"On returning, my mother took Marcsa home with her, and plaited her long hair with pretty rainbow-coloured ribbons, put a string of garnets round her neck, and a pair of fine shoes on her little feet; and all gaily dressed, she took her—none of us knew whither.

"I followed them, however, to the Theiss, when my mother bade me go and ask the ferryman to take us across to the mill, where my brother was serving; and we all three sat down in the boat.

"Even now I think I see the beautiful girl: it seems as it were but yesterday that she sat in the boat before me by my mother's side, blushing modestly, her sparkling eyes cast down. Her heart told her whither we were going.

"My brother recognised us from a distance, and seeing that we were rowing towards him, and his beloved sitting by his mother's side and on her right hand, he rushed joyfully down to his boat, and pushing it off, leaped in and rowed to meet us.

"When he came up to us, and he and his bride raised their eyes towards each other, the poor things scarcely knew what they were about for joy—they looked as if they could have flown, to rush the sooner into one another's arms. Joska guided his boat alongside of ours that we might step in, and coming to the bow, he stretched out his arms to Marcsa, who trembled like the delibab36 with joy and emotion.

"At that moment the boat overbalanced, and my brother suddenly fell between the two boats, and disappeared from our sight.

"The unhappy bride, who had stretched out her arms to the bridegroom for whom she had endured so much and worked so hard, uttered a fearful cry, and threw herself after him into the Theiss.

"My poor mother and I wrung our hands, and called for help, which brought out the millers from the other side, who hastened down to their boats, and put off towards us: in a short time they took up Marcsa, whose wide dress floated on the surface; but they could not find my brother, and we never saw anything more of him from that hour, except his wreathed bonnet37 floating on the water.

"Three days afterwards, my mother was struck with apoplexy, and the poor bride lay insensible in a violent fever. For six weeks she continued more dead than alive; and when at last she was able to rise, her beauty was all gone—you could scarcely have recognised her as the same person.

"For some time we only remarked that she was very sad and thoughtful, and would sit all day without speaking a word; but by and bye, to our astonishment, she would go down to the river, and when the miller's boys came over in their boats, would ask, 'What news from Joska bacsi?'

"At first we thought this was still only the effect of fever,—for during her illness she had raved incessantly of Joska; but as time wore on, and she was always doing stranger things, our eyes began to open to the melancholy truth. One day she went home, and telling us she was going to arrange her house, that it might be in order when Joska bacsi came, she began turning up all the chairs and tables, whitewashed the house, killed her little poultry one after the other, and then began cooking and baking to prepare for the wedding. All at once, however, she became quite distracted: knew no person by name, would speak aloud in the church, and pray and sing along the roads; she would do no work, and was indeed quite incapable—entangled all her yarn, saying she would get more money for it if in that condition, and set out empty egg-shells for market. At last, the wandering mania came upon her. One evening she disappeared from her house; and after searching everywhere for five days, we found her among high reeds by the river's side—her face disfigured, and her clothes all torn. Since that time, the poor creature has remained insane. Her beauty had passed away like the wind, and in four years she was the broken-down old woman you now see her, and that was full sixty years ago.

"Every one has now forgotten the event, for few are living who witnessed it; and the oldest man remembers her since his childhood as Crazy Marcsa, who minds neither cold nor hunger, fasts for days together and eats whatever is placed before her, collects every gaudy rag and sews it on her dress, calls old and young nene (elder sister), and asks but one question—'What news from Joska bacsi?'

"The folks laugh at her, but none know that her bridegroom lies below the Tisza water; and the merry girls in the spinning-rooms have little thought, when they make fun of Marcsa, that the wrinkled and fearful old creature was once as gay and smiling—ay, and prettier far than any of themselves. Such is life, good sir!"

The old man emptied his pipe: it was getting late. I thanked him for the tale, and pressing his hand, returned slowly and thoughtfully home.

"Strange, that a peasant should go mad for love! Only great folks can do that!"

I heard another case, in Bekes, of an idiot who was to all appearance a very quiet and industrious man. One could scarcely perceive any symptoms of insanity about him; but if the name Gyuri (George) were uttered in his hearing, he would start up—whether he was eating or working, or from whatever his employment might be—dash down his spoon or his saw, and run without stopping till he fell down from utter exhaustion.

