, the young man could not resist seeking the lady with his eye; and he could dimly perceive, in the darkness and confusion, that she had taken refuge with the ecclesiastic, whilst her companion was making desperate efforts with his French small-sword, to keep at bay the other assailants. But his unwary solicitude had wellnigh cost him his life. A plunge of his adversary's sword passed through his attila, and slightly grazed his side. The next moment his own sabre descended on to the shoulder of the man with whom he was engaged, with sufficient effect, although the blow was evaded, to disable him for the moment, and cause him to stagger back.
Profiting by this circumstance, Otmar rushed upon the other ravishers, and came up at the very instant when, overpowered by numbers, the companion of the lady had lost all power of any longer protecting her retreat, and preventing their object of seizing on her. Attacking then with fury, and dealing several severe wounds, he succeeded in turning their attention chiefly to himself.
Thus desperately engaged in a most unequal combat, he heard the step and voice of his first antagonist from behind. A dagger already gleamed over his head, when suddenly a heavy blow resounded, and his assailant staggered and fell to the ground. In a few moments more he had contrived to disperse the other ruffians, who, wounded and alarmed, now took to flight. When he turned, he found his old Farkas standing over the prostrate body of his first foe.
"I could not leave my lord," cried the old domestic, brandishing a stout stick: which he had snatched up. "And,teremtette!I was right, whatever you may say. But I have done for one of the rascals,eb adta!and just at the right nick too!"
"Leave him an follow me, Farkas!" cried the young man. "They may still again assail her." And he hurried up the avenue, followed by the old man who grunted with unwillingness at leaving the prize of his strong arm.
When they reached the open space beyond the alley, no one was visible in the dark. The lady and her companions had disappeared. Lights, however, were moving, in the archbishop's palace; and, at the same moment, a troop of servants, torches in hand, was seen to issue from the lower part of the building, attracted, probably, by the noise of the tumult.
"Where can she be? Again lost to me! Lost, perhaps, for ever!" exclaimed Otmar.
"Shall we not secure the fellow I knocked down?" said Farkas insinuatingly, with no small spice of pride at the thoughts of the capture. "He may be yet alive."
"You are right," replied his master. "He was the leader of this troop of bravoes. He may be compelled to divulge the mystery of this deed; and I knew that voice, methinks, although as yet my recollections are confused."
With these words he hurried back into the avenue. But when master and man had reached the spot where the body had lain, it was no longer visible. Marks of blood and of trampling feet, two broken swords and a ragged hat, were the only evidences that remained of the late combat.
"Gone!" cried Otmar.
"The other ruffians have returned and carried him off,eb adta!" exclaimed Farkas, with intense vexation.
"Let us follow on their traces!" said the young noble. "See here! This way through the thicket! There are marks of broken boughs." And pushing his way through the bushes, he entered the dark wood, followed by his attendant.
A moment afterwards the avenue was illuminated by the torches of the domestics from the archbishop's palace.
Upon an imposing hill, which rises from the Danube's banks, and frowns over the city of Presburg, still stand the extensive ruins of a fine old castle, which was destroyed by fire at the commencement of the present century, but which, at this period of history, was generally occupied as a residence by the rulers of Hungary, when they paid a royal visit to their Hungarian capital; and in the large hall of state in this immense building it was, that the Diet of the four orders of the kingdom, convoked by Maria Theresa, had assembled on the eleventh of September—the morning following that evening so eventful to Otmar and his young love.
At the upper end of this large apartment, a throne had been arranged for the young Queen. In the spaces between the old portraits of the heads of the House of Hapsburg, which adorned the walls, were now displayed Hungarian banners. On either side of the throne, awaiting the arrival of Maria Theresa, were several of her German ministers and household; and, as it was well known that those immediately about her person had protested energetically against her appeal to her Hungarian subjects, these German servants of the Queen were regarded with no looks of good-will or sympathy by those who filled the hall.
