“To me,” said the princess, “the choice of life is become less important; I hope, hereafter, to think only on the choice of eternity.”

It was now the time of the inundations of the Nile, and the searchers for happiness were, of necessity, confined to their house.  Being, however, well supplied with materials for talk, they diverted themselves with comparisons of the different forms of life which they had observed, and with various schemes of happiness which each of them had formed—­ schemes which now they well knew would never be carried out.

They deliberated with Imlac what was to be done, and finally resolved, when the inundation should cease, to return to Abyssinia.

* * * * *

MAURUS JOKAI

Timar’s Two Worlds

Maurus Jokai, by common consent the greatest Hungarian novelist of the nineteenth century, was born at Komarom on February 19, 1825.  Trained for the law, as an advocate he achieved the distinction of winning his first case.  The drudgery of a lawyer’s office, however, proved uncongenial to him, and fired by the success of his first play, “The Jew Boy” ("Zsido fiu"), he went to Pest, where he devoted himself to journalism, in due course becoming editor of “Eletkepek,” a leading Hungarian literary periodical.  At the outbreak of the Revolution of 1848, he threw himself in with the supporters of the national cause.  From that time until his death—­which occurred on May 4, 1904—­Jokai identified himself considerably with politics.  Of all his novels perhaps, “Az arany ember” ("A Man of Gold"), translated into English under the title of “Timar’s Two Worlds,” takes the highest place.  Its reputation has long since spread outside the boundaries of Hungary, and the story itself—­a rare combination of descriptive power, humour, and pathos—­has exercised no small influence upon European fiction of the romantic order.

I.—­How Ali Saved his Daughter

A mountain-chain, pierced through from base to summit—­a gorge four miles in length walled in by lofty precipices; and between these walls flows the Danube in its rocky bed.

At this time there were no steamers on the Danube, but a vessel, called the St. Barbara, approaches, drawn against the stream by thirty-two horses.  The fate of the vessel lies in the hands of two men—­the pilot and the captain.

The name of the captain is Michael Timar.  He is a man of about thirty, with fair hair and dreary blue eyes.

At the door of the ship’s cabin sits a man of fifty, smoking a Turkish chibouque.  Euthemio Trikaliss is the name under which he is registered in the way-book, and he is the owner of the cargo.  The ship itself belongs to a merchant of Komorn called Athanas Brazovics.

Out of one of the cabin windows looks the face of a young girl, Timea, the daughter of Euthemio, and the face is as white as marble.  Timea and her father are the only passengers of the St. Barbara.