The monk took the boy's cold hands in his and warmed them.

"Now, day before yesterday, I begged her so prettily to take me up in her lap, because my head hurt me very badly, and if she would just kiss it once the pain would go right away, she scolded me for it. She said my head pained me because I ate so many unripe peaches and honeycakes, and she took away the honeycake that you brought me,—would not let me taste it even, but threw it to the little dog Joli,—how could I help crying? That made her very angry, and she made a face at me like those she makes at her maid when she pulls her hair, or at the haiduk when he pours the sauce over her gown; and when I knelt before her, begging her not to be angry, she took a large buckle out of her cap and threatened me with it, and then she hissed at me through her teeth, 'You bastard! Oh, if you were not in the world!' I was afraid she would murder me. I begged her to put that cruel thing back into her hair. 'You'd better pray God, or you'll go the way of the Cseiteburg children. Go, get the Fool to tell you why the dead weep nights in the Cseiteburg.' So to-night, when I went to bed, while you were singing psalms in the next room, I begged the Fool to tell me the story of the Cseiteburg children, until he finally consented, and told me."

The child still trembled under the impression of the story, and his teeth chattered.

"Now come close to me, so that nobody can hear. I don't dare say it out loud. Now then! Once upon a time, there lived in the Cseiteburg a beautiful lady, a widow who had two little children just my age, twins that came into the world together, and always played together. The beautiful lady fell in love with a handsome knight who came often to the castle, and whom she wished to marry. Once the knight said to her, he would like to marry her if there were not 'four eyes in the way.' The beautiful woman thought he must mean the four eyes of her two children, and that he would not marry her because there were these two children of her first marriage. So she called Mistress Dorko, the old nurse of the children, and said to her 'Take these two pins,' and with that she drew two long gold pins out of her cap, 'and go lead the children out to play in the forest; when they have played enough, and grow weary, put them to sleep in your lap and thrust these long pins through their temples. The handsome knight shall not say that there are "four eyes in the way" of our love.' The bad old Dorko did as her lady commanded. She took the two little boys out into the wood to play, waited until they had grown tired, then took them in her lap and told them about the fairy Helen until they fell asleep: then she drew out both the big pins and stuck one of them through the head of one of the boys. The other boy woke at his cry, and when he saw what old Dorko had done to his brother, he began to cry and beg her not to stick the pin through him. He promised her a cloak with buckles, horses, carriage, and a piece of land, if she would spare him. He promised her the whole of Cseiteburg, as soon as he inherited it. But the wicked nurse could not be moved by his tears and prayers, she pierced the second one through with the big gold pin, and then she left them in the depths of the forest, covered with dry leaves; the cuckoos sounded their funeral knell, and the nightingale sang their death dirge. The same day came the handsome knight to the beautiful lady in the castle. And the beautiful lady said to him, full of joy, '"The four eyes" are no longer in our way, the two children lie out there covered with leaves, the cuckoo has tolled them to the grave, the nightingales have sung for them. Now you can make me your wife.' The handsome knight was beside himself at these words. 'Alas, beautiful lady, beautiful widow! I did not mean "the four eyes" of the children, but our own four eyes were in the way of our love.' And thereupon he fled out of the castle, and never came back again. Since then, the ghosts weep all night long at Cseiteburg. This is true, isn't it, Father Peter?"

"A foolish story, sprung from a Fool's brain. Don't believe it, my little one."

"But I do believe it, for I've seen the beautiful lady myself. Her eyes rolled so wildly, she drew her lips together, she gnashed her teeth, and her hair streamed down her back, and as her cap fell back, she seized the pin in her hand—and I almost felt its point in my temples!"

"Don't think of it any more. Don't give way to your fancies."

The child seized the monk's hand in both of his:

"You won't leave me, will you? You won't let anything happen?"

"Don't be afraid, my son; I will stay with you always, no one shall do you any harm. I will take care of you, and protect you."

"But why do you not love her, then? My two eyes are not in your way. How often have we fled from this house together on horseback, my mother and I with a knight; she never would let me go from her side. And then when we came back in a carriage, she fairly wore me out with her kisses, called me her sweet child, and when we came back to my father, she would hold me out, and I must beg him in his anger not to draw his sword against her. I caressed his cheeks, that he might be cajoled into forgiving. I never failed her, and why is she angry with me? Why? Because you do not love her. Do love her. Throw off your monk's cowl. Marry my mother. Be my real father. Do as she demands. Love her! Love her! Then will she be as sweet as honey, and as beautiful as a fairy. But when she does not love, she is as bitter as gall and as hateful as a witch."

Father Peter quieted the child in his wild imaginations, until he fell asleep again.

The sound of a harp and passionate songs of love floated through the night air. Father Peter left the child's room with agitated feelings, and hurried along the corridors to the balcony where Idalia confided her heart's sorrow to the forest and the stars. The sound of his step aroused the lady from her dreams. She looked at him in surprise as he approached. Father Peter took her by the hand, and drew her into the room. Idalia's heart began to beat violently. She thought that the hand which he now laid on her shoulder would draw her to his breast, until now ice, now melted by the volcanic glow of her love.

"Kneel down," said the priest, "Confess your sin at once."

"What sin? You know all," murmured the woman, while she sank down under the iron pressure of his hand.

"Your past that as yet has no name—what you carry about in your heart—that monster must be stifled while it still exists only as a thought. What is this thought of yours?"

The woman was silent for a time, meditating contradiction and crafty evasion, but at length she yielded and said in a whisper, "I intended to kill my child."

"Cursed be the heart in which such a thought could arise."

"If my heart is the mother of this monster, yours is the father; such devils result when fire and frost come together."

"Are you mindful of God and the future life?"

"Don't speak to me of God or of the future life! When I go there, and see God face to face, I shall say: I am the one—I did it! Hadst Thou given me cold blood, I might have been a frog, but thou gavest me warm blood, and I became a human being. Hadst Thou created me man, I might have been a Cain; Thou hast made me a woman, and I have become an Eve. In this way didst Thou fashion my woman's heart; it was Thou that didst create my passions, that didst make my eye a magnet, that didst give my lips their charm; it is Thou that dost send thoughts to the wakeful, and dreams to the sleeping; and now wilt Thou condemn Thy own creation unheard? If Thou art my Creator, Thou didst create me thus; if Thou art all-knowing, Thou knewest this before."

"Woman, blaspheme not God!"

"Is then truth blasphemy of God? What is my crime,—that I love you? What then are you in the sight of God, that you are surrounded by such enkindling darts? Are you His archangel—His cherub? Turn not away from me; I am not going to reproach you—not you, nor the saints, nor God. It was not Satan taught me all this. I have read the great book that you call Holy Scriptures through from beginning to end. I have tried to find a place in it which counts the love of woman as a sin, but I have found none such. It was only a human being who could hit upon the unnatural thought that there were human beings who could not love. Let the cowl cover the man who could impose such a covering—whose heart dared not beat under it. Is not such an act a sin against God? Is not this the murder of a human being—this slow killing of one in the likeness of God? Does the poisoner do anything worse when he gives his victims the means of passing away slowly? Have not other men discovered the antidote for it? You do not know this perhaps. See! As easy as it is to put on this sable cowl, this shroud for a living body, just so easy is it to strip it off. Do not flee! Stay here—listen to me. I might have a sin to confess. I promise you I will not kill, but I will call back into life a dead man, and that is indeed a sin heavy enough. You are this dead man. I have mourned you hundreds of times. Allow me to call you forth from your cold tomb by my tears. Listen to me. We will go from here right to Transylvania, where the Hungarian belief flourishes. We will go out to the Protestant church. Many are doing it already, you know. A third of the land is Protestant; I am sure they cannot all go to Hell. Nobody can persecute us there. See! I have two iron chests full of treasure; there we can live like lords in luxury and splendor, such as you were accustomed to before you gave over your lands to the Jesuits. We'll snap our fingers at the world. Or, if it pleases you better to be poor and God-fearing, I am willing. I will go with you to the poorest village, where there is a tower with a weather-vane; there you shall become a Calvinist preacher, a rector, or a Levite; I will be your faithful wife; will wash and weave, spin flax, and endure misery; I will become God-fearing, my lips shall forget to scold and curse, and shall learn to sing psalms. If I should become quarrelsome, you may beat me, shut me up, and make me fast, and I will be always faithful to you; only throw aside this cloak of death."

The temptation was strong. When passion and sorrow blend together in one flame, then perhaps the heart of a dead man may withstand. But the youth was protected by his talisman—that other face on the other side of the Waag. The monk's cowl alone would not have protected his heart against these darts; his ascetic vows, the sacred oil, would have been a weak safeguard against the charm of this Circe. But the loving, suffering face of the maid of Mitosin stood between them like Heaven. The sunbeam smites in vain on the summit of the Alps, for this is already in Heaven, and Heaven is cold. Tihamer had left his heart before the altar in Mitosin,—it was not to be found.

