The Nameless Castle

by Maurus Jokai

  But the trumpet was now useless; it was filled with mud. Consequently a signal for retreat could not be sounded.

  A dense mass of wild-hop vines inclosed the eastern side of the scene of action. De Fervlans glanced impatiently toward this green wall. The armed men who should penetrate it would decide the victory.

  Even as the thought flashed through his brain, the tangle of vines began to shake violently; but the first man to appear therefrom was not Signor Trentatrante, as De Fervlans had expected, but Satan Laczi, with his ferocious followers.

  The attack from this point was so unexpected that De Fervlans for a moment seemed stupefied; then quickly recovering himself, he dashed into the thick of the fight, Vavel following his example. By this time the trumpet had been cleansed, but no orders were received for a retreat signal; instead, the sound it shrilled above the fearful turmoil was: “Forward! forward!”

  With the blood pouring from a gaping wound in his head, Satan Laczi, swinging a saber he had captured from a foe, now rushed to meet De Fervlans, who at once recognized the former robber.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, preparing to meet the furious onslaught, “you have not yet found your way to the gallows!”

  “No; here in Hungary only traitors are hanged,” retorted Satan Laczi, in a loud voice, as, with a mighty leap that would have done credit to a horse, he sprang toward the marquis, caught the reins from his hands, and with true robber-wit called: “Surrender, brother-rascal!”

  De Fervlans raised himself in his stirrups and brought his saber savagely down on the robber’s head. This was the second serious cut Satan Laczi had received that day, and was evidently enough to calm his enthusiasm. He staggered to one side, made several vain attempts to straighten himself, then fell suddenly to the earth. His own blade, however, remained in the breast of De Fervlans’s horse, where he had thrust it to the hilt.

  The marquis hardly had time to leap from the saddle before the poor beast fell under him.

  All seemed lost now. His men were confused and thrown into disorder. In desperation he tore his pistols from the saddle of his fallen horse. Only a single shrub separated him from his enemy,—twenty paces,—and De Fervlans was a celebrated shot.

  Count Vavel saw what was coming, and he too drew his pistol.

  “Good night, Chevalier Vavel!” in a mocking tone called De Fervlans, as his finger pressed the trigger. There was a sharp report, the ball whistled through the air—but Vavel did not fall.

  “Accept my greeting, marquis!” responded Vavel, He raised his pistol, and fired without taking aim. De Fervlans fell backward to the ground.

  CHAPTER IV

  When De Fervlans’s men saw that their leader had fallen they retreated toward the bridge, where a portion of the troop alighted and held at bay their pursuers, while the rest tore up and flung into the stream the planks of the bridge. Then the men who had prevented the Volons from following crossed on foot the narrow lengthwise beam to the opposite shore—a feat impossible for a man on horseback.

  The spot where the fiercest fighting had occurred was already cleared when Katharina arrived upon it. She shuddered with horror, and staggered like one who walks in his sleep as she moved about the desert place.

  Suddenly she came upon a large wild-rose bush covered with bloom. Close by it lay a horse with the hilt of a sword protruding from his breast. Near the dead animal lay a metal helmet ornamented with the gilded imperial eagle, and a little farther on lay a mud-stained form in a uniform of coarse gray cloth, with a gaping wound in his head; his left hand clutched the rushes among which he had fallen. As Katharina, in her peasant gown, moved timidly across the open space, she heard a voice say faintly in Hungarian:

  “For God’s sake, good woman, give me a drink of water.”

  Without stopping to question whether he was friend or foe, Katharina caught up the metal helmet to fetch the water.

  There was water everywhere about her, but it was the filthy water of the morass.

  Katharina remembered having heard that the shepherds of the Hansag, when they were thirsty, cut a reed and thrust it deep into the swampy earth, when clear, drinkable water would rise from the lower soil. She therefore thrust a long cane into the moist earth, then put her lips to it, and sucked up the water. On removing her lips a clear stream shot upward from the cane. She held the helmet under this improvised fountain until it was full, then returned with it to the rose-bush.

