The following morning I left the house of my too-hospitable entertainers.  My destination now was St Miklos.  My road thither lay through a pine-forest, as lonely a tract as could well be imagined, for there were no signs whatever of human habitations.  Certainly the weird solitude of a pine-wood is more impressive than any other kind of forest scenery.  Under the impervious shade and the long grey vistas, one moves forward with something of a superstitious feeling, as though one were intruding into the sanctuary of unseen spirits.  I cannot say that I was a prey to such idle fancies, for the spirits I was likely to meet would be very tangible enemies.  This district had a bad reputation, owing to several robberies having been committed in the neighbourhood; in fact the whole country was just then under martial law.  I was well armed, and being alone I kept my weather-eye open; but I saw not even the ghost of a brigand, and reached St Miklos in safety.

It is usual when incendiary fires or robberies have been rife in any district to place that part of the country under the Statorium, so that if any person or persons are caught in flagrante delicto, they are summarily tried and hung before a week is over.  When I was in Transylvania in the autumn of ’75, the whole of the north-eastern corner was under the Statorium.

At St Miklos I put up at the house of an Armenian, who received me with a most frank and kindly welcome, conducting me to the guest-chamber himself after giving orders to the servants to attend to my horse.  St Miklos is charmingly situated in the valley of Gyergyo, at an elevation of nearly 3000 feet above the sea-level.  Here one is right in amongst the mountains, the higher summits rising grandly around.  The scenery is very fine.  There are interminable forests on every side, broken by ravines and valleys, with strips of green pasture-land.  In former times these primeval woods were tenanted by the wild aurochs, but now one sees only the long-horned white cattle and the wiry little horses belonging to the villages that nestle about in unexpected places.  St Miklos is almost entirely inhabited by Armenians.  There is a market here, and it is considered the central place of the district.  The year before my visit the town was nearly destroyed by fire.  Upwards of three hundred houses were burned down in less than three hours.  The loss of property was considerable, including stores of hay and kukoricz (Indian corn).  Since this conflagration, which caused such widespread distress in the place, they have established a volunteer fire brigade.  This ought to exist in every village.  Prompt action would often arrest the serious proportions of a fire.  It would be a good thing if some substitute could be found for the wooden tiles used for roofing; in course of time they become like tinder, and a spark will fire the roof.  The houses in Hungary are not, as a rule, constructed of wood, as in Upper Austria and Styria, nor are they nearly so picturesque as in that part of the world.  In some Hungarian villages the cottages are painted partly blue and partly yellow, which has a very odd effect; and throughout the country they are built with the gable-end to the road.