Peter the Priest. Mór Jókai

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СКАЧАТЬ hunters, peasants, off with you to Mitosin! Set the red cock on their roof. If they have other game, they shall have fire for it. Fall upon them while they are drunk; throw them into the water to sober them; set fire to their towers on all four sides, even if the dead Florian himself should rise from his grave to beg for them. But if you catch the master alive, swing him up on the cross bar over the well. Now off with you! I'll go too; saddle my horse. Where's that miserable priest? What the devil does he want? Let him show his face."

      The Lady's face was flaming red with anger; even on her brow blazed the red spots; her nostrils quivered; her eyes flashed so that she could not see; her lips drawn into very ugly shape. Then too, her hair was disordered, her brown locks changing into red, gleamed on her temples in small bright red curls, and above them a high cap was fastened with four pins that gave the appearance of four horns. Her stately figure showed strength and passion, still further heightened by her costume. Her bodice, extending below the hips, was of brown and yellow stripes two fingers wide, a true tiger's skin, and instead of the stiff ruffle around the neck was a border of feathers. Below the hips hung a dagger from a Turkish girdle; and the skirt of heavy flowered brocade was festooned with strings of gold and silver coins that rattled as she walked; the skirt, made short in front, as she stamped her foot, showed the leg above the yellow riding boots, in bright red trousers. This was her appearance when she cried: "Now let that cringing priest come here!"

      Father Peter came near, and said gently: "May peace and blessing rest upon this house." At this voice, the lady let fall her dagger and raised her hands to her brow, either to shade her eyes for better sight, or to conceal her face. The monk came nearer to her, and said in friendly tones: "Anger ruins beauty. Cleopatra was never angry, and so remained always beautiful. Rage disfigures the countenance, draws lasting wrinkles, and leaves its imprint on the skin." In one instant the rage had vanished from the lady's face, the blazing red became white, her brow relaxed, and her lips resumed their lines of beauty. Her flashing eyes remained fixed, like those of a sleep-walker, on the countenance of the speaker. An instant had sufficed to effect this change; at the last words of the Father, the Lady even tried to smile. Now the monk came still nearer, so that he could say in a whisper: "What unseemly revenge have you planned, gracious Lady? Who will consent to quarrels and firebrands? You are only preparing a new enjoyment for the one who has wronged you. A sword wound does not hurt a man. If you really want to take vengeance on this man, have a quantity of game shot and send it to him as a present. In this way you will shame him."

      Like the sun beneath a heavy cloud, gleamed a smile on the face of the Lady. "True, true," she said, with a look of joy. "I will revenge myself that way. Steward, treasurer, forester; go at once into the forest; kill as much game as you can put in a wagon, and take it to Mitosin. Say to the lord of the castle, I send him my greetings, and since he is so desperately hungry for my game, I send him still more of it, that he may have enough."

      Every one was astonished at this sudden change, including those in hiding behind the furniture, who were now quite convinced that the monk knew how to drive out the Devil with the aid of the large book he carried under his arm.

      "Mother, don't give in to him," cried the young Lord, dashing out and seeking shelter beside his mother. Then happened to the young man what he had never experienced before; his dear mother gave him a box on the ear. Yes, the spoiled darling, the only son, the child of her heart, who never in his life before had heard the word, "Don't," received his first box on the ear.

      Stunned and amazed, he quite forgot he ought to cry. "Off with you. Treat him as your Father. Kiss his hand." And his mother's half-raised boot made the boy understand that she was quite ready to use her heel as a stimulus. But the monk intervened.

      "Gracious Lady, treat him as your child." With these words he leaned forward, and enveloped him in his robe and the child sought refuge in the arm of his protector, and began to cry bitterly. "Do not cry, my little one, have confidence in your mother; she loves you. A mother's chastisement brings blessing to the child. Now take the book, and carry it to the room designed for me."

      This commission so surprised the child that he forgot to cry. Curiosity overcame sorrow. He was delighted to take into his hand the wonderful book whose contents the devils themselves feared, as if they had themselves to spell it out, or take a whipping. Off he ran with his book, and the three fools after him. As soon as they could, they stopped to study the strange characters painted in gay colors on the parchment.

CHAPTER III.

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THE LORDS OF MADOCSANY.

       Table of Contents

      When they were left alone, the Lady began to laugh. Her pleasure was as passionately violent as her anger; she clapped her hands and pressed them to her head.

      "Aha! So you're here, are you? At last! You are not dead! You did not go out into the wild world! You have come to me! A hundred times I have called you; a thousand times I have waited for you; but always in vain. When I did not expect you, you are before me! Ha ha! And in what a masquerade have you slunk in, Tihamer Csorbai!"

      And with that she laid both hands on the monk's shoulders, rested her dimpled chin on her arm, and laughed in his face with her sparkling eyes.

      "My name is Father Peter," said the monk calmly. And without change of countenance, he suffered the Lady to press him to her breast with all her might.

      "That's not true!" she cried, seizing violently the monk's rough garment over his breast. "It's only a disguise," and she tore open the coarse cowl on his breast, expecting to see a gold-trimmed, buckled cloak of velvet. In its stead was a coarse shirt of unbleached linen, such as all Jesuits wore, down to the humblest begging monk; and where this coarse shirt parted on his breast, could be seen around his neck a chain of steel with iron cross. The points on the links of the chain and the sharp edges of the cross had left bloody prints on his neck, from her violent embrace. But he endured both the embrace and the torture without a smile, without a word.

      "I am what I seem to be," he said coldly. The tone of his voice was so cold, his glance so steely hard, that from the face of the Lady suddenly vanished the smile, and with it every charm. With dignity she drew herself to her full height, rubbed her hands, gazed with her black eyes in terror at the cross, her whole body quivered; then she clasped both hands to her brow, throwing back her head. "'Tis a dream! Waken me! Give me water."

      "We are awake, my Lady," said the monk, "What you see is the reality."

      "Tihamer——"

      "—is dead."

      "But not in the struggle against the Turks?"

      "No, only in the struggle against self."

      "'Tis two years since we have heard anything of you."

      "Yes, since that unfortunate duel, in which I killed somebody with whom I would gladly exchange my rest every night. You know the cause."

      "Do not call it to mind. Rage fills my whole body."

      "Every night his ghost comes to me."

      "Why didn't you make more thorough work of it? His ghost leaves me in peace." And with that she smiled seductively. The man understood the words and understood the smile. This woman was a queen of sinners; all heart, and yet heartless. If she were to go to Hell, she would seduce СКАЧАТЬ