There is a chance of escape, or at any rate
of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and
are encamped in the courtyard. These are gipsies. I have notes of them in my book.
They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies
all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who
are almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble
or boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,
save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.
shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted.
I have already spoken to them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They
took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which however, I could
not understand any more than I could their spoken language . . .
written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate
with her. To her I have explained my situation, but without the horrors which
I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose
my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know
my secret or the extent of my knowledge . . .
I have given the letters.
I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs
I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and
bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study,
and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here . . .
Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened
two letters, "The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not
whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"--He must have looked
at it.--"One is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins. The other,"--here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark
look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,--"The other is a vile
thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! So
it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame
of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on, "The letter to
Hawkins, that I shall, of course send on, since it is yours. Your letters are
sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will
you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous
bow handed me a clean envelope.
I could only redirect it and hand it to
him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly.
A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened
me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery
in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said, "So, my friend,
you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure
of talk tonight, since there are many labours to me, but you will sleep, I pray."
passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming.
Despair has its own calms.