forests, the roots of which rest in the water of a great swamp encircled not by water lilies and reed-grass, but by giant trees whose branches, dropping below the surface, form new roots in the quickening water. Here the swan builds its nest; this is the haunt of the heron and all those wild creatures one of which only now and then marches out into more frequented regions. On the higher ground, where in late summer the waters ebb, spring such flowers as might have been seen just after the deluge, so luxuriant and so strange is their mighty growth out of the slimy mud. The branches of ivy, stout as grape vines, reach from tree to tree winding about the trunks and decking the dark maples as if some wood-nymph had garlanded her own consecrated grove.

When the sun has set, life grows active in this watery kingdom; swarms of water-birds rise, and with their monotonous, gruesome cries sound the note of the bittern, the whistle of the turtle, and the four notes of the swan, now heard only in the land of fable, for there alone mankind is not; that kingdom still belongs to God.

Occasionally bold hunters venture to penetrate this pathless maze, making their way among the trees in small boats, often overturned by the long roots under the water many fathoms deep, although the dark grass, the yellow marsh flowers and the small dark-red lizard seem to be within reach of one's hand. Sometimes a thicket bars the way of the boat, trees never touched by human hand are rotting here heaped mountain-high thousands of years before. Those trunks that have fallen into the water have been petrified, and the grasses and vines have grown over them in such a tangle that they form a strong crust which sways and bends but does not break beneath the tread. This crust appears to stretch far and wide, but in reality one step too far brings death, so that this strange and remote region is but rarely visited.

On the south flows the Drave, whose rapid current frequently sweeps away the tallest trees, to the peril of the boatmen. To the north the forest stretches as far as Csakathurm, and where the swamp ends, oaks and beeches tower higher and mightier than any in all Hungary. Throughout this wilderness are wild beasts of every kind; especially the wild boar that wallows in the swampy ground; and here too the stag grows to his greatest strength and beauty. In the days that we write of, the buffaloes roamed through this wilderness, making nightly raids on the neighboring millet fields, but at the first attempt to catch them they plunged into the heart of the swamp and were safe from pursuit.

On the edge of the forest in those days stood a castle of so many styles of architecture that one must conclude it had been the favorite hunting-resort of some Hungarian or Croatian noble. The greater part of the building seemed to be a century older than the rest, in fact the oldest part was merely a hut of oak logs rudely put together, its roof overgrown with moss and its walls with ivy and periwinkle; over the door were the antlers of a patriarchal stag; the later lords must have entertained a pious regard for its builder or they would have torn down this hut. On the side toward the woods was a long, barn-like building of one room, intended for the large hunting parties of later times; here masters and servants, horses and hounds, staid in friendly companionship when the bad weather brought them together. Around an old oak with wide-spreading branches was a strange looking hermitage, the oak forming its single column of support; the entire hut had been built of the skulls of boars taken in a single hunt. Finally, on a hill somewhat higher than the rest, where the trees had been cleared away stood the most modern building; it consisted of a small, tasteful hunting-castle, with columns in front, tiled roof, marble terraces, oriel windows and other features of mediæval architecture. The bastions near by, begun but left unfinished, the deep moats and the walls stretching beyond all proportions, seemed to indicate that the man who had begun the building had intended a stronghold, perhaps against the Turks. Behind the building were still to be seen two long culverins and a stout iron mortar with a Turkish inscription that threw some light on their origin; but the times and the spirit of the times had changed, and later comers had built a Tusculan villa upon foundations intended for a fortress.

On one of the brightest days of the year in which our story begins, a large hunting party was stirring at the castle. Hardly had the sun sent his first rays through the dense trees when the boys of the stable and kennel led out the horses and the hounds straining at the leash and bounding to the shoulders of their keepers in their excited anticipation. Long wagons, drawn by six to ten oxen, had already gone to the meet to bring back the game. The villagers summoned to the chase, variously armed with axes, forks, or occasional guns, were divided into groups by the hunters. Some peasants, in parties of twos and threes, carried on their shoulders boats hollowed from the trunks of trees, to drive back the game if it escaped to the swamp. Men and beasts alike showed signs of haste and impatience; only a few of the older men took the time to sit over the fire and cook their bacon. At last the hunting-horn sounded from the castle yard, the company sprang with shouts of joy upon their snorting horses; the restless, yelping pack dragged their keepers this way and that; the hunters armed themselves,—in short, everything was ready and waited only for the lords and ladies. In a few moments a group of riders came down the hill attended by the squires; in front rode a tall, muscular man, the lord of the castle; the rest seemed involuntarily to have fallen behind him. His broad shoulders and well-rounded chest were of Herculean strength; his face was burned by the sun and showed no trace of age; his close-trimmed beard and heavy moustache gave his countenance a martial aspect, and the Roman nose and coal black, bushy eyebrows added to his features an imperious look, though the melancholy curve of the lips and the delicate oval of the blue eyes lent a certain poetic expression to his knightly countenance. A round cap with an eagle's feather covered his short hair; he wore a plain, shaggy coat unfastened, beneath which showed a white dolman of deerskin ornamented with silver; at his side hung a broad sword in ivory sheath, and from his studded girdle of red shone the pearl handle of a Turkish dagger. Next him rode a young knight and a youthful Amazon; the knight could count scarcely twenty years and the lady looked still younger. Two people better suited to each other could not be found. The young man had pale, gentle features and rich chestnut hair curling on his shoulders; a small moustache barely covered his upper lip, his blue eyes wore a constant smile of carelessness, if not frivolity, and had not the strong sinews of his arm shown under his close-fitting sleeves one would have taken him for only a fanciful boy; on his head he wore a marten cap with a heron's feather and his garments were of silk; from his shoulder hung a magnificent tiger skin, its claws serving for buckles joined by a sapphire clasp. He rode a coal-black Turkish horse with housings embroidered in gold, some woman's delicate handiwork.

The Amazon, to whom the youth seemed to be whispering many a sweet word, formed a complete contrast to him; she had an earnest, fearless, lively countenance; her eyes were brighter than garnets; she loved to curl her lip and draw down her fine, thick eyebrows, giving to her face an expression of pride, then when she glanced up again and parted her lips with a spirited smile, you might see a heroine indeed. Her