Upon the first step of the throne, and apart from those who surrounded it, stood, on the right, the Count John Pallfy, the Palatin or Viceroy of the kingdom, his handsome martial countenance, with that semi-oriental disdain of all expression of emotion in the physiognomy, betraying none of those anxious feelings which were natural as to the result of a crisis so important; on the left, Count Louis Batthyani, theReichskanzleror Chancellor. Immediately below the throne were ranged, on one side, the bishops and prelates of the kingdom, to the number of sixty-seven, in their rich ecclesiastical attire; on the other, the numerous magnates of the realm, the princes, counts, and barons, to the amount of seven hundred and eighty, glittering in all the marvellous pomp and splendour of the Hungarian costume, and reaching in proud array far beyond the middle of the hall—the lower part of which was thronged by a crowd of the lesser nobles, and the deputies from the provinces, and from the royal free-towns of Hungary. Brilliant and dazzling was the scene composed of this living mass, with its thousand fantastic and bejewelled dresses; and wonderful to look at the many fine energetic countenances of all ages of which it was composed.
Among the nobles, towards the middle of the hall, stood Otmar, his handsome face still pale from the excitement of the previous evening, and a night passed in sleeplessness. It was in vain that he had sought to find the trace of the ruffians who had made so strange an attempt to seize upon the person of the mysterious object of his affections: and only late in the night had he returned to his lodging, and striven to calm the anxiety of his mind in a useless attempt at repose upon his couch. His brain whirled with the confusion of his thoughts. All the past was involved in mystery and conjecture. Who was the beautiful female, to whom he had so quickly given all the first emotions and energies of his young heart? Should he ever again behold her who had thus twice crossed his path, to disappear as suddenly from before his eyes? Had she escaped the hands of her ravishers? What had become of her? And who, again—he demanded with a pang of bitter jealousy—was thatyoung man who had twice been her companion, and whom she had styled her friend? Thus agonized with a thousand doubts and apprehensions, he could scarcely command his senses to gaze upon the scene around, or to reflect upon the important purpose which had called him, with the other Hungarian nobles, to that hall. The troubles of his life, his doubtful fate, his dreary position in the world, were all forgotten in the absorbing thoughts connected with her he loved: all minor anxieties—such as his dismissal that morning, as he left the house, from his poor lodging by his old landlord, in a manner which, had he been able to think on other matters, might have appeared to him as heartless as inconsistent—found no room in his tormented mind. The noise of the trumpets, announcing the entry of the Queen; the opening of the door, to the right of the throne, through which she passed; the murmur, and partial confusion, which attended her ascending the steps, and placing herself in presence of that crowded assembly, scarcely roused him from his reverie.
But when he raised his eyes, he scarcely could credit their own evidence. There she stood on high before him! The crown of St Stephen of Hungary was on her lofty brow: the royal mantle covered her shoulders: the bejewelled cimiter of the Hungarian kings was at her side. In her arms she held a baby of about six months of age; in her left hand she clasped that of a little girl. She was there in all her dazzling splendour of royal beauty. And it was she!—she to whom his heart was given—she whom he had dared to love!
For a moment the whole scene whirled before the eyes of Otmar: he staggered as one struck by lightning: his pale cheek grew paler still: he felt as if he were falling to the earth. How he found a tongue to speak, he himself could not have told. But, with faltering voice, he turned to an old Hungarian magnate by his side, and stammered—
"Is it possible? Is that—she—our King—is that?"
"Who should it be,domine illustrissime?" answered the person thus addressed, with the Latin courtesy of the country. "Who should it be, friend?"
Again Otmar found force to falter forth—
"And he, who has given her his hand to mount the throne—he who now stands behind her, glittering in all the rich fancifulness of that outlandish dress—who ishe?"
"Humph!" replied the old Hungarian, in no very amiable tone of voice. "That is her favourite German minister, the young Prince Kaunitz—a silly fop! She might have better and less compromising servants about her person, methinks. As you seem a stranger,domine," he pursued, unheeding Otmar's agitation, "you may like to know that the old ecclesiastic, who has taken the other place behind her, is our Archbishop Primate, the Prince Emmeric Esterhazy, at whose summer palace she took up her residence,incognita, on first arriving here."