Mischievous boys would sometimes make him run thus for their senseless amusement; at other times, the name, unguardedly dropped, would send him rushing to and fro: but otherwise, he was the quietest, gentlest creature in the world, and one might converse with him as with any other person.

His story was as follows:—

It happened once, that on a bright December day he and another shepherd boy had gone out to the plains with their flocks. It was a remarkably fine winter; there had been no frost as yet, and the whole plain was as green, and the sun as warm, as on a day in spring.

The two boys had driven their sheep to a great distance, when all at once, towards evening, a sharp and biting wind arose from the north. In an hour the weather had changed, and the horizon was overcast with heavy dark-blue clouds, which seemed angrily contending with the north wind. The ravens, those avant-couriers of the snowstorm, assembled in vast flocks, mingling their cries with the howling of the wind.

The shepherd boys hastily assembled their sheep, and began to drive them home. Scarcely had they proceeded a few hundred yards, however, when the horizon had completely darkened, the snow fell thickly, driven about by the wind, and in a few moments the path which guided them was covered. Meanwhile, the cold had sensibly increased, the ground was soon frozen quite hard, and the boys had lost all traces of their homeward way—they ran hither and thither, listening, and looking around them. No glimmering light was to be seen, nor the barking of a dog to be heard. Night had come on, and they had strayed into the puszta!

What was to be done? It was impossible to drive the sheep farther, for they crowded all in a heap, with their heads together.

"We will do like the sheep," said the herd-boys; and spreading their Izurok38 upon the ground, they lay down close to one another, endeavouring by the heat of their bodies to keep out the frost: and thus, with their arms clasped tightly round each other, they awaited the long stormy night, during which the snow never ceased an instant, and soon covered them both.

Pista—so one of them was called—could not close his eyes all night: he heard the cries of the ravens incessantly above his head, and the roaring of the storm, which seemed hushed at intervals only to burst out more furiously, like the wrath of some huge monster, while the chill blast seemed to pierce him through, and turn his blood to ice. But his comrade Gyuri slept soundly, although he continually called in his ear in order to awake him; for he feared to listen to his heavy snoring, and to be alone awake. At length the sleeper ceased to snore, and breathed quietly for a time, till by degrees the breathing too became fainter and fainter.

When at last the fearful night had passed, and the clouds of snow had cleared away, and day began to break upon the hoary world, Pista tried to rise and wake his companion, who was still sound asleep, and kept his arms clasped tightly round his neck; but all his exertions could not wake him.

"Gyuri, awake!" he cried, shaking the sleeper; but Gyuri did not wake.

"Gyuri, awake!" he repeated in terror; but Gyuri's sleep was an eternal one—the boy was frozen.

When Pista saw that his comrade was dead, he tried in vain to release himself from his grasp; but the stiff dead arms were clasped so tightly round his neck, it was impossible to extricate them.

The terrified boy, finding himself face to face with the dead, who held him with such irresistible power in his fearful embrace, while the glazed and motionless eyes looked straight into his own, struggled fearfully through the snow, and dashed into the rushes, where the villagers who had come out to search for them most providentially found him, still crying out—"Gyuri, awake! Gyuri, let me go!"

They freed him with great difficulty from his companion's arms, but terror had deprived him of reason from that hour.

He never does any harm, or quarrels with anybody; and he speaks sensibly and quietly, unless his comrade's name is mentioned, when he will take to his heels and run as long as he has breath in his body.

Mental derangement does not always assume a melancholy form: here and there we meet with most grotesque examples, whose peculiar slyness and original ideas are most amusing. Outwardly they are always gay: who may know what passes within?

We had an instance of the latter species of madness in Transylvania. Boho Boris (silly Barbara) was known through the whole district.

She was never seen for one week in the same place, but wandered continually about; her whole travelling apparatus consisting of a guitar, which she slung around her neck, and went singing away to the next neighbour or the nearest town.

She found her table always covered; for she was quite at home in every gentleman's house, never waiting to be invited, and ordered all the servants about whether they would or not. Her apparel seemed to grow like the flowers of the meadow, without the assistance of tailors or marchandes de modes,—not that petticoats and ruffles actually sprang out of the earth on her account, but whenever she was tired of any article of apparel, or did not fancy wearing it longer, she would doff it at the first gentleman's house she came to, and put on a dress belonging to the lady of the mansion, declaring with the utmost gravity that it suited her very well; and the Transylvanian ladies were too generous not to leave her in her confidence, and in undisturbed possession of the new dress.