  The wounded man was lying on his back, his bloodstained face upturned toward the sky. Katharina knelt by his side, and held the helmet to his lips.

  “Themire!” gasped the wounded man.

  At sound of the name a sudden fury seemed to seize the woman.

  “De Fervlans!” she cried, in a hoarse voice. “You! you, the accursed destroyer of my daughter! May God refuse to forgive you for making of me the wretched creature I am!”

  As she spoke she raised the helmet, of water above her head, as if she would dash it upon the dying man’s face; but he turned his head away from her furious gaze, and did not stir again.

  Slowly Katharina lowered the helmet, and struggled with her excited feelings. She looked about her, and saw another motionless form lying across a clump of turf. Perhaps he was still alive. Perhaps she might help him.

  She stepped quickly to his side with the helmet of water and washed the blood and mud-stains from his face. Ah, what a hideous face it was! All the same, she carefully washed it, then bathed the gaping wounds in his head. They were horribly deep, and she was almost overcome by the fearful sight. But she looked upward for a moment, and it seemed to her as if she recognized amid the fleecy clouds a snow-white form, and heard an encouraging voice say:

  “That is right, mother. I, too, performed such work.”

  Then she took her handkerchief and bound it around the wounded man’s head. While so doing her eyes fell on the steel ring on his thumb.

  “Satan Laczi!” she exclaimed.

  She put her arms around him, and lifted him to a more comfortable position, wondering the while how he came to be there. Had he failed to find Marie, whom he was to accompany to Raab? Had Cambray, perhaps, prevented her from leaving the castle?

  She bent over the wounded man and said:

  “Satan Laczi, awake! Look up—come back to life!”

  And Satan Laczi was such an obedient fellow, he opened his eyes and saw the lady kneeling by his side.

  Then he opened his lips, and said in a very weak voice:

  “I should like a drink of water.”

  Katharina made haste to fill the helmet again at her fountain.

  “Thank you, sister.”

  “Look at me, Laczi bácsi;” commanded Katharina, in a cheerful tone. “Don’t you know me? I am the woman who gave shelter to your wife and child. I am little Laczko’s foster-mother.”

  The wounded man smiled faintly, and murmured: “Yes, yes—Laczko—Laczko is a fine lad! He came near—shooting me because—because of the maid.”

  “Tell me what you know about the maid,” eagerly questioned Katharina. “Where is she?”

  The wounded man opened his eyes, and seemed to be trying to recall something. After a pause, he said slowly, and with evident difficulty:

  “You need n’t—trouble about the—pretty maid. Laczko is a brave lad—and my wife—my wife is—an honest woman.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” returned Katharina. “A good lad, and an honest woman. But tell me, in heaven’s name, where is the maid?”

  “The maid—Sophie Botta went with—my wife to Raab—they are there now—and Laczko too.”

  How gently the lady bathed the wounded man’s face and hands! How carefully she renewed the bandages on the horrible wounds!

  Ludwig Vavel, who hart approached noiselessly, stood and watched her perform the labor of love. He saw, heard, and admired. Then he came close to the kneeling woman, and clasped his arms around her.

  “My Katharina! Oh, what a woman art thou!”

  PART X

 
CONCLUSION

  CHAPTER I

  When Count Vavel returned from his skirmish with De Fervlans’s demons, he sent his betrothed at once to Raab, with instructions not to separate herself again from Marie.

  He had not been able to accompany Katharina on her journey, as he had received marching orders immediately on his return to camp. On parting with his betrothed, however, he had promised to pay a visit to her and Marie at an early day, and to write to both of them daily.

  The first part of his promise he had not been able to fulfil; his time was too fully occupied with the duties of the field. But he sent frequent messages to his loved ones; while every day, no matter where he might be, he would be sure to receive his letter from Raab—one sheet covered to the edges with Katharina’s writing, and the other with Marie’s.

  Their letters were always cheerful, and filled with hope and confidence for the future. Ludwig fancied he could see the scene as Katharina described it, when Marie had opened the steel casket.