"Return, poor sinner," he said with the gentleness of a confessor, "God will pardon your rebellious thoughts, and will set you free from this evil spirit that has possessed you. Learn to pray."

"I will not learn to pray!" cried the woman excitedly. "When you read the liturgy at mass, I always say to myself: It is not true! It is not true! It is not true! When you sing the hymn of praise to the Holy Mother, I murmur to myself, Love me, and not the Virgin Mother; You are my life! you are my death! you are my devil! you are my idol! if you wish to make me blessed, make me blessed here below, and in the future I will be condemned in your stead."

"Then let your condemnation begin here below," said Father Peter, aroused from his monastic calm. "For if it is true that you can love a man to the extent of despising the whole world and renouncing the blessedness of Heaven, then indeed will it be the torments of Hell for you to see the man you love passing daily before you like the vision of one dead, like a ghost in the clear daylight, like a phantom in a living body—to see him, and to say to yourself, 'You put to death this man, you threw this shroud over him, you closed the grave upon him, and neither violence nor prayer nor the magic of Hell can wake him up again!' It was you who killed me. I am your victim. I am the ghost that pursues you. I am your judgment from God!"

Idalia shuddered convulsively as she lay on the ground, and bit her bare arms.

"When I was sent here to you," continued Father Peter, "I begged the Prior to send me into the desert of Arabia among the wild Druses rather than to your house: he left me only one choice, I might go as servant of the Holy Inquisition in Spain, or come here. I made my choice. I preferred to endure torture rather than to torture others. But believe me, he who endures the touch of hot oil does not suffer such torment as I do when your hot breath touches me; and the Spanish boot does not so crush the bones of the victim, as my heart is crushed under your accursed passion; and yet I came here although I knew that you would pursue me with this frightful love of yours: and I shall stay here, although I know that you will very soon torture me to death with your still more frightful hatred. Your house is my torture-chamber—I am here to suffer to the end."

Idalia fell lifeless upon the cold marble.

"May God pardon you," whispered the youth, "I pardon you. May you be able to pardon yourself."

With that he raised her up from the floor, held her firmly with his strong hands by the shoulder, and so compelled her to remain seated and look him in the eye.

"Finally, rest assured that I will accomplish what I was sent here for; your son will I guard, protect, and train to good. Let no one venture to do him any harm. The Fool I shall drive from his side, and shall no longer suffer him to poison the child's dreams with his frightful tales. You have cast him off. I will adopt him; and from this time he shall be my son, and shall never again come near you. I am prepared to have you deal with his spiritual father as you did with his father in the flesh."

With these words, he let go his grasp and withdrew. Idalia stood for some time like a living statue in her white gown, while her flowing hair enveloped her bare arms. Then she shuddered and dragged herself to the wall, like a wild beast fatally shot; there she found a support on which she laid her head—it was cold marble, the base of the statue of her dead husband. The cold stone cooled her, perhaps,—the fever that throbbed in her temples.

Father Peter went back to his lonely quarters, and found the child still resting quietly as he had left him. The child was sleeping sweetly and smiling in his dreams.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE BISHOP'S WEDDING.

In those days, it happened in Hungary that a Bishop married: it was such an extraordinary thing since the introduction of celibacy, that we look in vain in all chronicles for its parallel. Emerich Thurzo, Bishop of Neutra, was the one to whom this marvel happened. The story is perpetuated on parchment, in marble, and in the memory of man. In the Hungarian highlands, throughout the length of the Waag valley, the story is still told. Emerich Thurzo was the last scion of a famous old race who had given the country many generals and palatines. The family estates were equal to a small kingdom. With the Bishop, the mighty family might have died out, but this was regarded such a calamity that the Pope came to the rescue and issued a bull in due form; not a simple brief under the fisherman's ring, the customary seal for a brief, but a document with the seal hanging which shows the crest of the papacy, for this was an act of indulgence; this seal, moreover, was attached by a red and gold silken cord. By virtue of this bull, Bishop Thurzo was freed from the duty of celibacy; he was permitted to marry and to become Lutheran in his relations to his wife, while he held all his Catholic offices and benefices. Chronicle and tradition record that the Bishop made royal use of this dispensation; through a whole year continued the festivities of his marriage with the beautiful Christina Nyary. One can still see the great hall at Bittse which the Bishop had built for the celebration of his marriage. The castle is still uninjured; the main entrance adorned with armorial bearings in bas-relief, and the colonnades running round the building, decorated with representations of all the known heroes, in giant proportions. The hall for the wedding ceremony, in its length and breadth, hardly fell short of the proportions of a modern ball-room: midway on one side is still to be seen the entrance which led to the sleeping apartments, a stately portal, with four slender Corinthian columns; on these columns was a profusion of Eastern ornament, fruits, green foliage, grapes, richly gilded, and resplendent in many-colored enamel. The front of the portal shows the family escutcheons in gold letters, and between the two is a Latin proverb for the encouragement of lovers, "Amandum juxta regulans." Through the heavy brocade hangings of the brilliant entrance, the guests saw the fortunate Bishop vanish with his fortunate bride, while they remained to drink to the health of the two with noisy revelry. So it went on, until one fine day, the fortunate father brought his new-born son in his arms to show him to the guests about the table. He had kept his guests with him from the marriage day to the day of baptism. There was a lord for you! That was a prelate! Through a whole year the festivities lasted. How did it happen that the people did not weary of them? Why, the groups of guests changed constantly. No well-ordered prosperous man can leave his house and home for a whole year, so there was a series of guests following each other in unbroken succession. In those days, when one went to a wedding, he took his entire household; for how could he leave his children behind? Lackeys and haiduks, equerries, coachmen and footmen, Court fool, nurse, and governess, priest and scribe, all came with their master, and before all went a heavy wagon with the baggage of the women. And there were as many kinds of musicians as there were guests. The Polish lords brought their famous trumpeters; those from Transylvania brought their gypsies; the Moravians their fiddlers; and the Nyians their bagpipers.

One band relieved another at banquet and dance; meantime the young people who became weary of the pleasures of the table first, withdrew to one end of the long hall for the "torch-dance," or the "cushion-dance," while still the servants at the other end continued to carry in the succession of dishes to the feast; if you wish to count the courses there is still the portly kitchen record. Here rang out the joyous conversation, interspersed with the Latin epithalamium of some impromptu poet, or the fescennine verses of a German minnesinger. At one side, the married women had their pleasure; young mothers whose children became restless withdrew here to quiet them; another table in an alcove at the side was opened for the young girls who feasted here in the presence of their holy director, and through the noise and tumult of the men, their joyous girlish voices rang out in Vivas to the noble lord and lady who sat at the head of the main table. In the shadow of a vaulted recess, the monks and lay brothers were assembled, who had crowded from all foreign parts at the report that a bishop in Hungary was celebrating his marriage. Every kind of priest was here; Capuchins, Jesuits, Paulists, Carmelites, White Canons, and the tonsured Franciscans, with wooden sandals on their bare feet. All sat together and drank "in honorem domini et dominae." They were the most steadfast guests in respect to the hours and days. The only change in their company was that it constantly increased. Besides these, there was one other guest who remained from the very beginning of this long marriage feast, together with his whole family, and this was Grazian, Lord of Mitosin Castle. He had brought his beautiful daughter with him. The ladies whispered at one side that Lord Grazian stayed so long in the hope of forming an alliance between the beautiful Magdalene and some young lord. "Oh, no indeed!" said others, "there is no care for her. She has already a valiant bridegroom, the Pole, Lord Berezowski." At this there was a great outburst of laughter. "If the dear Lord had not made Adam better looking than he is, Mother Eve would never have picked that much-talked-of apple from the tree."

The old fool showed no hesitancy about thrusting himself into the circle of young dancers, and shunning the table of drinkers; and yet he longed for a drink; but his mouth watered still more for a kiss from the beautiful Magdalene, and this he might so easily have, if it would only occur to her to invite him to the cushion-dance. But for this he might wait until the day of judgment.