Once a great lady, Countess N——, pitying poor Boris's uncertain mode of life, invited her to her castle, promising to keep her as long as she lived.

Now this good lady had one or two little peculiarities. In the first place, she was very sentimental, and always dreaming of some hero of romance; secondly, she was extremely sensitive, and if any person unmercifully wounded her tender heart, she was always sure to swoon away; and thirdly, having swooned away, she always waited till the whole household had assembled round her, and could not be brought to herself as long as one member of it failed.

Boho Biri being constantly with the Countess, had the full benefit of her eccentricities. This, however, did not seem to annoy her in the least: when the lady spoke of her love affairs, Boris spoke of her own; when the Countess sighed deeply, Boho Biri sighed still deeper; if the Countess described her injuries or her bitter fate in prose, Biri illustrated hers in verse; and when the Countess, overcome by her emotions, fainted away on a sofa, Boho Biri fainted on another, and always remained full half an hour longer in her swoon than the lady herself. If it were necessary to take cramp, when the Countess had only commenced, Boho Biri was already roaring so as to bring the whole household to the rescue.

Finally, however, it became too much for Boris. One day, taking up her guitar, and putting a roll in her pocket, she announced her intention to depart.

The good lady in astonishment asked why.

Boho Biri struck an accord on her guitar, and raising herself on the tips of her toes, she answered, with dignified composure: "Two fools are one too many in one house!"

COMORN.

There were churches in Comorn unrivalled in Hungary for their beautiful frescoes. There was the great Universal Academy, opposite the Reformed Church; the old County-house, crowning three streets; the gigantic Town-hall; the great Military Hospital; the fine row of buildings on the Danube, which gave the town the air of a great city; the High Street, with its quaint edifices; the Calvary,39 and the romantic promenade in the centre of the town.

In the midst of the Danube there is a little island—whoever has seen it in former days, may have an idea of paradise! On crossing the bridge which united it to the town, an alley of gigantic palm-pines extended from one end of the island to the other, through which the rays of the sun gleamed like a golden network. The island was beautifully laid out in gardens, which furnished the town with fruit. In summer, the gay population held many a fête here.

Then in winter, when the cold confined the inhabitants to the town, what merriment and cheerfulness were to be seen everywhere! The young men of the district assembled for the Christmas tree and the Carnival festivities. Every mansion was open, and its hospitable landlord ready to receive alike rich and poor.

On Sundays and holidays, as soon as the early bells began to toll, a serious and well-conditioned population were seen crowding to the churches—the women in silken dresses, the men in rich pelisses fastened with heavy golden clasps; and when an offering was wanting, none were found remiss. At one oration by a popular preacher, the magnates deposited their jewelled clasps, buttons, and gold chains, in heaps at the threshold of the church; and with this gift the vast school was built which stood opposite the Reformed Church.

All this was—and is no more! Two-thirds of the edifices have been reduced to ashes; three churches—among them the double-towered one with the fine frescoes, the Town-hall, the County-house, the Hospital, the High Street, the Danube row, and the entire square, with more than a thousand houses, have been burnt to the ground! What remained was battered to pieces by the balls, and destroyed by the inundation and the ice in the following spring.

The beautiful island was laid waste, the trees cut down, and the bridge destroyed! Where are the joyous scenes of the past, the pleasant intercourse, and the gay society? The carnival music and the holiday bells are mute; the streets are empty, the houses roofless, and the people wretched!

It was a fearful night—raining, freezing, and blowing hard, while the shells were bursting over the town, and whistling like wingless demons through the midnight air. The congreve rocket ascended in its serpentine flight, shaking its fiery tail; while the heavy bomb rose higher and higher, trembling with the fire within, till, suddenly turning, it fell to the earth with a fearful crash, or, bursting in the air, scattered its various fragments far and wide upon the roofs below.

The szurok koszorus40 descended like falling meteors, while here and there a fiery red ball darted up between them, like a star of destruction rising from hell. It seemed indeed as if the infernal regions had risen against heaven, and were venting their fury against the angels,—bringing down hosts of stars with the voice of thunder.

