So the body of Theodor Krisstyan was buried with great pomp, and a year later Timea married Major Katschuka, and then, haunted by the doubt whether her first husband was really dead, pined away.

No blessing rested on the wealth Timar left behind him.  The only son Timea bore to the major was a great spendthrift, and in his hands the fabulous wealth vanished as quickly as it had grown.

* * * * *

And what is passing meanwhile on the ownerless island?

Forty years have passed since Timar’s disappearance from Komorn, and the island is now a complete model farm.  Recently, a friend of mine, an ardent naturalist, took me to the island.  I had heard as a child of Timar and his wealth.

Every inch of ground is utilised or serves to beautify the place.  The tobacco grown here has the most exquisite aroma, and the beehives look from a distance like a small town with many-shaped roofs.

It is easy to see that the owner of the island understands luxury, and yet that owner never has a farthing to call his own; no money ever enters the island.  Those however, who need the exports know also the requirements of the islanders, and bring them for barter.

The whole colony consisted of one family, and each was called only by his Christian name.  The six sons of the first settler had married women of the district, and the numbers of grandchildren and great-grandchildren already exceeded forty, but the island maintained them all.  Poverty was unknown; they lived in luxury; each knew some trade, and if they had been ten times as many, their labour would have supported them.

When we arrived on the island, the nominal head of the family, a well-built man of forty, received us cordially, and in the evening presented us to his parents.

When my name was mentioned to the old man he looked long at me, and a visible colour rose in his cheeks.  I began to tell him of what was going on in the world, that Hungary was now united to Austria, and that the taxes were very heavy.

He blew a cloud from his pipe, and the smoke said, “My island has nothing to do with that, we have no taxes here.”

I told him of wars, financial panics, the strife of religion and politics, and the smoke seemed to say, “We wage war with no one here.  Thank God, we have no money here and no elections or ministers.”

Presently the old man asked me where I was born, and what my profession was?  And when I told him that I wrote romances, he said, “Guess my story.  There was once a man who left a world in which he was admired and respected, and created a second world in which he was loved.”

“May I venture to ask your name?” I said.

The old man seemed to grow a head taller; then, raising his trembling hands, he laid them on my head.  And it seemed to me as if once, long, long before those same hands had rested on my head when childish curls covered it, and that I had seen that noble face before.