Manasseh Part 24

"Sister-in-law," cried Alexander, "don't go out! Don't let her go out!"

But it was too late. Two horses stood before the door, and on one of them sat Zen.o.bia. Blanka ran to her and took her hand.

"Have you come at last?" she exclaimed. "Oh, how long we've been looking for you! Let me help you down."

Zen.o.bia, however, sat silent and made no move to dismount.

"Where is Jonathan?" asked Blanka.

"There he is." Zen.o.bia pointed to the other horse, on whose back was bound a swathed form--a corpse.

"Jonathan!" cried Blanka, wildly.

"Your brother killed my father," Zen.o.bia continued in a monotone, "and my brothers killed your brother; and so it will go on now for n.o.body knows how long."

Blanka was stricken speechless with horror, but Anna, who followed her, broke out in lamentations, until a strong hand was laid on her from behind and Aaron's voice was heard saying:

"Don't cry, don't make a noise! If the people inside hear you, they'll come out and tear Ciprianu's daughter to pieces; and she is now our guest."

Anna buried her face in Blanka's bosom.

"Alexander," said Aaron, softly, turning to his brother, "go in and tell the gipsy band to play a lively reel. The company must be kept amused."

Meanwhile Mana.s.seh had appeared.

"Mana.s.seh," whispered Aaron, "come and help me lift our brother down from the horse."

These words were to Mana.s.seh like a dagger-thrust in his heart. His knees trembled under him. But presently he manned himself and hastened to untie the ropes that held the inanimate form on the horse's back.

Zen.o.bia meanwhile went on talking in a low tone to Blanka. "In the skirmish at Felvincz, the Hungarians had one man killed, and he was the man. His horse carried him until I found him. You invited us to your wedding, and here we are. Now you may, if you wish, take me in and say to your guests, 'This is the daughter of that Ciprianu whose sons laid waste Sasd and Felvincz and killed Jonathan Adorjan.'"

"Away, away!" stammered Blanka, waving her hand. She was terrified at the thought of Zen.o.bia's being found there by the people of Toroczko, and perhaps suffering violence at their hands.

"Go in peace," said Aaron. "My people will not pursue you. Let bygones be bygones between us. We owe each other nothing now."

"I owe you nothing, Aaron, but I owe something to your sister and your sister-in-law for the very kind invitation they sent me; and that is a debt which I will yet repay. To you, Mana.s.seh, I have to say, remember those parting words on Monastery Heights: 'We make peace with you and swear to keep it; but if a traitor from your own number stirs up dissension between us, then tremble!' Think of those words often. And now farewell, and G.o.d bless you!"

With that she turned her horse about and rode away, breasting the wind, which blew the snow into her face.

"Where shall we lay the body?" asked Aaron. "The house is full of guests."

"Here, in our little cabin," said Blanka.

"What, in your bridal chamber?" gasped Aaron. "Oh, Father in heaven!"

But there was no other way. The two brothers bore Jonathan into the little house, unswathed his cold limbs, and laid him in the bridal bed until his coffin should be ready for him. So death entered the little abode and was the first guest.

Blanka sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed at the dead face. The resemblance between Jonathan and Mana.s.seh was striking. This lifeless image of her husband suddenly revealed to her all that had hitherto been so carefully kept from her knowledge. When she met Jonathan in Kolozsvar she had conceived of the war, to which so many stately cavaliers were turning their horses' heads, as a kind of splendid tournament. She remembered now the promise she had made to give the young soldier a kiss on his return home, and recalled how he had begged her to keep her word even though he came back dead. And he had come back dead, and now claimed the fulfilment of her promise. She bent down over him, and as she did so the illusion that it was Mana.s.seh himself lying lifeless before her, grew stronger still. She trembled as she touched her lips to the dead man's marble brow, and with an outburst of sobs and tears she called aloud, "Mana.s.seh!"

He was at her side in a moment, bending over her and pressing her to his heart. So he was not dead, after all. She recovered her self-control, but she murmured in his ear:

"Oh, do not die! Never let me see you lying like that before me!"

Then she gave place to the three brothers, who likewise embraced the dead man. One by one the other brothers came out of the house of rejoicing and entered the chamber of mourning. Alexander had summoned them. The guests, however, found nothing strange in their disappearance, but merely gave themselves up the more unrestrainedly to the gaiety of the occasion. That the bride and groom should have vanished so suddenly was entirely in accord with established usage: the loving pair had, it was taken for granted, sought the spot where all the delights of paradise awaited them. How different was the reality from these conjectures!

Blanka watched through the long hours by the dead man's couch. So pa.s.sed her wedding night.

At early dawn the tolling of bells announced to the people of Toroczko that death had laid his cold hand on one of their number. Those who had been wedding guests the day before now came as mourners to the house of the Adorjans.