Several houses on which the bombs descended had taken fire, and the wind carrying the sparks from roof to roof, a church, which had hitherto escaped destruction, was soon enveloped in flames. It was the Reformed Church. Some zealous partisans of this faith endeavoured to rescue their church; but they were few, and, after great exertions, amidst showers of balls, which whistled incessantly around, they succeeded at last in preventing the fire extending further, but there were not enough of hands to save the church—the flames had already reached the tower.

The light of the burning church gleamed far through the darkness on a troop of horsemen, who were hastening towards the fortress. They were hussars; their leader was a short, strong-built man, with light-brown hair and a ruddy complexion, which was heightened by the glare of the fire. His lips were compressed, and his eye flashed as he pointed towards the burning tower, and redoubled his speed. On reaching the Danube they were promptly challenged by the sentinel; and the leader, snatching a paper from his bosom, presented it to the officer on guard, who, after a hasty glance, saluted the stranger respectfully, and suffered the troop to pass across into the town.

At the extremity of the street which leads to the Vag,41 and where there was least danger to be apprehended from the enemy's battery, their progress was arrested by a crowd of men, principally officers of the national guard, who were standing gazing on the fire.

The leader of the troop rode up to them, and inquired, in a voice of stern command, what their business was in that quarter.

"Who are you, sir?" replied a stout gentleman, with a large beard and a gold-braided pelisse, in a tone of offended dignity.

It was easy to judge by his appearance that he was one of those representative dignitaries, ever jealous of their authority before the military.

"My name is Richard Guyon!" replied the stranger; "henceforward commander of this fort. I ask again, gentlemen, what do you want here?"

At the mention of this name, some voices among the crowd cried, "Eljen!" (vivat!)

"I don't want Eljens," cried Guyon, "but deeds! Why are none of you assisting to extinguish the fire?"

"I beg your pardon, General," replied the municipal major sheepishly, assuming a parliamentary attitude before the commander, "but really the balls are flying so thickly in that direction, it would be only tempting Providence and throwing away lives in vain."

"The soldier's place is where the balls are flying—move on, gentlemen!"

"Excuse me, General, probably you have not witnessed it; but really the enemy are firing in such an unloyal manner, not only bombs of a hundred and sixty pounds' weight, and shells which burst in every direction, but also grenades, and fiery balls of every description, which are all directed against those burning houses." The worthy major endeavoured to introduce as much rhetoric as possible into his excuses.

"Will you go, sir, or will you not?" cried the General, cutting short his oration, and drawing a pistol from his saddle bow, he deliberately pointed it at the forehead of the argumentative major, indicating that his present position was as dangerous as the one he dreaded in the midst of bombs and fiery balls.

"Mercy!" he stammered; "I only wished to express my humble opinion."

"I am not used to many words. In the hour of danger, I command my men to follow, not to precede me; whoever has any feeling of honour has heard my words;" and, dashing his spurs into his horse, he galloped forward.

In a few seconds the place was empty—not a man remained behind. An hour afterwards, thousands were eagerly working to extinguish the fire. The commander himself, foremost in the danger, seemed to be everywhere at once; wherever the balls flew thickest and the fire raged most furiously, his voice was heard exciting and encouraging his men. "Never mind the balls, my lads, they never strike those who do not fear them."

At that instant the aide-de-camp at his side was struck down by a twenty-four pounder. The General, without being discouraged by this mal-à-propos sequel to his words, only added—"Or when they do, it is a glorious death!"

A universal "Eljen!" rose above the thunder of the cannon and the howling of the elements.

"On, lads! save the spire!" continued the General.

The bells of the tower had already fallen, one by one, into the church, but the fire was visibly decreasing, and the people redoubled their exertions, working hard until the morning. Their efforts were crowned with success; and the tower, with its great metal spire, stands to this day; thanks to the energy and courage of the hero of Branyisko.42

The day following, the principal officers of the fort hastened to present themselves to their commander. He reproached them for their negligence in allowing the fortress to be bombarded by troops which were scarcely more than the garrison of the place, and quietly suffering them to place their batteries on the hill opposite, from whence they fired incessantly into the town. The officers retired in great confusion, promising their commander that the evil should soon be repaired.

The town dignitaries next made their appearance, to pay their respects to the new governor—a most honourable set of periwigged worthies dating from 1790. The General received them graciously, and invited all those who had called on him to dinner, assuring them, in broken Hungarian, that they should have capital entertainment.