This is the way they danced the cushion-dance, as our elders will recollect. A small silken cushion was put in the hand of the handsomest stateliest dancer, who laid it in the centre of the circle on the floor, and danced around it to the music, at first alone; then he took up the cushion and laid it at the feet of a lady whom he had chosen according to his fancy, knelt down on it and remained a suppliant until she released him with a kiss: then the two danced hand in hand around the cushion: and then it was the lady's turn to lay it before a dancer in the circle and kneel down waiting for a kiss. And through the whole evening the fairy chain of sweet kisses was woven on and on. The old Berezowski thrust his wine-befuddled face into the circle and waited, hoping that he might please some one; but not one of the worthy widows wished him for a partner; and so long as no lady invited him to dance, he had no right to lay the cushion down before his fair white betrothed, and to imprint a red mark on that snowy countenance with his bristly face. It was as if the whole company had taken an oath that no one should offer him the cushion, and the ladies laughed heartily evening after evening to see Lord Grazian with his gouty foot, and Lord Berezowski with his squinting eyes, unwearyingly watch the cushion-dance. But in reality, both were keeping watch of something quite different.

The beautiful Idalia seemed entirely changed since that severe lesson. She acted as any one would who was entirely broken-hearted and resigned. One hardly recognized her. She was gentle and condescending to every one; and the mistakes of her household were hardly noted, while formerly her eye was wont to spy out everything and rebuke it at once with voice and hand. She went every day to mass, sat quietly under the great carved canopy of the family pew and performed her devotions. What it all meant nobody knew, except, perhaps, Father Peter. Then, too, the condition of the Jesuit monastery had been recently much improved; one gift followed another. One Sunday, the castle lady surprised the Father with a magnificent altar covering, and it was reported that she had embroidered it with her own hands. The young nobleman, Cupid, had also become a new creature under Father Peter's hands. One could hear him studying out of his books in a clear tone of voice, instead of singing wanton songs. He no longer wandered through the village with dozens of dogs, setting them on the poor people; but went about hand in hand with his instructor in the best behaved way, and replied to the "Praised be Jesus Christ" of the people, with a pious "Forever and ever, Amen." He spent his pocket-money on the poor, and Sunday mornings served as acolyte without his old trick of mixing sulphur in the incense; instead of abusive words, he now uttered Latin sentences, and kissed the hands of elderly people in a most mannerly way; and all this was Father Peter's work. It was set down to his credit by the directors of the convent, and information was even sent to the Provincial Father, of the wonderfully blessed activity of this newly created father.

The Lady Idalia had for some time ceased to storm her lost idol with her passion, and had entrusted her little son entirely to his care. Mother and son saw each other now only at table. This unaccountable change had occurred at the same time of the Bishop's feast. The entire noble family of Mitosin had gone to Bittse and remained. Father Peter had from that time no further occasion to seek the subterranean passage; night and day nothing took him from his pupil, who since his tutor had withdrawn the fools and had accustomed him to an orderly way of living instead of his former extravagances, now enjoyed regular sleep such as children are wont to have, who, when they waken, find their heads in the very place where they laid them down, and who sleep with a laugh on their lips.

Father Peter was somewhat troubled in conscience at the great care that he was devoting to his pupil, since he knew that at the bottom there was a certain selfishness, as it was very agreeable to him not to have Hirsko, the Fool, sleep any more in the boy's room. Hirsko kept long vigils; he never closed an eye until he could see the bottom of his pitcher. Now, Father Peter did not have to wait for that; Sunday nights belonged entirely to him. As soon as he had quieted Cupid, he could hurry to the entrance of the vaulted passage, and there stay for a long time beside his inconsolable beloved, who was at once his bride and his widow. These charming meetings by night, Likovay's journey to Thurzo's wedding had brought to an end. The departure had occurred so unexpectedly that there was no time for the two lovers to agree what should be done. By carrier pigeons, they had communicated with each other briefly, but since the departure, there had been no messages by the pigeons from Mitosin. It was only through the talkative Fool that Father Peter learned whither the family had gone,—to the wedding of the Bishop! It was said that this would last a whole year long, and would occasion so many other weddings that the carnival might be prolonged until the vintage.

So many marriageable young women were among the guests, it was very probable they would all leave as brides; for even the melancholy Magdalene a suitor waited there—the rich Berezowski. Father Peter sighed deeply—if he could only see her, just once more! How dared a monk sigh for such a forbidden pleasure! Even then the punishment was hurrying toward him. While his heart unceasingly throbbed at the thought that he might even yet be permitted to behold the countenance of his beloved, gently radiant as the moonlight itself, quite unexpectedly this command came from his lady, which conformed to his wishes, yet he could find little pleasure in it. One day,—the Thurzo wedding feast had then lasted two months,—Idalia said to him, "Father Peter, all the world have paid their respects at Bittse, at the wedding of the Bishop; we alone have not. The Bishop is related to me on my mother's side, and furthermore he is my godfather. He may be annoyed at us with good reason for not showing ourselves there; now I have in my jewel casket a string of real pearls that will be very becoming to the throat of the young lady: let us take them to her as a bridal present and stay at the castle until we are driven away. You shall go with the boy; it will be well for him to see a little of such splendor and magnificence as he never shall behold again." And so that fell to Father Peter's lot for which he had sighed so longingly. But he could not take pleasure in the news: it filled him, on the contrary, with horror. At Emerich Thurzo's wedding, he must meet again that world which he had put behind him, and in which only a few years ago he had been so intimate—so much at home. It is true, the countless sufferings he had endured since then might have changed his looks somewhat; and then, too, there was the long beard that he had not worn as knight, and if he drew the hood of his cowl down, half his face was covered. Besides, who would pay any attention to a holy monk, who draws into a corner, and is in nobody's way? The fine ladies who had known him formerly would gather away their trains lest they should touch his cowl; but there would be one there who knew him, at all events. Alas, if by any traitorous change of countenance Magdalene should betray her recognition! Their eyes must not meet.

However, there was no escape. Father Peter must accompany his lady to Bittse—to the famous wedding-feast. She, too, took her whole household with her. She had to drag about her household as she did her gowns and jewels; her only son, of course, must not leave her side, for that is the richest jewel of a Hungarian woman. The other ladies took their children with them, and she received the greatest glory whose son could best recite his good wishes to the bride, which he had learned from the court master.

The wedding guests arrived safely at Bittse. At that time, such a journey lasted fully six days in the stern cold, and in the short winter days of fog. When the guests from Madocsany arrived at the Castle of Bittse, it was already late in the evening. The first night was given to rest, after the hardships of the journey. The next day, the Lady Idalia, with her son and Father Peter, paid their respects to the noble couple. Emerich Thurzo had an astounding memory; as soon as he heard Father Peter's name, he at once expressed his surprise that he did not recollect that he had as bishop confirmed a monk of that name, and, of course, Madocsany belonged to his diocese. Father Peter replied that he had received his confirmation from the Provincial of his order; in this way, he drew down upon himself the high displeasure of the Hungarian magnate, the Bishop. The Provincials of the Jesuit order assumed many privileges of the Prelates, and even some papal prerogatives. From that moment, Father Peter in the Castle of Bittse was a marked man. However, this was agreeable to him, for no one molested him with offerings of friendly attentions. He could even sit at the table without any exchange of good wishes, for the Jesuit brotherhood was looked at askance by the other orders. Only one human being stood by him—the young Cupid. He never left him. However wild and boisterous he had been in the days when his mother spoiled him, he had now become equally shy and timid; ever since those visions of terror which the threats of his mother and the stories of the Fool had brought upon his mind. And yet what an ungovernable child he had been only a year ago! When he and his mother stayed at an entertainment, the dissolute lords used to teach him all kinds of knavish verses and songs, and then when the ladies joined them, some one would say, "Now, little Cupid, say a little verse, or sing a pretty song." And the little fellow would hardly wait to be asked, but spring up on the table and recite what he had learned; and the ladies would blush to the very roots of their hair; some would laugh, but the more prudish would go away. And then the Lady Idalia would take the little rascal in her lap and reward him with kisses. But now all this was over. Since Father Peter had become his tutor, the little Cupid knew no more wanton songs. On the contrary, he had become so shy that no promises or threats would make him recite the little rhyme of greeting that he used to say at home. The Lady Idalia comforted herself with the thought that in the course of time there would yet be opportunity. There were many children of his age among the guests of the castle, and as soon as he became acquainted with them he would regain his former liveliness and courage. But he did not play with the other children. When he met a boy of his own age, he would ask him, "Does your mother threaten to kill you?" He would have absolutely nothing to do with the little girls. The year before, he had played wildly with them and called each one his little wife. But now when one of them he used to know offered him candy, he said, "Is there any poison in it?"

