"What have you done with your master?" inquired Master Stephen, forgetting the King for a moment in his eagerness. "The Tartars are going to attack the Hungarian camp this very night!" blurted out the fugitive, with a loud snort; after which, and having relieved his news-bag of this weighty portion of its contents, he seemed to feel easier. "Do you know it for a fact?" asked the King gravely. "Take care what you are saying, for your head will have to answer for it." "It is the pure truth, your Majesty. I heard the whole thing, and when I knew everything I took my life in my hand and crept through the bushes, swam across the Sajó, and then stole hither by the edge of the ditches! Well, your Majesty will see for yourself by to-night whether I have been telling lies or no." "What more do you know? Are the Mongols in great force? Have they many prisoners?" the King asked, by way of getting at the lad's budget of news and forming some idea of its value. "They are as thick together as a swarm of locusts, sir; and as for the prisoners, they are like the chaff of a threshing floor. There are gentlefolk there too. My old master is one of them--blast him with hot thunderbolts!" "And who is your master?" "My faithful governor--Libor!" exclaimed Paul Héderváry, stepping forward and answering for the groom in a tone of great displeasure. "And have they treated the rest as they have treated you?" asked the Duke, pointing to the lad's bleeding ears. "The Tartar women cut off the ears and noses of every pretty woman and girl, and the best looking of all they kill! They have killed most of the gentlemen too, and thrown them into the Hernád." "And your master?" asked Paul quickly. "My master? No master of mine! he's better fit to be master to the devil," said the prisoner, quite forgetting the King in his rage. "What--whom are you talking about?" asked Paul, indignantly. "I'm talking about Mr. Governor Libor, and I say that he has turned Tartar!" "Turned Tartar!" exclaimed several in amazement. "It's fact," said the lad. "He has cast off his 'menti' and 'suba,' and doffed his great plume, and now he is going about like a reverend friar, with a cowl large enough to hold myself." "Turned priest then, has he?" asked Master Peter. "Priest to the devil, if he has any of that sort down below," said Matykó. "Priest, not a bit of it! He has turned Knéz! that's what he has done! The Tartars wear all sorts of church vestments, even the Khans do, blight them!" "Knéz! what sort of creature is that, Matykó?" asked Ugrin. "A sort of governor, something like an 'Ispán' (_i.e._, Count, or head-man of a county)--I don't know, but he has some sort of office, and our poor gentlemen prisoners must doff their hats to the wretch!" "Well, nephew!" said Master Peter, with a laugh, for this was water to his own mill, "so you have chosen a pretty sort of fellow indeed to entrust your castle to!"