My worthy uncle had been endeavouring to reach my back with this cane for some minutes, when, just as he was about to aim a cruel blow, I disappeared from his sight.

The good man had not much time for astonishment; for the next instant the earth opened beneath him, and he too fell head foremost, from depth to depth, as I had done, wondering in which part of the lower world we should alight.

On reaching the bottom, we found ourselves in total darkness.

"O me! O me!" groaned the worthy man; "I am d——d—dead and d——d! there is no doubt of it. Wo to my sinful soul! The good priest always warned me not to swear, or the devil would carry me away; and now he has me—with the guilt of meditated murder on my soul, too! Oh! Heaven be merciful to my sinful soul, and I will never swear again, nor poach! I will pay the priest's tithes, as much as is due, and give my daughter to her lover—only let me be saved from perdition!"

The good man trembled like a jelly, firmly believing he was at least in the vestibule of purgatory. Meantime, I had a good opportunity of hearing his resolutions of amendment; and plainly enough, too, for we had both fallen into the same wolf's trap, full twelve feet under ground, and were thus in tolerably good arrest for the present.

I began to reflect that although I had escaped one danger, I had probably fallen into another not less alarming; for, if a troop of wolves came tumbling in upon us, our resurrection would certainly be divested of all fleshly encumbrances.

However, it was no use to be afraid. One thing was certain: if the wolves came they would devour us, and if they did not come they would not devour us; but in either case, fear was useless. And, consoling myself with this argument, I took my pipe and tobacco-pouch from my pocket—for the pit was filled with innumerable gnats.

"Mercy on my sinful soul!" roared my uncle, starting up as he saw the light of my pipe in the darkness.

Of course I sat as still as a hare, determined to let him tremble a little longer; but, in the excess of his despair, he hit me such a kick with his spurred foot, that I was under the necessity of addressing him.

"Don't be uneasy, uncle," I exclaimed; "it is certainly an unfortunate occurrence, but you need not break your neighbour's bones."

"Nephew!" cried my uncle, in a voice of joy, "Nephew Peti! are you here too? are we alive? or where are we both, and how came we here?"

"Just as the rain comes from heaven, uncle, without a ladder; but let us rejoice that we have reached the bottom with sound limbs."

"Well, but where are we?"

"Why, in a wolf's pit."

"A wolf's pit! ten thousand fiery"—

"Softly, softly, uncle; remember the promises you have just made."

"Just made! did I know I was in a wolf's pit? I thought I was in a far more honourable place. How the tartar are we to get out of this? Three-and-thirty centuries of devils' livers! how the scorpion can I annihilate the accursed philosophy which dug a pit here? The leprosy take the idiot who invented it!—nine bucketfuls of dragons' nails! how the Alp can we be heard from this infernal hole?" and in this strain he continued, till the pit resounded with his elocution. At last, turning to me, "Nephew," he said, "just let me get up on your shoulders and see if there is any way of getting out of this, and if I succeed, I will help you up afterwards."

I submitted, and he mounted me, shouting to the full extent of his voice, while his enormous weight, and the exertions he made at each shout, made my position somewhat painful.

"You had better not make so much noise, dear uncle," I said, hoping he would dismount, "for if the wolves come in upon us we shall need no help out again."

At last my worthy uncle dismounted, and sat down, muttering and swearing to himself.

"Chains and dungeons! what is this?" he exclaimed, drawing a white heap from under his feet.

It was the dead goose which was placed on the top of the pit to allure the wolves, and had made its descent into the pit with us.

"But what are we to do here till the morning?" said my uncle; "the gnats will devour us. I thought the devils were pinching me with fiery tweezers!"

"Just do as I do, uncle; light your pipe and fumigate them."

"Well, you are a man, nephew; I swear there's something in you;" and, seeing there was nothing better to do, he lighted his pipe, and we smoked together as if for a wager.

"But now, nephew," began my uncle, after some silence, speaking with his pipe in his mouth, while he stirred the bowl with his little finger, "what the tartar have you to do in my house, eh?"

"Well, uncle, here or there, why should I deny it, I am in love with Esztike."

"But the proper way would have been to speak to me first."

"I am not in love with you, uncle."

"Nor I with you; but to come to the point, what business have you with the girl? love her, if you will, and as much as you like, but don't come near her; you can love her just as well nine miles off!"

"But that won't do, uncle. I don't want to love Esztike from such a distance. It was far enough between our two roofs; but if she has no objection, and no peculiar animosity to me—here, in the wolf's pit, with all solemnity, I demand her dear little hand, and if Mrs. Debora is to go with her, I will take her too."

