Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 370, August 1846

Thus desperately engaged in a most unequal combat, he heard the step and voice of his first antagonist from behind. A dagger already gleamed over his head, when suddenly a heavy blow resounded, and his assailant staggered and fell to the ground. In a few moments more he had contrived to disperse the other ruffians, who, wounded and alarmed, now took to flight. When he turned, he found his old Farkas standing over the prostrate body of his first foe.

"I could not leave my lord," cried the old domestic, brandishing a stout stick: which he had snatched up. "And, teremtette! I was right, whatever you may say. But I have done for one of the rascals, eb adta! and just at the right nick too!"

"Leave him an follow me, Farkas!" cried the young man. "They may still again assail her." And he hurried up the avenue, followed by the old man who grunted with unwillingness at leaving the prize of his strong arm.

When they reached the open space beyond the alley, no one was visible in the dark. The lady and her companions had disappeared. Lights, however, were moving, in the archbishop's palace; and, at the same moment, a troop of servants, torches in hand, was seen to issue from the lower part of the building, attracted, probably, by the noise of the tumult.

"Where can she be? Again lost to me! Lost, perhaps, for ever!" exclaimed Otmar.

"Shall we not secure the fellow I knocked down?" said Farkas insinuatingly, with no small spice of pride at the thoughts of the capture. "He may be yet alive."

"You are right," replied his master. "He was the leader of this troop of bravoes. He may be compelled to divulge the mystery of this deed; and I knew that voice, methinks, although as yet my recollections are confused."

With these words he hurried back into the avenue. But when master and man had reached the spot where the body had lain, it was no longer visible. Marks of blood and of trampling feet, two broken swords and a ragged hat, were the only evidences that remained of the late combat.

"Gone!" cried Otmar.

"The other ruffians have returned and carried him off, eb adta!" exclaimed Farkas, with intense vexation.

"Let us follow on their traces!" said the young noble. "See here! This way through the thicket! There are marks of broken boughs." And pushing his way through the bushes, he entered the dark wood, followed by his attendant.

A moment afterwards the avenue was illuminated by the torches of the domestics from the archbishop's palace.

Chapter III

"Spirit of men,
Thou heart of our great enterprise, how much
I love these voices in thee!"

    Ben. Jonson.

"Love is ambitious, and loves majesty."

    Decker.

Upon an imposing hill, which rises from the Danube's banks, and frowns over the city of Presburg, still stand the extensive ruins of a fine old castle, which was destroyed by fire at the commencement of the present century, but which, at this period of history, was generally occupied as a residence by the rulers of Hungary, when they paid a royal visit to their Hungarian capital; and in the large hall of state in this immense building it was, that the Diet of the four orders of the kingdom, convoked by Maria Theresa, had assembled on the eleventh of September – the morning following that evening so eventful to Otmar and his young love.

At the upper end of this large apartment, a throne had been arranged for the young Queen. In the spaces between the old portraits of the heads of the House of Hapsburg, which adorned the walls, were now displayed Hungarian banners. On either side of the throne, awaiting the arrival of Maria Theresa, were several of her German ministers and household; and, as it was well known that those immediately about her person had protested energetically against her appeal to her Hungarian subjects, these German servants of the Queen were regarded with no looks of good-will or sympathy by those who filled the hall.

Upon the first step of the throne, and apart from those who surrounded it, stood, on the right, the Count John Pallfy, the Palatin or Viceroy of the kingdom, his handsome martial countenance, with that semi-oriental disdain of all expression of emotion in the physiognomy, betraying none of those anxious feelings which were natural as to the result of a crisis so important; on the left, Count Louis Batthyani, the Reichskanzler or Chancellor. Immediately below the throne were ranged, on one side, the bishops and prelates of the kingdom, to the number of sixty-seven, in their rich ecclesiastical attire; on the other, the numerous magnates of the realm, the princes, counts, and barons, to the amount of seven hundred and eighty, glittering in all the marvellous pomp and splendour of the Hungarian costume, and reaching in proud array far beyond the middle of the hall – the lower part of which was thronged by a crowd of the lesser nobles, and the deputies from the provinces, and from the royal free-towns of Hungary. Brilliant and dazzling was the scene composed of this living mass, with its thousand fantastic and bejewelled dresses; and wonderful to look at the many fine energetic countenances of all ages of which it was composed.

