ffice you must pass
through long passage-ways and echoing apartments where pages announce
your arrival from door to door, and when at last the reception-room is
reached you stand not in the presence of the Prince but of Michael
Teleki, his first counsellor. He is the same bald-headed man whom we
met on that memorable day that saw the death of Nicholas Zrinyi.

In early days the good man had been only a captain fallen into
disfavor with George Rakoczi. Since then his affairs had prospered and
he was now chief captain of Koevar and all powerful in the name of the
Prince. His mother was the sister of the Princess. Through the
protection of his aunt he came into the protection of the Prince. Once
there Teleki needed no further support; his comprehensive mind, his
extended acquaintance, his statesmanlike training made him
indispensable to the Prince, who preferred to bury himself in his
books and antiquities and considered himself hindered by anything that
took him from his family or his studies.

His reception-room to-day was crowded with men who wished to speak to
his Excellency. They were the Hungarian fugitives whom the Prince
seemed to hold in special horror. These restless, gloomy people,
always in quest of war, did not suit the placid, meditative nature of
the Prince. Now he shut them all out, and admitted only, of all his
courtiers, a learned pastor, John Passai who had a professorship in
Nagy-Emged, and was dear to the Prince on account of his learning.
Apafi's office looked more like that of a student than a ruler. The
walls were covered with bookcases, in the corners were maps, and on
the narrow spaces remaining were clocks, which the Prince wound up
himself. The chairs and sofas were covered with books needed at once,
so that often when the Prince received the visit of a friend he did
not know where to seat him. Sometimes even the floor was covered with
maps, dusty documents and open books; if Teleki entered at such a
moment he would have to pick his way with as much care as a man
looking for a dry path through the mud.

At this moment Apafi and the pastor stood before a table on which lay
some old coins. Apafi looked carefully at a gold piece, turned it in
his fingers and held it to the light. Passai stood in front of the
Prince like a post, hat in hand, with knitted brows. Apafi twirled the
coin and studied it on both sides.

"Those are not Roman letters," he growled, "neither are they Greek nor
Arabic; an