The Lady Idalia was the gayest of the gay. Her widow's veil had been long since cast aside, and there was nothing to prevent her joining in the dance. Nobody was bored in her company. She knew how to shape her conversation, and often made Thurzo himself laugh at her telling hits. Evenings, when she entered the drawing room in magnificent attire, at once she had her court of knights about her, among whom more than one whose hair was already turning gray, would not have been sorry to join his widowed state to hers. But one group of guests always conspicuously drew aside when the Lady Idalia appeared—these were the Mitosins. If Idalia took her place at the table where Lord Grazian was sitting, he would whisper to his daughter, and she would rise and go elsewhere; after a time, Lord Grazian would follow; soon the Pole; and then the entire retinue. But Idalia never ceased trying to annoy them. Her high spirits never rose higher than when she looked into the angry eyes of Lord Grazian, or when she coquettishly tormented the aged suitor until his face became as red as a boiled crab.

One evening, the flower of the company turned to the dance, and the gypsies of Transylvania were playing. Thurzo and his wife were still present, and took pleasure in the enjoyment of their guests. The sound of revelry grew louder and louder. The men sang drinking songs, the ladies chattered, and the monks in their corner sang an edifying hymn. The old Berezowski as usual was on the outer edge of the circle of dancers; in the mazurka and the torch-dance, where it was only necessary to stamp and shout, he had his part; but in the cushion dance, where the kisses came, he failed as usual. And yet he could have devoured the beautiful Magdalene with his eyes. Two pair of eyes were watching him; one from the table of the monks, where sat a young priest, with downcast head supported on his hands; from beneath his cowl low drawn, his eyes looked out eagerly into this world of pleasure. On his lap lay the head of a sleeping child, on the table before him stood a large mug, from which he sipped now and then, more to moisten his parched lips and throat than to cloud his mind. The other pair of eyes belonged to the Lady Idalia. Even when she was whirling in the dance, she never let Berezowski out of her sight; she followed the longing looks that he cast at Magdalene; she cast glances at Father Peter, half-concealed in his corner; and Lord Grazian, who was ready to burst with rage, caught the scornful lightning of her glance. She knew how to read the hearts of all four, and it was her diabolical pleasure to drop into the hearts of all four her various poisons, one kind for one, and another for another; here, frenzy, there deadly fear, and still again, rage and jealousy. To one, contempt; to another, despair; to a third, shame and disgrace; and to a fourth, unquenchable, diabolical fire.

Father Peter held his hand screening his eyes as he watched the handsome youths leading the ladies of their heart to the dance. In many dances a kiss is the forfeit. Who has any suspicious thoughts of the innocent kiss of a maiden? In those times, certainly, it was merely a joke in all honor. He was not jealous of any one of the stately crowd of young knights, but the blood boiled in his veins when he saw how the old rake, destined to be her bridegroom, watched the slender figure floating past him, light as a gentle dream. Gentle though she was, yet she knew how to evade his embraces. If he were only her partner, what a blow he would give that eager old sinner! The young fop took no care whatever of his lady. And what miserable dancers they are too! When he led the dance it was quite different—he would like to show them, if it were not for the cowl.

Thus far he had been so fortunate in avoiding the throng of guests that he had not once met Magdalene. Even if he had come directly in her path, she might not have recognized him, for she rarely raised her eyes unless addressed.

The cushion dance came next. To a monotonous melody, the silken cushion passed from hand to hand accompanied by an exchange of kisses. The cushion came at last into Idalia's hands. She must have been awaiting it for some time for the young dancers were in the habit of gaining a kiss from their heart's desire. She had to wait until it was the turn of a young man, still free, who saw in her only a beautiful woman. Idalia paid the forfeit to the man at her feet; and now it was the order of the dance that she should come into the middle of the circle and dance alone while she passed in review, the dancers circling about her, until she made her choice. Idalia laughed silently to herself; she cast a glance full of bewitching coquetry at Berezowski, then swaying gracefully in the dance, she glided towards him and laid the cushion at his feet, then the circle broke up, and the chosen man was left alone. Berezowski reddened to the ears for joy; his eyes beamed, but they did not seek the beautiful face of the woman who knelt before him, but the pallid face of his betrothed, who stood opposite; in anticipation of the two kisses, he parted his whiskers carefully. The first kiss would only set him free, it was the second which would seal a bond. Magdalene understood the glance, and her face crimsoned to her very hair. Father Peter clenched the silver cup in his hand until the wine spilled on the table. "Quid habes?" called out his brother priest at the table. But just as Berezowski bent over to kiss Idalia, Grazian Likovay sprang between the two and rudely dragged the Pole back. "Hold," he cried, "my future son-in-law shall not kiss this woman here." Idalia sprang passionately to her feet and pressed her two hands to her head. "That you——! I am as much of a lady as you are a gentleman."

"Without doubt," he replied, "you are a widow who has killed your husband, and now has taken into your house your paramour, disguised as a monk. There he sits, holding the boy in his lap to accustom him to his fatherhood. Or is it not true that the Jesuit there is your lover?" and with that he sprang to the table of the monks and dragged Father Peter's cowl from his head. "Now, then, who is this priest? Is it not Tihamer Csorbai? The lover of this beautiful woman, and in a monk's cowl?"

The whole hall rang with loud laughter and outcries. Everybody recognized at once Tihamer Csorbai, who had vanished and been generally reported dead. He was anything but dead. He had simply entered the service of a beautiful woman. Father Peter stood in the midst of this crowd of screaming guests; with his right hand he seized the bench on which he leaned. If rage overpowers here is a death blow and a broken skull.

"Peter," rang out the powerful voice of Emerich the Bishop, "are you a monk or a knight?"

The youth's arm sank, he bowed his head. "I am a monk."

"Then withdraw. Woe unto those who excite strife!"

The rest of the monks considered that the command had been given. Unfastening the cords about their waists, they began to scourge the despised guest from the hall, with scorn and curses in a confusion of Greek and Latin. Father Peter took no thought except that the boy should receive none of the blows; he wrapped him in his cowl and hurried away from the company. He did not give himself time to see what happened later. He did not see how the pale face of Magdalene tried to rush to him. Why? Perhaps to shield him, and perhaps to share his shame. But her father seized her rudely and dragged her back to the arms of Berezowski,—"There is your place."

The beautiful fury, with teeth shining, advanced to Grazian; her red hair broke loose from her cap, on which the jewelled pins shook with her tremor of rage. "Well, Grazian Likovay, you shall pay me for this night! Once already have I aimed my dagger at your heart, and this time be sure it shall be to your death!" And with that, she dashed out of the hall, pushing everything aside that did not give way before her. As she passed by Thurzo and his wife, she said defiantly. "My best thanks to my lord and his lady for their hospitality. You are not one hair better than others." And she snapped her fingers contemptuously, and went on her way. That same night, though late, she left the Castle of Bittse with her entire retinue. She travelled by torch-light through the fierce winter night resounding with the cries of hungry wolves.



CHAPTER IX.

THE TEMPTATION.

The carriages, set on runners, were too heavy to go rapidly over the bad mountain roads. At the first station, the caravan was overtaken by a sledge in pursuit; this did not stop at their carriages, but passed them by. In the sledge sat Grazian, and the figure enveloped in furs beside him was of course his daughter. Idalia looked out of the windows of her carriage: "Good morning, lovely lady," called out Lord Grazian, in an excess of spirits, "I will go ahead as quartermaster." His meaning was too clear. Idalia's travelling party was large, and could only make four or five German miles a day, so that Grazian going in advance "as quartermaster" would take for himself the accommodations in the large castles, which she was counting on for herself and her retinue. An open hospitality still prevailed in that country, and travellers found in every castle an open gate, good beds, and abundant table, with a cordial welcome from the master of the house. But the accommodations in the villages were quite different. The servants with their horses were provided with straw, and the family themselves were cramped into a low, small room, with floor of earth, and lighted by a miserable candle, while their fare was coarse bread and cheese. The little sledge going ahead closed every castle against Idalia and her party, by spreading the news of this great scandal that had fallen upon the widow. On the way back, Idalia could not stay with any of her acquaintances. She must stay outside, bag and baggage in her carriage at the end of the village, or must pass her night in the forest, in the small hut of some cheese dealer. Through the long winter night, this noble lady must lie on the straw, wrapped in her travelling cloak, with the priest and the sleeping child. There they were like two comrades who fall asleep quarrelling, and wake up quarrelling.