"Kaunitz! her favourite minister, and she called him 'my friend!'" muttered the young man, trembling with emotion.
"Yes! and they do say," continued his informant lightly, "that now her husband, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, is absent with the remains of her discomfited army, she and the young prince"—and he whispered in Otmar's ear.
A pang of the bitterest feeling passed through the young noble's heart. But that pang, by its very revulsion, gave him fresh energy.
"Calumny!" he exclaimed, angrily, to his companion, whom he doubted not to be one of those disaffected to the cause of the persecuted Queen. "Calumny!" But his voice was drowned in the loud murmur which arose on all sides calling for silence.
Maria Theresa had risen from the throne, upon which she had seated herself on her first entrance to calm her feelings; and she gazed, with evident emotion, and with faltering purpose, upon the vast crowd before her. No doubt that she saw a stern discouraging frown upon many a brow: no doubt that she knew how deeply the seeds of discontent and disaffection had been sown among her subjects—how great a majority wasunfavourable to her cause: and she trembled and faltered for a moment.
But the beauty, the dignity, and grace of the young Queen had already worked their spell upon the susceptible natures of the Hungarians, who, stern as they may be, are easily led away by enthusiastic impulses. A flattering murmur of applause ran through the assembly.
Encouraged by this movement of sympathy, which her quickly sensitive woman's heart felt rather than perceived, Maria Theresa lifted her head more boldly, and advancing one step forward, with her little daughter clinging to her dress, held forward in her arms the baby boy, whose destinies afterwards fixed him on the imperial throne of Germany as Joseph the Second.
All set speeches, all forms were forgotten by her in the trouble of the moment.
"Hungarians!" she said, with quivering voice, in Latin,—"deserted by my friends, persecuted by my enemies, attacked and oppressed by my nearest relations, my only refuge, in my utmost need, is in your fidelity, courage, and support. To you alone, with God, can I any longer look for safety. To your loyalty alone can I confide the welfare of the son and daughter of your kings. At your feet I lay my children. I come to you for succour. Will you grant it me?"
Her voice trembled. She could not proceed. A pause ensued.
"Vitam et sanguinem!" responded a voice.
It was that of Otmar, who had listened, with beating heart, to the accents of his adored Queen; whilst the blood had gradually risen into his pale cheeks, and now flushed his animated countenance with colour.
"Vitam et sanguinem!" was shouted by almost every voice in the assembly, as it caught up the cry.
"Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" again cried Otmar, drawing forth his sabre.
"Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" was re-echoed by a thousand mouths, as a thousand sabres were waved on high, and flashed upon the air.
The enthusiastic feeling had been communicated as an electric shock throughout the crowd. Spite of party feelings, party purpose, stern resolves, it had proved irresistible. Before the Hungarian nobles was a woman—a beautiful female in distress—and she their Queen! The burst of loyal fervour was spontaneous, uncontrollable.
The bosom of Maria Theresa heaved with emotion at the sound of this wild cry. For a moment she struggled with her feelings, strove to be a queen: but her woman's nature gave way; and, sinking back on her throne, she burst into tears.
The sight of this outbreak of emotion spoke again to each Hungarian heart; and, with still wilder and louder shouts of frenzied enthusiasm, the cry of "Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" rang again through the hall of the Castle of Presburg, until the old walls trembled to their base. Tears sprang from many of the sternest eyes, and rolled down many a withered cheek. But they were tears of pity, admiration, and fury.
All rancour, discontent, political difference, purpose of treachery, had been forgotten. The cause of Maria Theresa had been won!