  He knew just how delighted the young girl had been when she beheld nothing but ashes instead of the little garments, the documents, the portraits, the bank-notes; and he could hear her joyous laugh on finding herself relieved of the burden of her greatness. But what he could not hear was Katharina reciting his brave exploits during the fierce struggle on the Hansag, a recital Marie insisted on hearing every day.

  Then the two, Marie and Katharina, would go every morning to church, to pray for Ludwig, to ask God to protect him, and bring him safely back to them. This was their daily pleasure and consolation.

  Then came the bloody days of Karako, Papa, Raab, and Acs. The militia troops took active part in all these battles, and proved themselves valiant warriors.

  Vavel with his Volons had been assigned to Mesko’s brigade, and had shared its adventurous march from Abda, around Lake Balaton to Veszprim. Here he found his spy and scout, Master Matyas, awaiting him.

  For weeks he had not had a word from his loved ones. When he had sent them to Raab he believed he had selected a secure haven for them, but the course which events had taken proved that he had made a mistake in his calculations. Katharina and Marie were now surrounded on all sides by the enemy.

  It was while he was oppressed with these gloomy thoughts that his spy and scout suddenly appeared before him. Noah in his ark had not looked more longingly for the dove than had he for his brave Matyas.

  “Well, Master Matyas, what news?”

  “All sorts, Herr Count.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Well, mixed. Both good and bad. I will leave the good till the last. To begin: Poor Satan Laczi was buried yesterday—may God have mercy on his sinful soul! They fired three salvos over his grave, and the primate himself said the prayers for his soul. If Satan Laczi himself could have seen it all, he could hardly have believed that so much honor would be shown to his dead body. Poor Laczi! His last words were a greeting to his kind patron.”

  “His life closed well!” observed the count. “He got what he longed for—a soldier’s death. But tell me what you know about Raab.”

  “I know all about it. I come from there.”

  “Ah, did you see them? Has not the enemy besieged the city?”

  “Yes; the city as well as the fortress is in the hands of the enemy, and the baroness and the princess are both in it.”

  “Who told you to call her a princess?” demanded Count Vavel, his face darkening.

  “I will come to that all in good time,” composedly replied Matyas, who was not to be hurried. “Colonel Pechy,” he went on, “bravely defended the fortress for ten days against the Frenchmen; but he had to yield at last—”

  “Where are Katharina and Marie?” impatiently interrupted Vavel. “What became of them when the city capitulated?”

  “All in good time, Herr Count, all in good time! I can tell you all about them, for I am just come from them.”

  “Were they in any danger?”

  “Danger? No, indeed! When the city surrendered they were concealed in a house where they passed as the nieces of the Herr Vice-palatine Görömbölyi.”

  “Is the vice-palatine with them now?”

  “Certainly. He has surrendered, too.”

  “Excellent man! Who commands the Frenchmen at Raab?”

  “General Guillaume—”

  “General Guillaume?” excitedly interrupted Vavel.

  “Yes, certainly; Guillaume—that is his name. And he is a very polite gentleman. He does not ill-treat the citizens; on the contrary, the very next day after he entered the city he gave a ball in the large hotel, and invited all the distinguished citizens with their wives and daughters. The Herr Count’s dear ones also received an invitation.”

  “As the nieces of the vice-palatine, of course?”

  “Not exactly! I saw the invitation-card, and it was to ‘Madame la Comtesse de Alba, avec la Princesse Marie.’ ”

  “Princess Marie?” echoed Vavel.

  “As I tell you; and that is how I come to know she is a princess.”

  Vavel’s brain seemed paralyzed. He could not even think.

  “The vice-palatine,” nonchalantly continued Matyas, “protested that a mistake had been made; but the French general replied that he knew very well who the ladies were, and that he had received instructions how to treat them. From that day, two French grenadiers began to guard the baroness’s door, day and night, just exactly as if they were standing guard over a potentate.”

  Vavel paced the floor, mute with rage and fear.

  “Why did I desert them!” he exclaimed at last, in desperation. “Why did I not do as Marie wished—flee with her and Katharina into the wide world—we three alone!”