Among the nobles, towards the middle of the hall, stood Otmar, his handsome face still pale from the excitement of the previous evening, and a night passed in sleeplessness. It was in vain that he had sought to find the trace of the ruffians who had made so strange an attempt to seize upon the person of the mysterious object of his affections: and only late in the night had he returned to his lodging, and striven to calm the anxiety of his mind in a useless attempt at repose upon his couch. His brain whirled with the confusion of his thoughts. All the past was involved in mystery and conjecture. Who was the beautiful female, to whom he had so quickly given all the first emotions and energies of his young heart? Should he ever again behold her who had thus twice crossed his path, to disappear as suddenly from before his eyes? Had she escaped the hands of her ravishers? What had become of her? And who, again – he demanded with a pang of bitter jealousy – was that young man who had twice been her companion, and whom she had styled her friend? Thus agonized with a thousand doubts and apprehensions, he could scarcely command his senses to gaze upon the scene around, or to reflect upon the important purpose which had called him, with the other Hungarian nobles, to that hall. The troubles of his life, his doubtful fate, his dreary position in the world, were all forgotten in the absorbing thoughts connected with her he loved: all minor anxieties – such as his dismissal that morning, as he left the house, from his poor lodging by his old landlord, in a manner which, had he been able to think on other matters, might have appeared to him as heartless as inconsistent – found no room in his tormented mind. The noise of the trumpets, announcing the entry of the Queen; the opening of the door, to the right of the throne, through which she passed; the murmur, and partial confusion, which attended her ascending the steps, and placing herself in presence of that crowded assembly, scarcely roused him from his reverie.

But when he raised his eyes, he scarcely could credit their own evidence. There she stood on high before him! The crown of St Stephen of Hungary was on her lofty brow: the royal mantle covered her shoulders: the bejewelled cimiter of the Hungarian kings was at her side. In her arms she held a baby of about six months of age; in her left hand she clasped that of a little girl. She was there in all her dazzling splendour of royal beauty. And it was she! – she to whom his heart was given – she whom he had dared to love!

For a moment the whole scene whirled before the eyes of Otmar: he staggered as one struck by lightning: his pale cheek grew paler still: he felt as if he were falling to the earth. How he found a tongue to speak, he himself could not have told. But, with faltering voice, he turned to an old Hungarian magnate by his side, and stammered —

"Is it possible? Is that – she – our King – is that?"

"Who should it be, domine illustrissime?" answered the person thus addressed, with the Latin courtesy of the country. "Who should it be, friend?"

Again Otmar found force to falter forth —

"And he, who has given her his hand to mount the throne – he who now stands behind her, glittering in all the rich fancifulness of that outlandish dress – who is he?"

"Humph!" replied the old Hungarian, in no very amiable tone of voice. "That is her favourite German minister, the young Prince Kaunitz – a silly fop! She might have better and less compromising servants about her person, methinks. As you seem a stranger, domine," he pursued, unheeding Otmar's agitation, "you may like to know that the old ecclesiastic, who has taken the other place behind her, is our Archbishop Primate, the Prince Emmeric Esterhazy, at whose summer palace she took up her residence, incognita, on first arriving here."

"Kaunitz! her favourite minister, and she called him 'my friend!'" muttered the young man, trembling with emotion.

"Yes! and they do say," continued his informant lightly, "that now her husband, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, is absent with the remains of her discomfited army, she and the young prince" – and he whispered in Otmar's ear.

A pang of the bitterest feeling passed through the young noble's heart. But that pang, by its very revulsion, gave him fresh energy.