"In spite of your shame, you can sleep? They said to your face that as a priest you were a fraud, as a knight you were a failure; neither priest nor knight. How they disgraced us in the presence of so many people! Like a hunchback, they threw it in my face that you were my lover, and you stood there like a pillar of salt and did not say that it was true or untrue. I looked at you just to see what you would do; whether you would take counsel of your heart. You looked about you; the dancers' swords were together in a corner; perhaps you would seize me, cast your cowl from you and say, 'It is true, I am Tihamer Csorbai, and that woman there is my wife, and he who dares come between us is a dead man.' You did not do so. On the contrary, you gazed toward Heaven. I waited patiently to see if you would say, 'I am Father Peter, I am a priest, and on my priestly oath I say she is free from my love,—if she were as free from other sins, she might be counted among the saints.' But this too you did not do. You dropped your head when the Bishop called out at you. And you submitted when the other monks struck at you with their scourges. Oh, how detestable you were! If you really had been my lover, I would have spit at you—in your face—yes, right in your face! Behind your back, they said that you were not worthy of the name of priest, that you were no priest and never had been one, and even if you had, they would have driven you out; you were a timid, cowardly soldier who endured the scourge because he feared the sword. What will you do now? Will you creep behind the cross that Christ Himself may drive you away? Will you let them beat this monk's cowl of yours from town to town? Do your vows require you to bring your priesthood into disgrace, and become a stone of offence at sight of which every one stands aside, even if they are in the height of the dance; and at sight of whom the common people will flee from the church when they see you at the altar?"

And then again:

"Can you sleep? Why not? It is an easy thing for a man to choke down disgrace. But I am a woman, and I am lying on scorpions. In the presence of the noblest of the land you made me an object of scorn to the whole world. There will be the report of it everywhere. The beggar-student will sing my story from window to window. Peddlers will carry from village to village the story of Father Peter and the Lady of Madocsany, and hawk it about for two denarii, pictures thrown in. What a disgrace! You can hide yourself away under your cowl, that is a good place for you! But where shall I hide myself? How can I endure the glance of people—that constant blow in the face? Where shall I shut myself in, so that no human being can find me? Where shall I lose myself, so that even I cannot find me? How shall I live or die on these thorns? What's that to you—do you say? Ha ha! You say God has punished me, and you are satisfied. You drawl out your prayers and fall asleep over them."

And then again:

"Are you awake? The cock is crowing, the day is dawning at last. The night is long for those who cannot close their eyes. Why do you avoid talking with me? I despise you from the bottom of my heart. If you were as great a jewel as you are a piece of clay, I would not reach out my hand to take you up. Keep your love for the angels, or for Beelzebub, it is all one to me. All I ask from you is my honor. If you are a man of honor, if you are a Christian, you must know what your duty is. The offence was an open one, and it must be openly satisfied. Listen to me, and then consider at your leisure. You and I will go over to the Protestant church. We will go to Saros-Patak, or to Klausenburg, and there this can take place without delay. The six weeks' instruction is superfluous. We will marry. I need nothing more except your name—the name still honored. You surely do not want all the world to call me Mrs. Father Peter. You are not Emerich Thurzo; his wife can be called Mrs. Bishop, night or day, but Mrs. Monk—no one can say that by daylight. The price for my torn veil is the cap of Mrs. Tihamer Csorbai. Beyond that, I do not care whether you love me, or do not love me, or whether you love another. You can go away, when you cannot stand it any longer, or you can stay. It does not matter to me what you answer; my decision is made; in defiance of the Bishop, I am going to be a Calvinist; and I am going to marry a second time, if not you, then somebody else; but it is fitting that I should recover my honor by the man by whom I lost it. But I will not beseech you any longer. Do not be afraid that I shall crawl after you on my hands and knees. Two words can separate us; if you say, 'No, No,' then I say, 'Nor I, either,' and you shall never enter my gate again. To the threshold you may come, and I will count out to you your money, and then we will never breathe the same air again."

Father Peter was terrified at these words. If Idalia drove him out of the castle, then he could have no further meetings with Magdalene, for the only entrance to the subterranean passage was from the castle; and in his brain important plans were forming; he must without fail speak with Magdalene. She will come to the familiar place and expect him Sunday nights.

"What you have said is serious, and requires time for consideration. Give me two Sundays that I may take counsel with the one who guides my fate."

Idalia though that Father Peter referred to the wise Counsellor of all, but he really meant Magdalene.

"Very well, I will wait two Sundays, but then you are to give me a definite answer."

"Yes."

"An answer that swerves neither to right nor left."

"It shall be either wise or foolish. Whatever it is, it shall be that wholly."

"By your monk's vows?"

"I vow it on my word of honor as a knight."

At this the lady began to weep violently, and her sobs awakened the sleeping boy.

"Why do you weep, mother?" he asked in fear.

Idalia pressed him to her heart. "I am weeping for you, my poor little orphan, my only treasure, my angel;" and with each tender name, she covered the child's cheek with kisses and tears while she pressed him close to her throbbing heart.

"Does he love me already,—my father?" stammered the child, nestling closer to his mother. "He loves you surely, for you kiss and embrace me again."

"We shall soon find out," Idalia whispered in his ear, and sighed deeply.

Soon the whispering ceased. Father Peter heard the deep breathing of mother and child, and the loud beating of his own heart.

Outside the cock crowed for the third time. Was it not Peter's cock,—the first Peter?



CHAPTER X.

THE FEAST.

The next day, they reached Madocsany, and the second day after, the feast began. They had hardly time to get rested. In truth, the feast began. The beautiful Lady of Madocsany did not close her gates, as she had said she should do, on the way home: she did not try to find any thick veil for her head to cover her face before the eyes of the world. The one expression, "On my word as a knight", had kindled a new glow in her heart. What was the world to her now! Whoever did not respect her, she did not respect. Contempt for contempt. The people of the castle did not go abroad, but they broached their casks, spread their tables, and summoned the pipers; and where there are spread tables, good wine, and fair women, there are guests in plenty. It is true, it was a mere revel. Not one personage of note. Perhaps the same drunken set that frequented the Mitosin Castle when there were feasts there; if so, no one could afford to reproach his neighbor. At Mitosin they criticised the Lady of Madocsany, and at Madocsany the Lord of Mitosin. They flattered both, and drank to the health of the one who owned the wine; and Father Peter tarried with them in the interval. He no longer spent his nights in singing psalms, but listened to the reckless conversation of this motley crowd. No one counted it against him that he had been driven from the Castle at Bittse; here it is no disgrace, quite the contrary, to be the beloved of a beautiful woman, the more glorious because it was unlawful; they clapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and admitted him as their companion. And he had to accept this quietly, and realize that there was something still more disgraceful than to be despised by men of position, and that was to be honored by the worthless. So he spent every evening with them; every evening, the side of the castle toward the Waag was lighted up, so that the household at Mitosin could see what a great feast it was. In their sledging parties on the frozen Waag, with sound of bells and bright torches, music, and crack of whip, they passed so near Mitosin Castle that their voices floated up to the windows of Lord Grazian Likovay. What sport! Father Peter took his part. "A lucky dog! he knew when to lay down his cowl," they said to his face.

In his sleeping room he was alone: for since their return from the Bittse wedding, the mother had kept her child with her. She no longer urged him to study, and all his days were spent in playing. As soon as Father Peter was alone in his room, he drank a pitcher of water, and poured another over his head, to wash away all traces left on his face by the revellers' kisses. Then he knelt down before his bed, and struggled with serious thoughts; his brow on his folded hands. The old man was aroused in him, the defiant,—the man of hot, passionate love; the devil of pride was struggling to break the fetters of his vow. Already he felt a loathing for the cowl he wore. His soul was no longer oppressed by the weight of a great guilt. The insult of the father had released him from the blood-money for the son.

Friday before this, a message had come from the Jesuit monastery to the lady of the castle, to the effect that she should not serve her guests any meat that day, and that she should send back Peter, who must be brought before an ecclesiastical court for his sins of conduct. The widow sent back in reply a letter and a purse. In the letter she said: "I send you back, not one, but a thousand Peters;" and in the purse were a thousand gold pieces stamped for the emperor Peter. And the fathers made answer: "Also serve the fish."

Tihamer Csorbai had a horror of Father Peter. He could not find his faith again. Every dream misled him: and there were dreams that his waking moments carried on,—fabulous treasures, for which the waking man had only to stretch out his hand to hold what he had seen in the dreams of sleep.

During these few days, Idalia was not recognizable. For days at a time, she would not leave her sitting-room, but worked there with her maids like a simple peasant girl who prepares her trousseau. She stayed at the banquet only long enough to eat and drink, and then vanish. This great tumult was only to defy the world. She herself played the coy maiden, who waits for her wooer, and whispers to her mother, "There is a suitor in the house." If by chance she met Father Peter, she drew back before him.

Sunday morning, the company scattered to the four winds. "Six days shalt thou eat and drink, but the seventh is holy—" so it stands written. When the bells for early mass rang, Idalia dressed herself for church, and took her jewelled prayer-book in her hand. But first she summoned Father Peter.

"I am going to church. Perhaps for the last time to the Roman church. Do not come to-day; leave me alone. Meantime, take care of my only treasure." And then she covered Cupid's cheek with kisses, and went to church.