Everybody was charmed with the condescension and affability of the future commander; although, "It must be allowed," they added, "he treats the Magyar language with as little mercy as he does our enemies."

"If our vis-à-vis would only give us peace for a time," remarked the above-mentioned municipal major, who, in consideration of his official dignity, was desirous of keeping on good terms with the commander. The rest of the worthy gentlemen present signified, by their gestures, that they considered the remark not altogether unreasonable.

The major, judging by Guyon's thoughtful expression that he was duly considering the matter, ventured to add his humble opinion, that it might be advisable to propose a cessation of hostilities on the day of the entertainment, in order to celebrate in peace, and with all due honours, the arrival of their most excellent commander.

"It would be useless," replied the General, calmly, "for they would not give it."

"In that case," replied the major, "there is a spacious hall in the subterranean apartments of the bastions, where two hundred might dine commodiously."

"Indeed!" replied the General.

"Certainly; and plenty of room for a band of music besides."

"And cannot the bombs get in there?"

"O dear! no—not even the hundred and sixty pounders; the vaulted roof is strong an a rock, besides twelve feet of rock above. We can eat, drink, and give toasts," continued the major, "to our heart's content; the band may play, and the young folk dance, without endangering a hair of our heads!"

"Ah! a capital idea, truly! Perhaps you have already given fêtes there?"

"Oh, almost every day in winter; while the enemy were raising entrenchments over our heads, and trying their best to throw shells into the town, we were dancing quite snugly under the ramparts, and only laughing at them through the loopholes—ha, ha, ha!"

The major seemed to consider this an excellent joke, while the other dignitaries were cutting wry faces, recollecting that on such occasions but few, and those not the élite, remained without to protect the fort.

The General neither laughed nor looked displeased; he appeared satisfied with the major's plan, and dismissed the deputation, promising them that the next day's entertainment should be the most agreeable they had ever yet partaken of.

At the hour appointed, a large party, in gala costumes and with holiday demeanour, assembled in the pavilion of the fort.

The General received his guests with his usual cordiality, and, as soon as the attendants announced that the banquet was prepared, he invited them to accompany him thither.

It was a glorious spring evening. The soldiers greeted the brilliant cortège with loud "Eljens!" as they passed the gates of the castle.

Among the guests was our bearded major, who took the utmost pains to insinuate himself into the good graces of the General, constantly addressing him in the most facetious manner, so that those who heard the conversation might have supposed they were on the most intimate footing possible.

"Your excellency is pleased to survey the ramparts?" he remarked in the softest tone imaginable, which he had learnt as a lord-lieutenant.

"I surveyed them all early this morning," replied the General; "they are in good condition."

"Especially that one which your excellency was pleased to hear me mention yesterday."

"And where we are going to dine to-day," pursued the General.

"He, he! indeed!" The major was ready to burst with pride. "I am truly flattered, rejoiced, that my humble opinion has met with your excellency's approbation."

They had now entered the court of the old fortress. The bastion in question, with its gigantic, massive walls, is built over the Danube. Its roof is protected by the high walls of the fortress, which, covered with beautiful green turf, formed the most agreeable promenade possible. To the east of the bastion there was a small rondella, where the former governor, Bakonyi, was in the habit of spending his leisure hours with his friends in those good old times when people lived on more friendly terms than they do now.

There were placed before this rondella about half a dozen tables, sumptuously covered with superb confections and flowers, relieved by bottles of every description.43

The rondella itself was tastefully decorated with evergreens and banners of the national colours.

The approaching guests perceived these tables laid out on the top of the bastion, with a curious sensation, unlike that which we are wont to experience at the sight of a dinner-table under ordinary circumstances. The major alone did not seem to take the matter into consideration, and, turning to the entrance of the bastion tunnel, he officiously offered his services to lead the way to the subterranean hall.

"Not there!" cried the General, "but upon the top of the bastion! Do you not perceive, gentlemen, our tables are prepared there?"

The major attempted to smile, but his teeth chattered.

"Your excellency is pleased to jest, he! he!—surely the hall is far pleasanter, and more convenient."

"Are you dreaming, major? lock one's-self up this beautiful evening in a dank hole, where scarce a ray of light enters two spans of loophole! It would be sinning against nature; here in the open air we shall enjoy ourselves famously!"

The major would willingly have been excused such enjoyment.

"And are we all to dine up there?" he asked, while his chin trembled visibly.

