These words seemed to produce a great change in Banfi. For a time he moodily rode by Kuncz's carriage; then, after a long pause, he replied in a very low voice--"You are right," gave his horse the spur, and rode back to Klausenburg with the firm resolve of not allowing himself to be enticed from his stronghold. On reaching the spot where scarcely six hours before he had restrained the enthusiastic ardour of his troops, he was much surprised to find a band of gipsies apparently searching for something on the ground. "What are you doing here?" cried he, as he came up to them. At this question their leader came forward, and recognizing Banfi, humbly doffed his cap. "Verily, your Excellency, the gipsies have come hither to collect the cartridges which the brave and noble gentlemen have scattered about here." "But where then are the gentlemen?" "Gone, your Excellency." "But why, and whither?" "The moment they heard your lordship had quitted Klausenburg--whew!--they dispersed in all directions." "And Michael Angel?" "He was the first to depart." Banfi felt sick and dizzy. The tears rushed to his eyes. To be so abandoned by every one, by Fate, by his fellow-men, and even by his own self-confidence! What now remained of all his former might? Whither should he turn? What should he devise? Every way was closed against him. Neither with the sword of justice nor with the sword of battle could he fight. There was no hope and no refuge. His horse carried him whither it would. The magnate sat upon it with a darkened face, staring blankly at the clouds or on the ground. The earth, the sky, and his own heart--everything within him and around him was dark and desolate. Hitherto his soul had been so full of pride that there was no room for anything else, and now all his pride was gone, and had left a hideous blank behind it. On, on he went; but it was his horse that chose the road. Vast forests lay before him, and he thought--What lies beyond those forests? Lofty hills. And what beyond the hills? Still higher hills. And what then? The snowy peaks. And nowhere was there any refuge or shelter for him! So at the very first stroke every one had fallen away from him, and he who only the day before had ruled over the half of Transylvania, and held fortresses at his disposal, cannot even find a hut to shelter him from the night. Or shall he give himself up to the derision of his enemies, and not even have the poor satisfaction of meeting death with front erect and a smiling countenance? Shall he perish ignobly like a hunted beast? He fell a-thinking. If die he must, he would at least die like a man. But how?