"Do you see how fond my mother is of me?" said Cupid, throwing his arms about Father Peter's neck. "Since we have come back she is so fond of me. That's because you're fond of her, I know, for she whispered it in my ear. You're not Father Peter, but Tihamer. Nights, she says this name over and over, and then she hugs and kisses me. Once I asked her who Tihamer was; at that she turned red, and laughing loudly, covered my mouth; then she took me up on her lap and kissed me. 'Wouldn't it be fine if you had to say Papa-Tihamer?' That means you. I know; you need not try to make believe to me,—you're no monk; I knew that when you threw the ball at the Fool's head. Do you know what my mother and her four maids are working at in her quarters? Come, I'll show you, there's nobody there. They're all gone to church." And the child dragged Father Peter into his mother's innermost room, where he had never been before. It was a marvel of convenience and elegance. Cupid ran to a richly carved wardrobe, which he opened. In it hung a rich travelling cloak trimmed with rosettes, and large buttons, lace, and gold embroidery.

"That's what they've been sewing and embroidering. And do you know who is to have this for a present? Why, it's for Tihamer, and nobody else. They told me not to tell anybody, but I'll just tell you. To-day is Sunday and to-night, when you go to bed, you'll find on your bed these clothes, and riding boots, and a gold sword. Yes, you can try them all on and see if they fit."

Father Peter looked around him. He thought he caught sight of the tempting countenance of a grinning demon behind him, and this urged him a step farther.

"Yes, and I know something more," Cupid went on. "From to-day on, every night down in the summer house, there'll be two horses saddled, and the key is left in the rear gate. I heard her arrange it all with the gate-keeper. For you know the monks down there keep watch over our gate day and night, so that if Father Peter should once try to escape from here, they could pursue him and catch him and throw him down into a deep dungeon, because he tried to run away. But if you two slip out through the garden gate some night, on those good horses, with me tucked under the cloak of one of you, then the monks may follow, but they will never overtake us."

Cupid's shafts all went home. All these preparations fitted so well into the framework of those dreams which the monk pursued day and night, when they did not pursue him. The entire plan of flight was completed; all one had to do was to adopt it. All obstacles were removed. The monk who flees with a woman may be arrested in any village, bound and brought back; but when a distinguished couple, on richly caparisoned horses, dash along, who would stop them?

"But you're not going to leave me, I'll tell you that beforehand," Cupid ran on. "There's a little fox-skin ready for me too, and little boots bordered with rabbit; don't be afraid, Mamma won't leave me behind. She takes me up on her lap now, just as she used to when I was a little boy, and as we are in the picture. Would you like to see the picture? I'll show it to you. It isn't everybody can see it at any time. It's shut up, but I know just how to press the springs, so it will open." He was then in front of the carved work which divided as he pressed a spring. When the picture came in sight, it lighted up the whole room, it was of such radiant beauty. It was an Italian masterpiece—Venus and Cupid, the veritable goddess of the myth, with the magic charms of beauty, in the act of bathing her child; her eyes were turned toward the spectator, languishingly, roguishly, seductively; a companion piece to the Venus of Correggio. The monk held his hands before his eyes,—he was dazzled.

"Shut it up," he ordered the boy.

"You're not afraid of it, are you, that it will hurt you?"

Father Peter hurried out of Idalia's room. At the door, he met the lady. His eyes betrayed the struggle of his soul. Idalia was gracious, and acted as if she had noticed nothing. She looked down.

"I have just come from church, Father. I have sinned, and wish to confess."

Father Peter looked at her in astonishment.

"Yes, I have sinned in the church, and now I have come for you to shrive me. I sinned at the altar when I was praying. I prayed God: 'I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast not prevented me from doing what I vowed to do, and that was to rob Thine altar of one whom my heart loves. I thank Thee that Thou hast sent upon us shame and disgrace to drive him away from Thy holy offices. I beg Thee, I pray Thee, grant me to hurry him away with me to destruction. Close the gates of Heaven against us. Grant that I may make him a heretic and a denier of the saints. Grant me to lead this saint out of the number of Thy believers; send me Thy evil angel to aid me in this work of mine.' This was my prayer at the altar named in honor of Ignatius Loyola, while they were singing the Dominus vobiscum. It was a sin, Father, I smite my breast and own it was a sin, I kneel before you; do you absolve me?"

Father Peter took the hand of the penitent and raised her. His tongue could with difficulty shape the words, "I absolve you."

"You do absolve me!" cried the woman, and pressed passionately the hand that he, unthinking, had left in hers. "Then you have absolved me, and I bind you to it."

Then she hurried in triumph from the room, leaving him alone. From the inner room rang out the laugh of Venus and Cupid. To be sure, the picture was still open, and probably it was at that they laughed.



CHAPTER XI.

UNDERGROUND.

All day, it was evident from the features and actions of Father Peter that he was the prey of unusual excitement. He would draw himself together with a shiver as often as he met the triumphant glance of Idalia. The lady of the castle considered the victory certain. These confused looks, this stammering, this awkward manner, she regarded as the dying convulsions of this man's conscience. One blow more, and his pride, his vows, would be killed. At the evening meal, the three were alone together. After the long visit of their guests, this was quite unusual; but such an undisturbed family circle is usually very agreeable. Then husband and wife say to each other, "Our guests were dear to us, but now that they are gone, they are still dearer."

After the meal was over, Idalia sent the household to rest, and had the child put to sleep in her own room; the two were alone together. The lady took her harp and sang; she sang of Heaven, of Paradise, and of love; but Father Peter's soul was not with her. The great clock struck eleven. Father Peter seemed to be sitting on hot coals; he arose, and did not wait for the conclusion of the song, although a touching one.

"Good-night."

"What,—going so soon?" asked Idalia, astounded.

"It will soon be morning."

"I thought that with the morrow, Sunday would be over, and you would answer my question."

"This is the first Sunday, and I asked for two."

The lady knit her brows.

"And do you need so much time to settle your accounts with those above?"

—"And with those below."

Father Peter had involuntarily spoken the truth. The consuming flame of suspicion blazed up in the soul of this woman. In the presence of such love-charms, such fascination, such unconcealed passion, it is impossible for a man to persist in marble insensibility unless he loves another. Such deathlike calm is only possible to one who lives in another world, and is there blessed. She forced her countenance into a gentle smile.

"Very well, I wish you a restful night. But I have one favor to ask,—that you take my little boy back into your room; since he has been sleeping with me the bad dreams have returned. You know better how to manage him; let him spend the night with you."

Father Peter's features betrayed the uneasiness that had taken possession of him. This demand of the lady would only delay his meeting with Magdalene.

"Very well, I will take the child with me," he said with enforced calm.

"I will bring him to you myself at once," replied the lady. Idalia hurried to her room, and awakened Cupid, who was asleep in a small bed beside hers. The child awoke in terror.

"What's the matter—are you going to kill me?"

"No, indeed, my darling, my angel, how could I!"

"But your face looks just as it did when you threatened to put the pin through my head."

"You've been dreaming. Come, my dear, to-day you are to sleep with your father, with Father Peter."

"Beside Tihamer? Call him here. He can come to me, more easily than I can go to him."

"You must mind me, if you don't wish to make me angry, and be cast off."

At that Cupid began to cry. When a child wakens out of his first sleep and sobs himself half dead, sleep cannot be coaxed back in less than two hours; and this Idalia knew perfectly well.

"Listen to me, my little boy, you are a dear little boy, and I am your loving mother, and always will be if you mind me. I will give you everything that you want. But if you don't do as I say, I'll torment you, and let you go hungry, and dress you in rags. Now you are a clever little boy, and you know perfectly well that Father Peter is not what he pretends to be. The question is whether he deals with the good spirits, or with the bad. Only a good little boy like you can find that out. See, I'll give you a little silver whistle that you can hide out of sight. Now come into Father Peter's room. As soon as you have lain down, shut your eyes, and open your mouth, and act as if you were already asleep; draw a deep breath and leave your mouth open: meantime, notice carefully what Father Peter begins to do when he thinks you are asleep; if he leaves the room, slipping out carefully, dressed in his cowl, and does not go through the door where I should see him, or through the main entrance hall where the watchman would stop him, but lets himself out of a window, down by a trellis where the vines grow, then as soon as he is a little way off, blow this silver whistle; I will be near by, and hear you, and then I will come and we will find out whether Father Peter works with good or bad spirits. Have you understood me?"

"Yes," said the child, "and it shall be all right."

Curiosity was stronger in the child than fear. The thought that in keeping watch as his mother bade him, he was to find out Father Peter's secrets, pleased Cupid very much.

"Carry me there," he said, "and don't worry. I'll find out about him."