"Certainly, of course," replied the General; and perceiving it was one of those occasions in which the word follow must be substituted for on, he deliberately ascended the steps to the bastion, his guests reluctantly following, more like a troop of victims brought to unwilling martyrdom, than a festal procession approaching a banquet.

The municipal major not only relinquished his position close to the General's ear, but actually managed to fall behind—evidently evincing an inclination to make himself scarce when the opportunity should offer. The General's condescension, however, was so great as to seek him out, take his arm, and lead on to the ramparts, where he engaged him in close conversation.

"What a glorious view! See how the Danube washes the walls of the bastion! Mark the enemy's ramparts, where the great guns are pointed towards us—why, we can actually see into them! There stand the howitzers, and a bomb-mortar—remarkably clear atmosphere, major! See now, an artilleryman has just come out on the ramparts; one can distinguish his facings perfectly, even at that distance! Superb weather, major, is it not?"

It is quite certain that if the General had not forcibly retained his man, keeping him in conversation until they sat down to dinner, the worthy major would have slipped through his fingers like an eel; as it was, there was no other course for him but to resign himself to his fate, while he heartily wished that this transparent atmosphere would give place to so dense a fog, that they should not be able to distinguish each other across the table.

The guests had taken their places with no small uneasiness, each eyeing his neighbour's countenance, in the vain hope of discovering some degree of that confidence which he lacked himself—but resignation was the utmost that could be traced in any expression.

The General placed the major on his right hand: he was desirous of distinguishing him in his military dress.

Meanwhile, as the dishes were served and the wine circled, the spirits of the guests began to rise, and the clouds of uneasiness which had darkened each brow dissipated by degrees before the inward light which the good wine diffused. The conversation flowed more freely; some even ventured to jest, afterwards to laugh heartily.

The unhappy major alone did not seem to partake of the universal dissipation. He elbowed his loquacious neighbour with tears in his eyes, trod on the feet of his vis-à-vis under the table, accompanying these actions with an imploring gesture that they should speak and laugh less loudly; while he himself used his knife and fork with the utmost caution, looking every now and then over his shoulder at the cannon, howitzers, and artillerymen opposite—now spilling the soup down his neck, and now conveying to his ear the morsel intended for his mouth, or biting the empty fork from which the meat had fallen, while he sprinkled large quantities of cayenne and salt over the confections, and finally drank the vinegar intended for the salad, to the infinite amusement of the spectators. Even the General regarded his victim with inward satisfaction, though it was not his custom to express any visible emotion. He frequently recommended him one or other excellent wine; but the major would not be persuaded to drink anything but water, which he swallowed in large quantities, declaring that he was exceedingly warm—which was not improbable.

At the height of the entertainment, when the roses of good humour bloomed on every countenance, the major summoned all his resolution, and sidling close up to the commander, whispered in his ear: "It is very well that the besiegers are dining also at present, and therefore have not observed us, otherwise it might be no joke if they caught a glimpse of us."

"True; the poor devils would then have to leave their dinners, and amuse themselves firing at us."

The major would gladly have been excused such amusement.

"Meanwhile," pursued the commander, "we shall give them a toast;" and pouring out a glass of genuine tokay, he rose from his seat.

There was a universal silence.

"Gentlemen!" cried the governor, in a loud clear voice, "let us drink to the land of the Magyar!"

A tremendous cheer burst from every mouth, and the guests rising, struck their glasses together. Every idea of fear seemed banished at the word. Three times three the cheer was repeated, with such thundering applause that the very bastion trembled.

The poor major extended his arms in utter despair: he looked like a man vainly endeavouring to stifle the explosion of a revolution; and to add to his distress, scarcely had the third cheer died away, than the military music which was concealed in the rondella struck up the Rakoczy March.

"We are betrayed! we are undone!" he exclaimed, throwing himself violently back in his chair. "Sir Governor, Sir Commander, now is the moment for us to leave the place! The enemy's guns are directed towards us—we shall have the bombs pouring upon us!"

"That would be only giving ourselves trouble," replied the General coolly; "and besides, I should like to see how they aim."

"But I don't want to see; my life is not my own, it belongs to my country. It is not permitted to risk it thus; the Diet would not allow it."

"Set your mind at ease, my dear major; I will take the whole responsibility of your precious life before the Diet. Meanwhile, orders have been given that none shall quit the bastion until I go myself."

