“If you are tired of waiting, I can press the match lower.”

“This is no jest, Numa; you are risking your own life.  How can you wish to send us both to hell for the sake of a pale girl?  But I’ll tell you what—­I’ll give her up to you if you will only promise that she shall be mine when you are tired of her.”

“Remain here and win her—­if you dare.”

“To what purpose?” said the Wallachian, in a whining voice, and in his impatience he began to tear his clothes and stamp with his feet, like a petted child.

“What I have said stands good,” said the Decurio; “whoever remains longest has the sole right to the lady.”

“Well, I will stay, of course; but what do I gain by it?  I know you will stay, too, and then the devil will have us both; and I speak not only for myself when I say I do not wish that.”

“If you do not wish it, you had better be gone.”

“Well, I don’t care—­if you will give me a golden mark.”

“Not the half; stay if you like it.”

“Decurio, this is madness!  The flame will reach the powder immediately.”

“I see it.”

“Well, say a dollar.”

“Not a whit.”

“May the seventy-seven limited thunder-bolt strike you on St. Michael’s Day!” roared the Wallachian fiercely, as he rushed to the door; but after he had gone out, he once more thrust his head in and cried:  “Will you give even a florin?  I am not gone yet.”

“Nor have I removed the match; you may come back.”  The Wallachian slammed the door, and ran for his life, till exhausted and breathless he sank under a tree, where he lay with his tunic over his head, and his ears covered with his hands, only now and then raising his head nervously, to listen for the awful explosion which was to blow up the world.

Meanwhile Numa coolly removed the match, which was entirely burnt down; and throwing it into the grate, he stepped over to the bed and whispered into the young girl’s ear:  “You are free!”

Trembling, she raised herself in the bed and taking the Decurio’s large, sinewy hands within her own, she murmured:  “Be merciful!  O hear my prayer, and kill me!”

The Decurio stroked the fair hair of the lovely suppliant.

“Poor child!” he replied gently; “you have nothing to fear; nobody will hurt you now.”

“You have saved me from these fearful people—­now save me from yourself!”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” replied the Dacian, proudly; “I fight for liberty alone, and you may rest as securely within my threshold as on the steps of the altar.  When I am absent you need have no anxiety, for these walls are impregnable, and if anyone should dare offend you by the slightest look, that moment shall be the last of his mortal career.  And when I am at home you have nothing to fear, for woman’s image never dwelt within my heart.  Accept my poor couch, and may your rest be sweet!—­Imre Bardy slept on it last night.”