Part 6 (1/2)
”Oh do not be angry with me,” sobbed Vilma. ”I never thought of the consequences. I never thought that I _could_ be the cause of so great a misfortune.”
”Angry?” cried the old man, pressing her to his heart--”I be angry with _you_? Art thou not my own daughter, my joy, and my pride? my fairest remembrance of the past, my brightest hope of the future?”
”But if Viola were to come,” said Vilma, still weeping, ”and if things were to happen as you said just now?”
”I know he will not come,” replied the anxious father, who would have given anything to have concealed his apprehensions. ”And if he were to come, it is ten to one that n.o.body will know of it. You know I am always full of fears. At all events it is not _your_ fault, for if I had been at home, and if I had known of this woman's distress, I too would have taken her to my house--ay! so I would, though all the world were to turn against me. Dry your tears,” he continued, kissing Vilma's forehead, ”you did but your duty. Now go and look after the woman, while I go to Vandory: he is half a doctor.”
Saying this, the notary hastened away to hide his tears, and as he went he pa.s.sed some severe strictures on his own weakness, which caused him to indulge in tears, a thing which is only pardonable in a woman.
CHAP. IV.
The stranger of the ditch, whom we left in the act of approaching the fire, had meanwhile accomplished that object, and proceeded to the place where a man sat squatting by the flame, poking the burning straws with his staff, and singing a low and mournful melody.
”Are you at it again? again singing the Nagyidai Nota?”[6] said the stranger, touching the singer's shoulder.
[Footnote 6: See Note IV.]
Peti the gipsy (for it was he who kept his lonely watch by the fire) started up, and, seizing hold of the stranger's hand, dragged him away from the light, whispering, ”For G.o.d's sake, take care! Some one might see you!”
”Are you mad?” retorted the stranger, disengaging his hands, and returning to the fire. ”I've lain in the ditch, and am all a-muck. I must have a warm.”
”No, Viola, no!” urged Peti, ”the village is filled with your enemies.
Who knows but some of them are by? and if you are seen you are done for!”
”Now be reasonable, old man,” replied Viola, taking his seat by the fire. ”Not a human being is there on this heath that I wot of. What is it you fear?”
”Oh! you know this very afternoon you and I, we were near the wood of St. Vilmosh, and the Pandurs were here close to the park palings, and yet they knew you even at that distance.”
”Yes, very much as we knew them. They presumed it was I. But if they have a mind to make my acquaintance, I'd better look after the priming of my pistols. So! Now let them come. After sunset I fear no man.”
”Oh! Viola, Viola!” cried Peti. ”I know your boldness will be your bane.
You laugh at danger, but danger will overtake you.”
”But, after all, were it not better to die than to live as I do?” said the robber, feeling the edge of his axe. ”I curse the day at dawn because the light of the sun marks my track to the pursuer. The wild bird in the brake causes me to tremble. The trunk of a fallen tree fills me with dread; for who knows but it may hide the form of an enemy? I fly from those I love. I pa.s.s my days among the beasts of the forests, and my dreams are of the gallows and the hangman. Such is my life! Believe me, Peti, I have little cause to be in love with life!”
”But your wife and your children!”
”Ah! you are right! my wife and my children!” sighed the robber, and stared fixedly at the fire, whose faint glow sufficed to display to Peti the cloud of deep melancholy which pa.s.sed over the manly features of his companion.
Viola was a handsome man. His high forehead, partly covered by a forest of the blackest locks, the bold look of his dark eyes, the frank and manly expression of his sunburnt face, the ease and the beauty of each movement of his lofty form, impressed you with the idea that in him you beheld one of those men who, though Nature meant them to be great and glorious, pa.s.s by humble and unheeded; happy if their innate power for good and for ill remains a secret; yes, happy are they if they are allowed to live and die as the many, with but few to love them and few to hate.
”Don't be sad, comrade,” said Peti. ”It's a long lane that has no turning. But go you must, for here you are in danger of your life. The election is at hand, and Mr. Skinner has every chance of losing his part in it. He will move heaven and earth to catch you. After I met you this afternoon, the Pandurs arrested me, and took me to him. May the devil burn his bones! but he treated me cruelly: he was so savage that my hair stood on end. Had it not been for the younger Akosh (G.o.d bless him!), I'd be now taking my turn at the whipping-post. He has his spies among us; he did not mention their names, but certain it is that he knows of every step you take; I protest nothing short of a miracle can have saved you! But certainly if we had not agreed to meet by this fire, you could scarcely have escaped him. The landlord and his servants are bound and locked up in the cellar, and Pandurs, dressed up as peasants, watch in the inn. There are also Pandurs in your house; and the peasants have been ordered to arm themselves with pitchforks, and to sally out when the church-bells give the signal. When I was Mr. Skinner's prisoner he cursed me, and mentioned his preparations; I have found out that he said rather too little than too much.”
Viola rose. ”There are Pandurs in my house, and you tell me that my wife is ill?”
”Oh! do not mind _her_. Susi has left the house; she is as comfortable as a creature can be with the fever. They have taken her to the notary's house.”
”To Tengelyi's? Is she a prisoner?”