In vain. He had no longer a blood horse beneath
him and was unable to overtake the bearers of the lost treasure. Nor did
they halt again to give him anything to do. Looking back from time to
time, they saw how a single horseman was galloping after them, with his
sword blade firmly gripped between his teeth, and a shuddering
recollection of the old nursery tales of nether-world monsters came over
them.
The solitary horseman pursued them right up to the toll-house of
Szaszvar, and even when he gave up the pursuit the toll-man saw him for
a long time trotting round about the outskirts of the town shaking his
fist and shouting imprecations. Once or twice he drew near enough to
fire his pistols through the doors and windows of the toll-house, and so
great was the spell of terror surrounding the person of the terrible
adventurer that nobody ventured outside the city wall to try and
capture him; nay, the burgesses even remained under arms in the streets
all night guarding the principal entrances for fear lest Fatia Negra and
his band might take it into their heads to formally besiege the place,
and, had it only depended upon his will to do so, he would assuredly
have made the attempt.
But it never came to that. On returning to the place of combat Fatia
Negra found his horsemen still searching in the mud and darkness for the
lost ducats, and made an attempt to reorganize his band, which did,
indeed, do a little maurauding on its own account; but when the news
reached him, through one of his paid spies, that four hundred infantry
with a cannon had reached Szaszvar from Szeb--the very word "a connon"
had such an effect upon the robbers that they scattered in every
direction as if a tempest had dispersed them.
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