When Idalia had given the child to Father Peter, and he had gone to his room, she concealed herself behind the secret door of a niche in the corridor; such as were to be found in many places in the thick castle walls. She had hardly waited half an hour when there was a shrill whistle. She hurried to the boy's room. Cupid sat up in bed; on his features could be read a mingled expression of astonishment, fear, and mischievous delight.

"You can come now," he said.

"Keep quiet," said his mother.

"He won't hear me, he's not there."

"Where is he, then?"

"He has gone underground,—to Hell."

"Tell me what you have seen."

"I did as you told me. While I was still saying my prayers, I began to yawn, and before we reached the Amen I was lying on my back on the bed and snoring. Father Peter sank down on his knees beside my bed and finished the prayer: 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.' And with that he struck his hand on his breast, and sighed deeply several times. At last he rose, his whole body shook as if he had swallowed down a bitter medicine; then he struck his head against the wall, and there was such a noise that I thought his skull would go to pieces; then he bent over me, listened to my breathing, and covered me carefully; then he went to his own room and shut the door behind him. Before, he always left the door open to hear me wake. I got up quietly and slipped to the door to watch what he was doing. When he caught sight of the gaily embroidered clothes lying spread out on his bed, how his eyes shone! He did not hesitate long,—quickly threw off his soutane and sandals, and put on the cloak, the laced stockings, and the spurs—what a fine young man he was! You ought to have seen him! And then when he had put on his sword, he drew it from the scabbard, and struck a few stray blows into the air; oh, how bright his face was! Nobody would have said it was Father Peter. I thought he was going to surprise you—that he was dressing himself to make you a visit; but he did nothing of the kind; he brought out a dark lantern and lighted the candle in it, and shut the cover down: then he put his monk's cowl over his knight's suit, and covered his fur-trimmed cap with its hood. Then he was Father Peter again. What he did then, I could not see, for he went to the window, but I heard the window creak, and I heard the vines rattle against the wall. I went to my window and looked out; it was dark; Father Peter hid his lantern under his cowl; but I could see this much, that he went toward the chapel of Saint Nepomeck, that is in the corner of the garden near the wall; you know, it is that saint that every peasant takes his hat off before, and we cannot play with our balls or our tops near him, for if we should accidentally hit the saint, a great curse would come on us, because this saint preserves us and all the villages from floods; he is a great saint, isn't he?"

"Who cares what kind of a saint he is! Tell me quickly what happened."

"Well, Father Peter went to the chapel, and threw his arms around Saint Nepomeck. 'See, see,' I thought, 'The monk and the stone saint are kissing each other;' instead of that, he pushed the statue of the saint to the ground and stood in its place. 'What now,' I thought, 'is Father Peter going to be Nepomeck?' No, for he began to sink down into the ground and when he had gone quite out of sight, the statue of Nepomeck got up by itself and took its old place. But why do you look at me that way, are you going to kill me? How ugly you look all of a sudden. Have I said anything bad?"

Idalia struck the child on the head. "Curses on you for what you have said." And even her voice sounded different—like the rattling of chains. This speech, this look and the blow filled the child with such terror that he crawled under the bed, and did not venture forth until he saw that he was alone; then he was afraid of the loneliness, and began to howl and cry. "Mother, mother, don't leave me alone; the souls of the departed come and wail, and try to carry me off!" But nobody came. Suddenly, there appeared on the ceiling a ray of light as if somebody were going through the garden with a lantern. Cupid crawled out from under the bed, and went to the window to call out to this person in the garden. It was the figure of a woman in black, her hair covered with a black veil, and with a dark lantern in her hand. By the light of this lantern, the child could see that it was his mother. He saw her go directly to the chapel of Saint Nepomeck. She too stepped up to the statue and threw her arms about its head, and the statue dropped down quietly. Idalia now in her turn took the place of the statue and vanished into the earth: the statue raised itself again.

"My mother too has gone down to Hell!" whispered the child, trembling, and sank down on his knees in terror. "Father in Heaven do not be angry at me, I will never again leave off the end of my prayer. 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.'"

Six steps led from the statue of Nepomeck down into the earth, the seventh step was movable and turned on a pivot; if you stood on one end of this, the statue above raised itself, but if you stood on the other end, it sank gently down, The builders of this subterranean passage had chosen well the guardian of their secret. The place where stood the statue honored by all, was protected from investigation; it was not possible that in this vicinity any one could be found who would venture to overturn the sacred Nepomeck.

Lady Idalia had wrapped herself in a black cloak, and placed two pistols in her belt, and she carefully concealed the dark lantern. The mole-hole of the Hussites yawned before her! A long, dark, black defile, the more gruesome since it did not run straight but round about; the entire tunnel so like a catacomb, was vaulted, hewn out of the hard quartz. The walls were already as black as a scaffold, with the underground mould, which had so covered everything over that objects lying on the ground could hardly be recognized. And on this mould-covered floor were traces of steps,—fresh distinct traces of steps going and coming. One could see the imprint of the five nails in the monk's sandals, evidently he had been there often before; the freshest imprints, however, were of the spurred boots of a knight. Idalia followed these hastily. She feared neither the underground darkness nor all the terrors of the invisible world, which in their collected form bear the name of Night, great black mass—what she carried in her bosom was still blacker than this darkness.

At a turn of the tunnel, she saw moving before her a light, at a distance of perhaps two hundred feet; it was the gleam of a torch that he had evidently lighted here in the tunnel from his lantern, to see his way better. Now when a man carries a torch in his hand, he is so blinded by it that he does not see if some one comes behind him, especially if this somebody is wrapped up in a black cloak, keeps in the dark, and conceals her dark lantern. Idalia could approach so near the form striding on before her that she was in a position to recognize it. It was Father Peter in his cowl, but with spurred boots. He went rapidly, but Idalia went more rapidly, and almost overtook him.

The tunnel was long, with side passages opening into it, here and there. Feminine curiosity compelled Idalia to cast a glance into each one of these caverns; here she could use the full light of her lantern. One of these caverns might have been a wine-cellar; there were still some casks there; from this she concluded that there must be a still wider exit; for through the narrow opening by the statue of Nepomeck, one could not roll in such casks. A side passage led into a large, roomy hall, where in one corner were to be seen the remains of a wooden staging; what might have been here once?—a secret church for Hussite gatherings—or a court—or even a place of execution? This higher ceiling was not covered over with mould, but with a glistening dampness. In another corridor were heaped up rusty old weapons and armor. In a dome-shaped cavern was a cask on end, of a bright green; when she lighted it up with her lantern, she saw that the cask was entirely covered over with copperplate, and the green was from the verdigris; out of the bunghole of the cask hung a long twisted cord. "Suppose I were to set fire to this cord, what would result?" Idalia asked herself, and hurried on her way. Suddenly the figure before her stood still. An oaken door with bands of iron closed the tunnel; here the tunnel was walled with brick, and the threshold of the door was of hewn stone; the masculine figure placed his torch in an iron ring on the wall and approached the door. This was made fast by a lock with a secret combination, such as are used in closing cellars and underground doors; such locks, even when they are rusty, can be opened by those who know their secret, but if a man does not know this secret, he cannot open it in a lifetime. An iron pole, notched on the inside, runs through the iron rings; on the outside of the rings are engraved all kinds of letters; and the man who knows the word which is the key to the opening of the lock, will turn these ten rings until this name appears. Then are found on the inside of the rings the spaces in their order, and the notched pole can easily be drawn out, otherwise, one might turn these rings until the day of judgment and not succeed with the lock. The secret of this lock Father Peter had learned from the YAW DEREVOCSID EHT, and at every one of his underground visits he had made fast the lock. While he was busy opening the lock Idalia looked around her. Near by the door were two side passages opposite each other; she must conceal herself in one of them to keep better watch; she chose the right one, because this lay in the shadow, while the light of the torch shone into the other. It needed a self-control beyond woman's powers not to utter a shriek as she threw the light of her lantern into the cavern she entered. It was a square room, black with smoke, with wall of cement: it might once have been a sleeping room, for there were beds and benches; and in all the resting places lay the forms of women, some as if asleep, others still in convulsive attitudes crouching in the corners or leaning against the walls; one sat at the table, with her head resting on her hands, and a Bible open before her. She was reading while the others listened; one crouched under the table with a rosary in her hand,—she was a Catholic—all were richly dressed and their gowns were covered with lace and gold and silver embroideries; and yet their garments were decayed and those that wore them were skeletons. The fair blond hair of the one reading seemed to have grown even after death, for the floor all about her was quite covered. These were the women spoken of in the mystic book, who here await the resurrection. Evidently they too had come here to explore the secret of the strange lock when their provisions had failed them, and here they had miserably perished. On the wall above each figure was cut her name, her religion, and the day of her death. On the table lay a handsome enameled watch; by this they had reckoned how many days this long night here below had endured. Nobody had inscribed the name of the last. It was a maiden, with a maiden's wreath on her head,—perhaps she had been stolen from the altar.