Long it was before the tumult of the many voices ceased, or the flashing sabres were restored to their scabbards. And when at length the murmur in the hall was somewhat stilled, the aged archbishop advanced to the side of Maria Theresa, who, with her eyes streaming with tears, stood up at once. He attempted to speak in the name of the Hungarian nation in answer to her appeal. But the old man's voice failed him; and only in broken accents, which scarcely could be heard beyond the throne, could he utter a few words of fervent devotion, and pray God to bless her.
In his turn also, the Palatin, Count Pallfy, stepped forward and spoke of supplies and men. But his voice, also, was drowned in the enthusiastic shouts which promised to the persecuted Queen the succour of the very life's blood of her faithful Hungarians, and the aid of their fortunes to the last florin. It could scarcely at last be heard, as the official declaration was made of the opening of the Dietand of the sittings to be held, at which the necessary measures to be taken to be debated.
Then again rose the shouts, as Maria Theresa attempted to thank her faithful subjects. She could no longer speak; but she waved her hand to them, with a graceful gesture, and a look of gratitude which betrayed the depth of her feelings. Otmar's heart again beat tumultuously. He closed his eyes, as if to shut out from his very heart the dangerous sight of her who held over it so powerful a fascination. When he again looked up, she had descended from the throne. She was gone.
Overpowered by the various conflicting feelings which had so powerfully assailed him in the last short hour, the young noble followed instinctively the crowd as it streamed out of the great hall; and it was only when he found himself in a large ante-room, somewhat severed from the general mass, that he stopped and threw himself down upon a bench near a doorway, to collect his confused and scattered thoughts. He remained for a time lost in a reverie, from which he was aroused by a tap upon his shoulder.
Before him stood a boy, in a military dress, whose mien bore all the boldness and pertness of a page.
"Servus, domine!" said the youth, with an impudent air.
"What want you with me?" asked Otmar sharply. "I do not know you, sir. This is some mistake."
"It is none at all, if I read right your person," answered the boy pertly, mustering Otmar from top to toe. "Are you not he who was last night in the primate's garden? The description answers that of him I was bid to seek."
"I was in the primate's garden last night, of a truth," said the young noble: "but"——
"Then follow me," continued the boy, with a nod of the head.
"Whither?"
"Where a lady calls you," laughed the page, with an impudent swagger. "A young fellow of our age and blood needs no other bidding, methinks."
"What lady?" once more asked Otmar. But the boy only winked him to follow, as a reply; and turning into a side-door, beckoned to him once more; and then, seeing that the summons was obeyed, proceeded on, through several passages and corridors, until, reaching a door, he pushed it open. Within stood a female; and Otmar's heart, which had beat high with vague expectations of what he himself scarce dared to divine, was suddenly chilled, when he saw before him an elderly lady, altogether unknown to him. But as she came forward to ask the boy whether it was the person he was charged to seek, he became aware that it was not she into whose presence he was to be introduced. The lady, in turn, signed to him to follow; and after tapping gently upon an inner-door, and waiting for a reply, opened it, and bade him enter.
The apartment into which the young noble had been thus ushered, seemed to have been hastily fitted up with such resources of a lady's chamber as the cumbrous and incommodious fashion of the day offered. At the upper end, in a large high-backed chair, sat a female figure, behind whom a tirewoman appeared in waiting.
Those hopes and expectations which, once or twice, Otmar had permitted to float over his mind, as he had followed the page through the passages of the castle, and had then dismissed from it as fantastic and improbable, and yet again, in spite of his better reasonings, indulged, were now confirmed, and still, to his dazzled sight, appeared impossible.
It was indeed Maria Theresa who sat before him.
The mantle had been disengaged from the shoulders, the cimeter ungirded from her side, and the crown removed from her head: but she still wore the rich dark dress, incrusted with gems, that proclaimed her royalty, but which she needed not to stamp her "every inch" a queen. Her hair had been, apparently, loosened by the removal of the diadem from her brow; and powdered as it was, it fell in luxuriant ringlets over her neck and shoulders. The glow of her recent emotion still remained upon her face, and added to the natural grace of her beauty: and herlustrous dark-grey eyes were still moist with her late tears.