"Calumny!" he exclaimed, angrily, to his companion, whom he doubted not to be one of those disaffected to the cause of the persecuted Queen. "Calumny!" But his voice was drowned in the loud murmur which arose on all sides calling for silence.

Maria Theresa had risen from the throne, upon which she had seated herself on her first entrance to calm her feelings; and she gazed, with evident emotion, and with faltering purpose, upon the vast crowd before her. No doubt that she saw a stern discouraging frown upon many a brow: no doubt that she knew how deeply the seeds of discontent and disaffection had been sown among her subjects – how great a majority was unfavourable to her cause: and she trembled and faltered for a moment.

But the beauty, the dignity, and grace of the young Queen had already worked their spell upon the susceptible natures of the Hungarians, who, stern as they may be, are easily led away by enthusiastic impulses. A flattering murmur of applause ran through the assembly.

Encouraged by this movement of sympathy, which her quickly sensitive woman's heart felt rather than perceived, Maria Theresa lifted her head more boldly, and advancing one step forward, with her little daughter clinging to her dress, held forward in her arms the baby boy, whose destinies afterwards fixed him on the imperial throne of Germany as Joseph the Second.

All set speeches, all forms were forgotten by her in the trouble of the moment.

"Hungarians!" she said, with quivering voice, in Latin, – "deserted by my friends, persecuted by my enemies, attacked and oppressed by my nearest relations, my only refuge, in my utmost need, is in your fidelity, courage, and support. To you alone, with God, can I any longer look for safety. To your loyalty alone can I confide the welfare of the son and daughter of your kings. At your feet I lay my children. I come to you for succour. Will you grant it me?"

Her voice trembled. She could not proceed. A pause ensued.

"Vitam et sanguinem!" responded a voice.

It was that of Otmar, who had listened, with beating heart, to the accents of his adored Queen; whilst the blood had gradually risen into his pale cheeks, and now flushed his animated countenance with colour.

"Vitam et sanguinem!" was shouted by almost every voice in the assembly, as it caught up the cry.

"Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" again cried Otmar, drawing forth his sabre.

"Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" was re-echoed by a thousand mouths, as a thousand sabres were waved on high, and flashed upon the air.

The enthusiastic feeling had been communicated as an electric shock throughout the crowd. Spite of party feelings, party purpose, stern resolves, it had proved irresistible. Before the Hungarian nobles was a woman – a beautiful female in distress – and she their Queen! The burst of loyal fervour was spontaneous, uncontrollable.

The bosom of Maria Theresa heaved with emotion at the sound of this wild cry. For a moment she struggled with her feelings, strove to be a queen: but her woman's nature gave way; and, sinking back on her throne, she burst into tears.

The sight of this outbreak of emotion spoke again to each Hungarian heart; and, with still wilder and louder shouts of frenzied enthusiasm, the cry of "Moriamur pro Rege Nostro!" rang again through the hall of the Castle of Presburg, until the old walls trembled to their base. Tears sprang from many of the sternest eyes, and rolled down many a withered cheek. But they were tears of pity, admiration, and fury.

All rancour, discontent, political difference, purpose of treachery, had been forgotten. The cause of Maria Theresa had been won!

Long it was before the tumult of the many voices ceased, or the flashing sabres were restored to their scabbards. And when at length the murmur in the hall was somewhat stilled, the aged archbishop advanced to the side of Maria Theresa, who, with her eyes streaming with tears, stood up at once. He attempted to speak in the name of the Hungarian nation in answer to her appeal. But the old man's voice failed him; and only in broken accents, which scarcely could be heard beyond the throne, could he utter a few words of fervent devotion, and pray God to bless her.

In his turn also, the Palatin, Count Pallfy, stepped forward and spoke of supplies and men. But his voice, also, was drowned in the enthusiastic shouts which promised to the persecuted Queen the succour of the very life's blood of her faithful Hungarians, and the aid of their fortunes to the last florin. It could scarcely at last be heard, as the official declaration was made of the opening of the Diet and of the sittings to be held, at which the necessary measures to be taken to be debated.