The major's anguish was not altogether without foundation; for the music having attracted the attention of the besiegers, their cannon began firing one by one, and several balls whistled past the revellers.

"Aha! in this case we must protect ourselves," cried the General; and without moving from his seat, he desired his attendants to prepare the battery.

This battery consisted of champagne bottles well preserved in ice, the popping of which most ludicrously parodied the cannons of the enemy, while the generous wine increased the good humour of the reckless company.

The music continued to play one national air after another; as soon as the first band ceased another struck up, the company joining their voices in full chorus to the most familiar airs.

Meanwhile the bombs were falling right and left: some, splashing into the Danube, burst at the bottom, or without extinguishing, struck the water again and again. Others whistled past the pavilion, and burst above it; but none as yet came near the tables.

The merry party made light of it all, crying "good speed" to those which flew over their heads, offering a glass to renew their strength, promising to let down ropes to such as fell into the moat. In short, what they had looked upon with awe from a distance, they now considered capital diversion.

The poor major suffered the most exquisite pangs of terror: bobbing his head each time a shell flew over the ramparts at the distance of a hundred fathoms, or starting aside from the passing balls; and as often as a bomb burst, he almost fell on his back in the most violent contortions.

Meanwhile, as the day closed, the sounds of music, as well as the beauty of the evening, had attracted various groups of well-dressed people to the ramparts; and notwithstanding the thundering of the cannon, the fair sex formed no small portion of the curious, whose desire of amusement overcame their timidity.

The moon rose brilliantly upon the landscape; and by its bewitching light the youth abandoned themselves to the dance, with as little thought as if the thundering around were a salute in honour of a bridal festival.

The national dance seemed especially to please the General; and once, when he expressed his admiration by a hearty 'bravo' at some dexterous turn, a merry little dark-eyed sylph tripped up to him, and succeeded in leading him forth to the "Wedding of Tolna"—a favourite dance, where he allowed himself to be wheeled about through all the mazes, performing each manœuvre required of him with that almost English coolness which characterized him.

A little episode now occurred, which caused a short interruption. A grenade fell burning, almost at the feet of the General. Several of the dancers fled, while the boldest of the party wished to pour water over it, and others in jest proposed to cover it with a hat.

"Let all remain in their places!" cried the General.

At this command everybody remained stationary. Even the women endeavoured to conceal their fear, and one or two of the girls peeped inquisitively forward, scarcely comprehending the danger with which they were threatened.

The bearded major, however, seemed fully alive to all the horror of his situation; for no sooner did the grenade fall hissing among them, than he broke at once through all constraint, and with a roar like a bull, as if in compensation for all he had hitherto endured in silence, rushed from the spot as if he were possessed by legion, and without looking right or left, precipitated himself into the moat, regardless of its height. Providentially he reached the bottom, at a depth of four-and-twenty feet, with bones unbroken, and there lay upon his stomach, with closed eyes, awaiting the issue of the hideous catastrophe.

The grenade meanwhile turned quickly round like a spinning-top on the spot where it had fallen, the rocket flame from within describing a bright circle round it. The bystanders breathlessly awaited the moment of its explosion.

Suddenly it ceased turning, and the fiery circle disappeared. Whoever is acquainted with the nature of these balls, will know, that between the spinning round of the grenade-rocket in its flame and that instant in which—the spark having reached the powder—it explodes, there is an interval of a few seconds, in which the grenade stands still.

In this interval it was that the commander suddenly rose, and approaching the grenade, lifted it in his hands and dashed it into the moat.

The sudden explosion which instantly followed proved that the ball had just been thrown in time, while the yell which immediately succeeded seemed to indicate that the direction had not been equally well chosen; and in truth the grenade had burst scarcely two spans from the unlucky major, although, strange to say, with no more serious consequence than that from that day forward he has heard with difficulty with the right ear.

After this little bravado—whose authenticity more than one eye-witness can guarantee—the General allowed the company to disperse; and from that day fear seemed banished from all hearts; and grenades, and other fiery implements, were looked upon with even greater coolness than before.

On taking leave of his guests, the General promised them a tranquil night, to compensate for the agitation of the day; and he was as good as his word, for that very night he made a sally with some troops above the Nadorvonal,44 and compelled the enemy to withdraw their battery.