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. I 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. . . I have 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.
The 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
When, 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."
I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming.
Despair has its own calms.
31 May.--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some papers
and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I