'Neath the Hoof of the Tartar; Or, The Scourge of GodJósika, Miklós, báró
History
'Neath the Hoof of the Tartar; Or, The Scourge of God
Jósika, Miklós, báró
Hungary -- History -- Mongol Invasion, 1241-1242 -- Fiction
At that moment a long, yellow cloud of dust made its appearance in the
distance, coming towards them. A horseman was galloping in front of it,
and he was closely followed by two more, shouting aloud what no one in
the castle understood, but something which made the captain of the guard
without give orders for the bolts of the drawbridge to be pulled back;
and the bridge, left without its supports, dropped with a great plash
into the moat.
The Kunok were cut off!
With the sangfroid and fearlessness learnt in the course of his
adventurous life, Kuthen at once ordered the drawbridge to be raised;
the inner gate was closed again and barred with all speed.
Akos was as pale as death, for he saw in a moment that he had come too
late, and that all was lost; but he was resolved to share the fate of
the man, whom for Marána's sake he looked upon as his father.
As for Kuthen, he was suddenly the wild chief again. His face was
aflame, his eyes flashed fire, he was eager for the fray, and his one
thought was to defend himself proudly. He ordered the guards to their
places, the horses having been already led back to their stables; and
then, turning to his family, he said coolly and calmly, "We will defend
ourselves until the King comes, and then his commands shall be obeyed,
whatever they are."
The women at once retired to their own quarters, without uttering word
or groan. There were no tears, no sobs, no sign of terror on their
countenances. They looked angry and defiant.
When the women had withdrawn, the Princes went to their posts, and
Kuthen, turning to Akos, said, "Remember your oath."
Akos raised his hands to heaven without a word.
His own position was a more dangerous one than it might seem at first
sight. His manifest intention of shielding Kuthen from their vengeance
would bring down upon him the hatred of his own countrymen; while on the
other hand the furious glances of the Kunok confined in the castle, and
their ill-concealed hostility, showed him clearly that his life was now
in danger from within as well as from without.
The mob which had rushed away from the Diet had pressed on with the
speed of the whirlwind, its numbers growing as it went. A few minutes
only had passed since the cloud heralding its approach had been seen,
and already the crowd was swarming round the banks of the moat, making
an indescribable uproar and uttering the wildest, fiercest shouts.
Within, all was silent as the grave. But the mob outside were not idle
for a moment. They were athirst for vengeance, and from the moment of
their arrival they had been busy trying to make a passage across the
moat by throwing in earth, straw, pieces of wood, even furniture,
brought on all sides from the neighbouring houses, and, in fact, all and
everything that came to hand.
All at once there was a cry raised of "The King! The King is coming!"
It was not the King, however, but Duke Kálmán, with his servants and
some of the nobles in his train.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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