  “Well, you see you did n’t, and this is the way matters stand now,” responded Master Matyas. “The general’s adjutant visits the house twice every day to inquire after the ladies; then he reports to his superior.”

  “If only Cambray had not died!” ejaculated the count.

  “Yes, but I helped to bury him, too,” added Matyas, shaking his head.

  “Yes, so I was told. How did you manage to get the body from behind the metal screen?”

  “Oh, that was easy enough. You know the spring is connected with the bell in your study; when the screen unrolled, the bell rang. It was only necessary to reverse the operation: by pulling the bell-wire in the Herr Count’s study the screen was rolled up.”

  “A very simple arrangement, indeed,” observed Count Vavel, smiling in spite of his gloom. “Ah, Master Matyas, if only you were clever enough to open for me the locks which now imprison my dear ones! That would be a masterpiece, indeed!”

  “I can do that easily enough,” was the confident rejoinder.

  “You can? How?”

  “Didn’t I say I would leave the good news until the last?”

  “Yes, yes. Tell me what you have in view.”

  “I must whisper the secret in your ear; I have often overheard important secrets listening at the keyhole or while hiding under a bed, and what I have done another may be doing.”

  Vavel bent his head so that Master Matyas might whisper the important information in his ear.

  The words were few, but they served to restore Vavel to a cheerful mood.

  He laughed heartily, slapped Master Matyas on the shoulder, and exclaimed:

  “You are truly a wonderful fellow!” Then he took a roll of bank-notes from his pocket, and pressed it into Matyas’s hand. “Here—take these, and buy what is necessary. We will make the attempt at once.”

  Master Matyas thrust the money into his own pocket, and darted from the room as if he had stolen it. Ludwig hastened to his general, to beg for leave of absence.

  CHAPTER II

  “Everything is ready,” said Master Matyas to Vavel, pointing toward three covered luggage-wagons, which the Volons had captured from the Frenchmen at Klein-Zell.

  The “Death-head troop,” as Vavel’s Volons were designated, marched in the rear of the brigade; c
onsequently they could drop out from it any time without attracting special notice.

  To-day the brigade marched toward Palota, and the Volons turned into the road which led to Zircz. They seemed, however, to have been swallowed up by the Bakonye forest, for nothing was seen again of them after they entered it. The inhabitants of Ratota still repeat tales of the handsome troopers—every man of them a true Magyar!—who rode through their village to the sound of the trumpet, nodding to the pretty girls, and paying gold coin for their refreshment at the inn. But the dwellers in Zircz complained that, instead of Magyar troopers, a squad of hostile cavalry passed through their village—Frenchmen in blue mantles, with cocks’ feathers in their helmets, with a commandant who had given all sorts of orders that no one could understand. Luckily, the prior of the Premonstrants could speak French, and he acted as interpreter for the French commandant. And everybody felt relieved when he marched farther with his troop.

  These were the transformed Volons. They had exchanged their crimson shakos in the dense forest for the French helmets, and wrapped themselves in the blue mantles taken from the luggage-wagons. No one would have doubted that they were French chasseurs—even the trumpeter sounded the calls according to the regulations in the armies of France.

  Master Matyas hurried on in advance of the troop to learn if the way was clear. It would have been equally unpleasant to have met either Hungarian or French soldiery. They encountered neither, however; and at daybreak on the second day arrived at the village of Börcs, on the Rabcza, where is an interesting monument of times long past—a redoubt of considerable extent, in the center of which stands the village church.

  Vavel’s troop camped within this redoubt, where they could escape attracting attention. The country about them, for a long distance, was occupied by French troops.

  The highway which led to Raab might be seen from the steeple of the church, and here Vavel took up his station with a field-glass.

  He had not been long in his tower of observation when he saw a heavy cloud of dust moving along the highway, and very soon was able to distinguish a body of horsemen. It was a company of cuirassiers, whose polished breastplates glittered in the sunlight like stars. The company was divided into two squads: one rode in front of a four-horse traveling-coach, the other in the rear of it.