Part 43 (2/2)

”Of course, of course!” said Janosh; and, turning to young Kishlaki, he whispered, ”Do not let us mention these things before strangers.”

”Don't mind Mr. Volgyeshy,” said Kalman. ”He knows all about it; and he'd help us if he could.”

”So I would,” said the lawyer.

”That alters the matter entirely. The wors.h.i.+pful gentlemen do not like us to put our fingers into their pie; and when they wish to hang a fellow, they are apt to be unreasonable if he escapes. They are fond of being hard upon the like of me.”

”But what is it you mean to do?”

”I myself hardly know. I want to reconnoitre the place; but shoot me if I don't find a means to set him free! They won't hang him to-night; there's plenty of time to think about it. Mr. Kalman is at home here; that's half the battle. Your cellars are full of wine; we've lots of money, keys, ropes, and a horse. Hej!” added he, laughing; ”did you ever hear of the adventures of the famous Baron Trenck?”

”Thanks, old Janos.h.!.+” cried Kalman, shaking his hand; ”do as you please in the house! manage it all your own way, and throw the blame upon me!”

”Very well! very well indeed!” said the hussar, twisting his moustache; ”old Janosh isn't half so dull as people fancy, and, _terrem tette_! an old soldier has had capital schooling in these things. But you must go to dinner, for unless you do, they'll fancy we are mustering our forces, as indeed we are. I'll reconnoitre the place.”

”I'm your sworn friend to the end of my life!” said Kalman, as he left the room with Volgyeshy.

”Don't mention it,” muttered the old soldier; ”a man who has served the emperor so many years, and who has fought in the battle of Aspern, and in France, such a man wants none of your grat.i.tude, especially since I have my own master. But I dare say Master Kalman would like to oblige our young lady. Very well, I'm agreeable; that's all I can say. He's a fine young fellow, and almost as good a horseman as my own master, which is saying a great deal, for he had the benefit of _my_ schooling.”

Muttering these and other things, Janosh marched to the steward's house, where he met Peti the gipsy.

We need hardly say that Lady Kishlaki's dinner was as dull and gloomy as any dinner can be. Volgyeshy and Kalman were thoughtful and silent. The lady of the house did not press her guests to eat; nor did she ask them to excuse the bad cooking, although almost every dish stood in need of a thousand apologies. Mr. Kishlaki, who remarked his wife's altered manner, and who justly interpreted the looks of reproach which she cast upon him, sat staring at his plate with so anxious and careworn a face, that Volgyeshy would gladly have spoken to him but for the presence of Messrs. Skinner and Kenihazy, who, to do them justice, strove hard but unsuccessfully to amuse their host. Baron Shoskuty's compliments, and Mr. Zatonyi's anecdotes, were equally lost on their gloomy and dispirited audience; and everybody felt relieved when the dinner was over. Kalman, in particular, could hardly bridle his impatience; the moment Lady Kishlaki rose from the table, he left the room with Volgyeshy.

”How are we getting on, Janosh?” asked Kalman, when he saw the old hussar, who was smoking his pipe in the hall.

”Pretty well, sir; let us go to your room, and I'll tell you all about it.”

”Do you think we can possibly save him?” asked Kalman, as they entered his apartments.

”Why not?” said Janosh. ”The commander of the fortress has it all his own way. Any man whom he will allow to get out, why that man gets out--that's all.”

”But how will you do it?”

”The curate of Tissaret is here,” whispered the hussar. ”When he saw that Viola was bound to a post, and in the open air, and in November, too, with but an armful of straw for him to lie on; and his poor wife and children s.h.i.+vering and shaking by his side;--and I tell you, sir, fine children they are, as fine as any you can see; but, as I told you, when the curate saw them, he said it was a shame, and he would not stand it, and the law was that the prisoner ought not to be kept in the open air at this time of the year. Says I to myself, when the curate sermonised them, says I, 'That's as lucky a thing as can be!' for, to tell you the truth, I had my doubts about our getting him off, if they'd keep him in that cursed shed. The great donkeys have put four lamps round him, seeing they wish to watch every one of his movements. But, of course, I didn't say a word about it. I only told the steward that there was no harm in what the curate said; for, after all, it is a safe thing to have your prisoner locked up and provided for.”

”But what for?” asked Kalman, impatiently; ”of what use can it be to us, if they lock Viola up?”

”Locking your prisoner up is a capital thing in its way,” said the hussar. ”When your prisoner is by himself, where no one sees him, he can do as he likes, and there are few things he will not do. But if he is watched by half-a-dozen men and more, let him be ever so stout a man, it cows him down. At the least of his motions, he's got a dozen hands upon him, and he's laughed at to boot. But if they put Viola into the chaff-loft, which I understand they think of doing, they may whistle for him, that's all.”

”But how the deuce will you do it?” asked Volgyeshy, whose temper was not proof to the old soldier's circ.u.mstantial explanations.

”In this way, your wors.h.i.+p,” whispered the old hussar, in a still lower voice: ”the chaff-loft is next to the steward's house, and there's a door between the granary and the steward's loft, isn't there?”

”Yes, so there is. What next?” said Kalman.

”As I said before, there's a door from the granary to the steward's loft--(I'd not like that door, at all, if the corn were mine)--but that's neither here nor there; it serves the steward's purpose, I dare say, and at present it serves ours.”

”Go on, man!” cried Kalman.

<script>