The Baron's Sons Part 12

The dealer was deeply injured. "Sir," he protested, "Solomon never deceives. When I say it is a genuine Crivelli, you may trust my word for it." Therewith he bent the blade in his trembling hands and caused it to encircle his visitor's waist like a belt. "See there!" he cried triumphantly; "the point kisses the hilt."

"Good!" exclaimed the other, taking the sword from him again; "and now I'll show you a little trick, if you have an old musket that is of no use."

"Take any you choose," returned Solomon, pointing to a pyramid of rusty firearms.

Richard selected one of the heaviest and leaned it obliquely against the pile, barrel upward. "Now stand aside a little, please," said he.

The old Jew drew back and watched the young man curiously. The latter gave the sword a quick swing through the air and brought it down sharply on the musket-barrel, which fell in two pieces to the floor, cleanly severed. Old Solomon was lost in amazement. First he examined the sword-blade, next the divided musket-barrel, and then he felt of Richard's arm.

"Heavens and earth, that was a stroke!" he exclaimed. "When I cut an orange in two I have to try three times before I succeed. You are a man I am proud to know, Captain Baradlay,--a man of giant strength!

Such a thick musket-barrel, and cut in two with one stroke as if it were of paper!"

"This sword is not a Crivelli," repeated Richard, as he returned the weapon; "it is a genuine Al-Bohacen Damascus blade, and worth, between you and me, one hundred ducats."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the Jew, with a deprecatory gesture of both hands. "I have named the price as fifteen ducats, no more and no less.

That is my figure; but if Captain Baradlay will give the Danae and frame, with one ducat into the bargain, he may have the sword. I won't sleep another night under the same roof with such a weapon."

Richard smiled. "But the Danae I have already exchanged for my own portrait," said he.

"Oh, your portrait doesn't go out of my house now for any money,"

declared the Jew. "This is the first time in my life that a gentleman has said to me: 'Solomon, what you offer me for fifteen ducats is worth not fifteen, but a hundred; it is not a Crivelli, but an Al-Bohacen.' Such another portrait is not to be found in all the world. It is a rarity, it is unique. No, no, that portrait doesn't leave my house; it stays here. Take the sword and pay me a ducat to boot; then we shall be quits."

The young man hesitated. Solomon guessed his thoughts. "Have no fear, sir," he hastened to add rea.s.suringly; "no one shall see your portrait in my house. I will hang it up in my bedroom, of which, since my wife's decease, I am the sole occupant, and which no stranger will ever enter. What do you say? Do you agree to the terms?"

Richard gave his hand to the dealer in sign of a.s.sent.

"Very well, then. Now pay me a ducat into the bargain." The old Jew touched the coin with his lips and then dropped it into his long purse. "Let me wrap up the sword for you," he added. "My servant shall deliver it at your door. I am truly delighted to have had the honour; and perhaps it won't be the last time, either. If Captain Baradlay is about to marry, I am always at his service. I deal in all the rare and beautiful things that ever charmed a pair of pretty eyes."

"Thank you," returned Richard; "but she whom I am to marry does not expect to live in a palace."

"So she is a poor girl, is she?" asked the old man. "Tell me, have I guessed aright?"

But the young officer would not tarry longer; he moved toward the door and prepared to take his leave.

"Very well, then," said the dealer; "I won't trouble the captain with any more questions. But old Solomon knows a good many things of which other folks never dream. Captain Baradlay, you are a man of gold--no, I mean of steel, Damascene steel. You know, of course, how that is made: gold and steel are wrought into one. Only remain as you are now,--of gold and steel. I will not pry into your affairs, but let me ask you to remember the old shopkeeper at Number 3 Porcelain Street.

I tell you, an honest man is not met with every day. Remember my words. Some day you will fall in with old Solomon again, and then you will understand what I mean."

CHAPTER VIII.

A WOMAN'S REVENGE.

"Aranka, my dear girl, if you are looking for your father, you will look in vain; he won't come back. My husband has just received a letter from Pest. He says your dear father's affair is going badly.

The consistory forbids his appearing in the pulpit, and he has been summoned to Vienna. He will be sentenced to ten years, at least, and sent to Kufstein. Yes, my dear, there's no help for it. But you mustn't weep so. There is a good Father in heaven, and he will care for the forsaken. G.o.d be with you, my dear!"

With this cheerful morning greeting the wife of Michael Szalmas, the notary, saluted the pastor's daughter, as the latter came to the door of the little parsonage for the hundredth time and looked up the street along which she had seen her father drive away two weeks before.

The young girl went back into the house, sat down at her work-table, and resumed her sewing. She had hardly done so, however, when a carriage drove up and stopped in front of the parsonage. She sprang to her feet and hastened joyfully to the door. Was it really her father come back to her? Upon opening the door she started back in surprise. Not her father, but the widowed Baroness Baradlay, dressed in deep mourning, which accentuated her pallor, stood before Aranka.

The girl bowed and kissed with deep respect the offered hand of the high-born lady.

"Good morning, my child," said the visitor. "I have come to have a talk with you on certain matters that must be settled between us."

Aranka offered the lady a seat on the sofa. The widow motioned to the girl to be seated opposite her.

"First," she began, "I must inform you, to my great regret, that your father has got into trouble on account of his prayer at my husband's funeral. I am sorry, but it can't be helped. He will probably lose his pastorate, and that is not the worst of it."

"Then the rumours that we hear are true," sighed the girl.

"Even his personal liberty is in danger," continued the lady. "He may be imprisoned, and if so, you will not see him for a long time."

Aranka bowed in silence.

"What will you do when you are left alone and thrown upon your own resources?"

"I am prepared for the worst," was the calm reply.

"Pray look upon me as your well-wisher and would-be benefactress,"

said the widow. "My bereavement is the indirect cause of your misfortune, which I should like to make as light for you as possible.

Speak to me unreservedly, my child. Whither will you go, and what do you intend to do? I will help you all I can."

"I shall stay here, madam," returned the other, straightening herself with dignity and calmly meeting her visitor's look.

"But you cannot remain here, my dear, for the parsonage will be handed over to another."

"My father owns a small house in the village; I will move into it."

"And how will you support yourself?"

"I will work and earn money."

"But your work will command only a mere pittance."

"I shall be content with little."

"And when your father is held in confinement in a strange city, shall you not wish to be near him? You may count on my aid; I will provide for your support."

"I thank you, madam, but if I must be alone I can endure my loneliness better here than in a strange place; and if I am to be separated from my father, it is all one whether a wall three feet thick parts us, or a distance of thirty miles."

"But I wish to make amends, as far as possible, for the misfortune which my bereavement has indirectly brought upon you. I will make such provision for you as to render you independent. Being a fellow-sufferer in my loss, you shall also share a portion of my wealth. Put your trust in me."

The girl only shook her head, without speaking.

"But pray remember," pursued the baroness, "that good friends forsake us in misfortune, and all are but too p.r.o.ne to censure the unfortunate, if only as an excuse for withholding their aid. You are young and beautiful now, but sorrow ages a person very rapidly. In a new environment you would meet with new people, while here every word and look is sure to injure and distress you. Accept my proffered a.s.sistance, and you shall at all times find a friend and protectress in me."

At this the girl rose to her feet. "I thank you, madam," said she, "for your kindness; but I shall remain here, even if I have to go into service in some peasant's family in order to earn my bread. You know the history of this ring,"--showing the ring which she wore on the little finger of her left hand. "This ring holds me here, immovable.