The brothers were out on the mountainside. Graves for the dead in Toroczko are hewn out of the solid rock, and the side of some bare cliff serves the people for a cemetery. Here each family has a vault, which, as years pa.s.s, penetrates more and more deeply into the mountainside, until in many cases it becomes a veritable tunnel. No name is carved over these vaults, and only the memory of the survivors serves to distinguish one tomb from another. When a man dies, his relatives take it on themselves to hollow out his grave in the cliff. This is an old and pious custom. If, however, there is no man in the family to render this last service, the neighbours gladly offer their help. It would be a grievous thing in Toroczko to have one's grave dug by a hired grave-digger.

In the afternoon the catafalque was erected in the church, and the entire population a.s.sembled to pay the last honours to the deceased. The people sang, and the pastor delivered a funeral discourse. Then all accompanied the remains to the rock-hewn cemetery. Men bore the coffin on their shoulders, and on the coffin lay the dead man's sword, crowned with garlands, and his shako pierced with a bullet-hole. Leading the procession marched a student chorus singing a dirge, while weeping women brought up the rear. When the family vault was reached, the seven brothers of the deceased took the coffin and laid it in the niche prepared to receive it; then they rolled a great stone before the opening, came out of the vault, and kissed one another.

After that a plain villager, an old and gray-haired man, mounted a stone pulpit and addressed the a.s.sembly, telling them who it was they were burying, how he had lived, how he had been loved, and in what manner he had come to his end. The speaker closed with the hope that the memory of the departed might last as long as there were dwellers in the valley to speak his name. The pastor then blessed the grave and p.r.o.nounced a benediction on the company before him. Finally the student choir rendered a closing selection, while the women and children left the place in groups, and only the men remained behind.

Aaron now ascended the stone pulpit and spoke. "Brothers and friends,"

he began, "we have done our duty to the dead; now let us discharge our obligations to the living. Enough of funeral dirges for the present! Let us now to arms!"

Three hundred men echoed his words. "To arms!" they cried, "to arms!"

They were ready and eager to go in quest of the foemen at whose hands their fellow-townsman had met his death. "Come, let us go home and arm ourselves!" said they, one to another.

"We will meet in the marketplace!" called out Aaron from the stone pulpit, when suddenly he felt a strong hand on his belt behind, and he was lifted down bodily from his place. He did not need to ask who dealt thus summarily with him; he knew that only his brother Mana.s.seh was capable of such a feat of strength.

"What are you thinking of?" cried Mana.s.seh, in a voice that all could hear. "Have I not made peace with our neighbours and sworn in the name of the one living G.o.d to maintain it, and would you put me to shame?"

"Have they not murdered our brother Jonathan?" demanded Aaron.

"No; our brother fell in battle like a brave soldier, with his sword in his hand. And others of our land are fighting now for their country and will die for her. We shall mourn them and honour their memory, but we are not wild Indians to exact a b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance for those fallen on the battle-field."

"Very well, brother Mana.s.seh, but you need not charge us with being wild Indians. I do not ask that we should fall upon our neighbours and burn their houses over their heads, but that we should be on our guard and defend ourselves and our families the best we know how. Believe me, brother, I am as good a Christian as the next man; I go to church every holy day, even when I am ill; but I feel easier, when I pray for my soul's salvation, if I know my gun is loaded and primed."

"Then you are no true believer in G.o.d," returned Mana.s.seh, in a tone of reproof. "You wors.h.i.+p that Jesus in whose name the ma.s.sacre of St.

Bartholomew was perpetrated, the burning of heretics sanctioned, and the crusades undertaken; but you are no true follower of that Jesus who came with a message of peace and good-will to mankind, and who said to Peter, 'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"

"I am not so sure that he really said that," rejoined Aaron, shrewdly.

"Matthew has it that he did, but Mark and Luke make no mention of it, and, according to John, Jesus simply said to Peter, after the latter had cut off the ear of Malchus, the high priest's servant, 'Put up thy sword into the sheath.' At any rate, I am not clear what I should have done had he said it to me; but I know one thing, if I had been there when the Saviour handed the sop to Judas, I should have dealt Iscariot such a blow on the head that he wouldn't have had wit enough left to betray his master. And just so I will strike down the traitor who leads a foe against Toroczko, if he once comes within my reach."

"What traitor do you mean?"

"The one that the girl spoke of yesterday when she said, 'If a traitor rises up from amidst your own people, then tremble!' I know whom she meant now: with the insurgents is a man, lately come into notice, who surpa.s.ses all his fellows in cruelty. He is our Iscariot."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because he calls himself Diurbanu. No genuine Wallachian would have taken the nickname of his king, Decebalus. It is as if one of us should call himself Attila. Now, then, Mana.s.seh, I love you and am ready to follow your lead. I shall never forget how you went up to Monastery Heights and came back with our two brothers. You knew how to serve them better than I. I would have avenged their death merely, but you saved their lives. So, as you made peace with Moga and his people, you have a right to ask us to keep it. Therefore we will demand no atonement from them for Jonathan's death. But when we hear that Diurbanu and his men, who know nothing about that peace and are no parties to it, are advancing on Toroczko, then will be the time for us to act."

"And I will take a hand with you," declared Mana.s.seh.

Therewith the two brothers clasped hands and embraced each other, after which the men all returned to their homes.