Idalia stood looking at this abode of death. It seemed to her as if all the skulls, with their eye sockets staring into eternal nothingness, grinned at her, as if they would say to her, "We have waited for you. Now you have come; you too are one of us." Should she flee this place, turn back home and throw herself in penitent prayer before the statue of the Virgin Mother of God? Was it a dream that she saw here? And what she felt—the anguish, the revenge, the terror—was all this only a dream? Do such feelings come in waking moments? The creaking of the door recalled her consciousness. She looked out, and what she saw gave back all her kindling rage.

Father Peter had laid aside his monk's cowl, and stood there in knightly costume, like a bridegroom ready for the marriage altar. He was proud and handsome! The noble fearlessness of the man was mirrored in his countenance. Ah, in this guise he belongs to another! He is hers only in that hateful, hideous, coarse cowl, which she contemptuously pushed aside with her foot, as he stepped through the door to close it behind him. So the jealous woman stamped her foot upon this deceitful cover of hypocrisy. "You cloak of lies! You sacred mask! Pious costume of a comedian! Chrysalis of a golden butterfly! The chrysalis is fixed to my tree, but the butterfly flies to the flower of another. Shame, curse and ruin upon you, and upon him who has worn you and shall wear you again!" And at each curse, she stamped again upon the cowl. Then she opened carefully the door. She set the lantern on the floor. The distance before her now was not great, for the straight corridor with brick walls extended about a hundred feet farther. By the light of the lantern in the hand of the man before her, she could press forward with sure step—there was no hindrance in her way.

At the end of the corridor, the knight stepped aside into a recess, and as he disappeared, there shone forth a dull light on the opposite wall, which indicated that a door had been left open, and that the wanderer had reached his goal. Quietly, she too slipped into this place; the opening was the frame of Saint Anthony's picture; she looked through and saw the interior of the chapel before her. Who was in the chapel? A knight and a maiden. What are they doing in the chapel? They stand in close embrace. The listening woman had heard no outcry through the stillness of the night. Evidently the maiden was not surprised; she had surely been waiting for him. They might have agreed long ago to meet here at this hour, and that was why the monk was in such haste. The kiss lasted long. Perhaps only a minute by the watch, but a thousand years of torment to the jealous watcher. This endless time sufficed for her inflamed imagination to paint the picture of the previous moments. Yes, without doubt, here waited for him this maiden with mourning, despairing, broken heart. She waited for her former lover in monk's cowl, who now laid aside the vows that forbade his heart to beat. She waited for the disgraced, scourged monk; perhaps with the firm resolution, that they would together mourn all this sorrow which is without relief here below, and then together abandon this world in which they have nothing more to seek.

But when instead of the humble priest, she saw step forth from the frame the handsome knight of old, she forgot at once that a church arched over her, and that a crypt was beneath her feet: she forgot that she had come here to weep, to pray, to prepare herself for death,—and threw herself into the arms of her fascinating lover.

All this the feverish fancy of the jealous watcher saw during the eternity of that kiss. And when they separated, and she saw their expressions, they were those of the blessed. How is it when one looks out from the gateway of Hell at the smile of the Blessed? She played with the trigger of her pistol. How easily she could kill them both. But the cup of bitterness, too, must be drained in swallows, as well as that of pleasure. Perhaps she can yet offer this cup to another and say, "My Lord, I drink to your health!" Such a festivity should not pass without the drinking of healths. But first she must watch through to the end what they were doing, and hear through to the end what they were saying.

The knight looked about him, and then seized the maiden by the hand. "Come away from here," he said in a hurried whisper. "What I am going to say, the church and sacred picture must not hear."

The maiden drew back. "For Heaven's sake, what can you have to say to me of that kind?"

The listener must leave her place quickly, for she must reach the oak door before the lovers stepped through the recess of the altar picture into the passage, otherwise the light of the torch shining in when they opened the door would betray that somebody had been watching for them; and then must they kill her, and she did not wish to lose her life so cheaply. She had closed the door before the maiden had allowed herself to be persuaded to follow her lover. Idalia concealed herself again in the room of the beautiful women of old. She leaned against one of the eternal sleepers, concealed her face in her veil, and hid the lantern under her dark cloak. Soon she heard the creak of the door, gliding steps, and the clink of spurs.

"I tremble," said the maiden.

"What do you fear when I am with you?"

"Everything, and myself."

"I will defend you against the whole world."

"And against myself?"

"Do you not love me still?"

"Because I do love thee, I fear for myself."

"If you do love me, you will come with me."

"Whither?"

"Out into the world where I shall lead you."

"But you are a priest!"

"No longer. In the same way that I could put on the monk's cowl, I can lay it off again. That blow on the cheek that I received is the expiation for the sword stroke that I gave."

"And your vows?"

"God will not count this against me, and as for man, I care not. I have read the Holy Scriptures through to the end, and nowhere in them can be found that to love is a sin, and that to renounce love is a sacrifice pleasing to God. This monstrous idea is an invention of man."

One of the many occupants of the room of the dead stirred at these words, for she heard her own words—repeated to another. This was the fruit they bore!

"Listen, something moves in that room over there!"

"Don't look that way," said Tihamer.

"Who's there?"

"Noble ladies who have been asleep for two hundred years." Magdalene took his lantern, and threw its light timidly into the dark space.

"What a frightful sight—skeletons in bridal attire!"

"Leave the place."

"One of them has her head covered with a veil."

"Perhaps it is a widow; under the veil is a death's skull."

"It seems to me as if it moved."

"Only your imagination."

"There's a light shines through her cloak."

"Decayed bones do sometimes shed a light."

The knight drew the maiden away from the sight. It is true that sometimes a light does shine through decayed bones and a death skull does see and hear. The maiden in her terror burst into tears. The youth encouraged her tenderly as he took her in his arms.

"Listen to me, my Heaven, my all of happiness; we have no other choice except this passage under the earth, or that other to Heaven. For I cannot return to my monastery, and I will not be condemned to the temptations of my tormenting devil."

("His tormenting devil! that's what I am," whispered the figure under the veil.)

"And what fate awaits you?" continued the knight; "—to be chained to a beast—to be sacrificed more horribly than if you were offered up to a bloodthirsty idol!"

"No, no! Death rather!"

"My plan is for you to live and be happy."

"Did you not promise me to take me to a convent?"

"I thought then that I too should end my days in woe; but now I know that I am not yet a consecrated priest. Bishop Thurzo told me so to my face, and reprimanded me for usurping the name of Father. But even if I were a consecrated priest, I should still be free to change my fate. If I become a Protestant, no vow binds me any longer. We will go to Transylvania, and adopt the Hungarian faith; you know ever so many belong to this faith, just, pious, God-fearing people; a third of the population of the country is Protestant. God will not punish us either for this."

("Ah, he learned that too from me; how well he remembers!")

"We will go to distant lands, where no one has ever heard our name. I will buy an estate where we can live in comfort. I may become as rich as I please; look in this niche here; here are treasures heaped up that we need only to take; all is mine. It was left me as an inheritance by the one who hid it here in former days. I have the proof in writing. The treasure is doubly mine; on the casks of gold and silver are inscribed my family arms; the Hussites of old stole it from our castle Lietava. It is my inheritance, see there!" The knight threw the light of his torch into this niche of the wall; the maiden's eyes were blinded by the sight of the treasure heaped up there.

"I can take as much of it as my shoulders can carry off."

But the maiden said sadly, "I have no desire for the treasure. Who knows what curse is resting there!"

"I too am willing to renounce it. Then we will go away poor, and we will journey to some poor little village, whose church tower is surmounted with a weather-vane; you shall be the wife of a poor Calvinist pastor, and take care of your own kitchen and vegetable garden. A thatched roof shall be our shelter, and happiness shall dwell within."

("These words, too, did I put into his mouth.")

"How beautiful it would be," sighed the maiden, "if it were not a dream!"

"All can be real, if you will but say yes."

"Ah, do not tempt me! Already have I gone so far that I can no longer cast a stone at any sinful woman. I am the most sinful of all. I have allowed myself to be overpersuaded—not by you so much as by my own heart—at night, and Sunday night too—when all good people are asleep, to steal out of the house, God's house, the church I chose for a meeting place with you! I have drawn the veil over my face in the presence of men, and drawn it aside in the presence of the saints. I am more sinful than the Lady of Madocsany, for I do what she only meditates. I come here under the cloak of innocence."