Maurus Jokai - The Nameless Castle

He held a consultation with his subordinates; after which he turned toward the waiting demons, and called:

“Signor Trentatrante!”

The man came forward—a true type of the gladiator of the Vatican.

“Dismount,” ordered the marquis. “Take thirty men, and proceed on foot to the farther side of yon thicket, where you will lie in ambush until I have begun an assault on the soda-factory over yonder. The men in hiding there will show up when we approach; I shall then pretend to retreat, and lure them toward the thicket. You will know what to do then—fall upon them in the rear. When you have arrived at the thicket let me know. Set fire to that tallest clump of reeds near the willow-shrubs.”

“All right!” returned the signor. Then he selected thirty of his companions, who also dismounted, and they started at once to obey the orders of their leader.

The “peasant woman with a red kerchief over her head,” who was standing on the soda-factory hill, called in a low, clear tone to Ludwig:

“De Fervlans is coming with his troop.”

“Then we must prepare a greeting for him,” responded Vavel. He ordered his men into their saddles, then sallied forth with them to meet the enemy.

The two bodies of soldiers moving toward each other were very nearly alike in numbers. Neither seemed to be in a particular hurry to begin an assault. Suddenly a column of smoke rose from the thicket near the bridge—it was the signal De Fervlans was waiting for. He gave orders to halt. The next instant there was a rattling salute from the demons’ carbines. The “peasant woman” on the hill covered her face with both hands and shivered. The messengers of death flew about the head of her lover, but left him unharmed.

Vavel now moved nearer to the attacking foe, and himself made straight for the leader. One of De Fervlans’s lieutenants, however, a thick-set, sun-browned Sicilian, met the count’s assault. There was a little sword-play, then Vavel struck his adversary’s blade from his hand with a force that sent it whizzing through the air, and with his left hand thrust the Sicilian, who was reaching for his pistols, from the saddle.

Nor had Vavel’s companions been idle the while. The first assault was a success for the count’s troop. De Fervlans now ordered a retreat. The death-heads looked upon this as a victory, and eagerly pursued the retreating foe. But the woman on the hill had already perceived that the retreat was but a feint. She saw the demons crouching among the reeds in the thicket, and guessed their intention.

“Vavel!” she shouted at the top of her voice, “Vavel, take care! Look to your rear!”

She imagined that her lover would hear her amid the tumult of the fight.

But Vavel had ears and eyes only for what was in front of him. Nearer and nearer he approached to the trap De Fervlans had laid for him. He was in it! The trench was behind him now, and the demons in ambush were preparing to spring upon their prey.

Katharina could look no longer. She ran down the hill, sprang on her mule, and galloped after her lover.

De Fervlans’s retreat was conducted in proper order, step by step, from earth-clod to earth-clod.

Suddenly Katharina discovered that a mule was an obstinate beast. The one she was riding stopped abruptly, and would not advance another step. In vain she urged and coaxed. At last she sprang from the saddle, and on foot made her way toward the scene of the fray.

At this moment the demons creeping steathily along the trench sprang from their concealment, their bayonets ready for action. They were on the point of firing a volley into the black backs of the Volons, when a rattling fire in their own rear brought down half of them dead and wounded. The uninjured on turning found themselves confronted by Satan Laczi and his comrades, who, black and slimy from their passage through the morass, sprang like tigers upon the foe.

“Strike for their heads!” commanded Satan Laczi, as, with sabers drawn, the ex-robbers rushed upon the bewildered demons, who had at last met their match.

When De Fervlans heard the firing in the neighborhood of the trench, he believed it to come from the muskets of his own men, and quickly sounded an attack. The demons, who had been feigning to retreat, now turned and met their pursuers, and a hand-to-hand conflict began.

Vavel also had heard the firing behind him, and believed himself surrounded by the enemy. He beckoned to his trumpeter, to whom he wished to give orders to sound a retreat, but the man’s horse unfortunately stumbled, and threw his rider to the earth. Three demons, at once sprang to capture the fallen trumpeter; but Vavel, who knew how necessary the man was to him, hastened to his assistance.

De Fervlans in amazement watched this unequal encounter. A masterly conflict arouses admiration even in an enemy; and Vavel certainly proved himself a master in the art of fighting.

He fought in cold blood; he was not in the least excited. He made no unnecessary thrusts, but wounded his three adversaries in the hand, the elbow, the forearm, whereby he rendered them incapable of further combat. De Fervlans saw how his skilled demons gave way before Vavel’s masterly thrusts, while the Volons drew their unfortunate trumpeter from beneath his horse, and assisted him to mount again, after they had also helped the horse to his feet.

But the trumpet was now useless; it was filled with mud. Consequently a signal for retreat could not be sounded.

A dense mass of wild-hop vines inclosed the eastern side of the scene of action. De Fervlans glanced impatiently toward this green wall. The armed men who should penetrate it would decide the victory.

Even as the thought flashed through his brain, the tangle of vines began to shake violently; but the first man to appear therefrom was not Signor Trentatrante, as De Fervlans had expected, but Satan Laczi, with his ferocious followers.

The attack from this point was so unexpected that De Fervlans for a moment seemed stupefied; then quickly recovering himself, he dashed into the thick of the fight, Vavel following his example. By this time the trumpet had been cleansed, but no orders were received for a retreat signal; instead, the sound it shrilled above the fearful turmoil was: “Forward! forward!”

With the blood pouring from a gaping wound in his head, Satan Laczi, swinging a saber he had captured from a foe, now rushed to meet De Fervlans, who at once recognized the former robber.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, preparing to meet the furious onslaught, “you have not yet found your way to the gallows!”

“No; here in Hungary only traitors are hanged,” retorted Satan Laczi, in a loud voice, as, with a mighty leap that would have done credit to a horse, he sprang toward the marquis, caught the reins from his hands, and with true robber-wit called: “Surrender, brother-rascal!”

De Fervlans raised himself in his stirrups and brought his saber savagely down on the robber’s head. This was the second serious cut Satan Laczi had received that day, and was evidently enough to calm his enthusiasm. He staggered to one side, made several vain attempts to straighten himself, then fell suddenly to the earth. His own blade, however, remained in the breast of De Fervlans’s horse, where he had thrust it to the hilt.

The marquis hardly had time to leap from the saddle before the poor beast fell under him.

All seemed lost now. His men were confused and thrown into disorder. In desperation he tore his pistols from the saddle of his fallen horse. Only a single shrub separated him from his enemy,—twenty paces,—and De Fervlans was a celebrated shot.

Count Vavel saw what was coming, and he too drew his pistol.

“Good night, Chevalier Vavel!” in a mocking tone called De Fervlans, as his finger pressed the trigger. There was a sharp report, the ball whistled through the air—but Vavel did not fall.