"Take the tartar! why, she is my stepmother! You don't want to be my son and my father at once, do you? But I'll tell you what, nephew, you are still a child, and, what's more, you have nothing to break into your milk."

"Very true, uncle, nor the milk to break anything into; but the Almighty is rich, and He will assist us."

"Heaven does not make banknotes for anybody," said the old man, holding his pipe in the palm of his hand; "and you need not expect roasted sparrows to fly into your mouth, though you hold it open till doomsday!"

"Well, but what is not may yet be; in the beginning there was nothing, as the Bible tells us. I will go to Pesth, finish my studies, and be a tekintetes ur56 and advocate."

"A starving candidate!" interrupted my uncle; "it would have been better if you had been a priest; your father always wished it, honest man! but you were an obstinate rascal all your life. You might have been a chaplain now, and the deuce would not have brought us here; but I've said my word, and I'll make two out of it. Hark ye! the elections are approaching, and you may profit by them if you like; we will join the national meeting, and see what can be made of you."

"And then Esztike will be mine?"

"Storms of Karpath! can you think of nothing but Esztike?"

"Uncle, they may make a lord-lieutenant of me if they like, only let me have Esztike."

"When you get as far as that I should not care, hang you! but one syllable does not cross your lips, nor do you approach my house before the elections, or, by the wars of Attila! nothing shall come of it."

I was too happy not to promise anything, and we ended with a hearty embrace, and my uncle saying, "Give me a light, my son,"—a peculiar mark of favour on his part, for he always lighted his own pipe.

After this, I laid the old man's head on my breast, and he slept soundly, and snored as loud as if he were blowing a bassoon with each nostril. It was impossible for me to sleep—the very pit trembled with the sounds; so I lay awake, thinking of my good fortune, and smoking the gnats off us. At last the morning dawned, and, as our appetites began to sharpen, we renewed our efforts to obtain delivery, shouting by turns till we had no voices left, and then we sat down again and smoked in despair.

Chance at last brought two foresters in our direction, who, observing the smoke of our pipes from some distance, came to the rescue.

Luckily they happened to be two of my uncle's own men, and as they drew us out of the jaws of death, he promised to turn their skins inside out if ever they dared disclose where they had found us.

It was fortunate that we returned when we did, for the good folks were just about to advertise us both.

For two long months I never spoke to Esztike, though I often saw her, poor child! with swelled eyes and pale cheeks, and felt as if my heart would burst; but I had promised, and I wished to keep my word.

At the end of the two months, the elections closed. It was all very fine indeed, though, at this present moment I have no particular recollection of anything, except that there was one fat lad advanced, two others degraded, several more kicked out, and that, when it came to my turn, I was taken by the throat, my hair cut, my attila slit up the sides, one of my masticators drawn, and the oath administered.

Some days after the election, my uncle gave a great supper, to which all the aunts and uncles of the village were invited, and myself among the rest, though I was neither aunt nor uncle to anybody.

What this grand supper consisted of I know not; indeed I had important reasons for remaining in ignorance till the present day.

The large table in the arbour was laid out for forty-eight persons, and when I arrived the company was already assembled.

My little Esztike was busy with her guests, serving everybody, with her sweet rosy face—for she had just come from the fire—and now and then turning bashfully away, as one or other uncle tried to embrace her; but with all her sweetness, and all her blushes, she still looked very sad, poor child!

I bowed low as I entered, striking my spurs together, but the little girl was so startled by my appearance that she overturned the Polish soup she had in her hand over the head and ears of a certain uncle, who complained of dulness of hearing ever afterwards.

"You are welcome, nephew!" cried Uncle Gergely, "though you come late; you presume on your character of bridegroom."

My little Esztike grew very pale, and looked very sad too. Something had fallen into her eyes, she said, turning away; but it was tears that were in them.

"Really to see how these young people grow up!" said an important assessor, who always sat on two chairs at once; "my niece Esztike will very soon be marriageable."

"Not at all very soon," said Uncle Gergely, severing at one cut the fork stuck in the goose's back, as if it had been a fibre; "she is now a bride."

It needed no more for poor Esztike. She turned to go out, but the landscape must have looked very confused, for she could scarcely find the arbour door.

It never once entered her head, bless her! that she was my bride and I her bridegroom, and that we were to be a pair.

"Esztike, bring the sugar-box," cried Mistress Debora, who enjoyed what she believed to be our mortification. She had never ceased exciting Uncle Gergely against Esztike and me since that memorable day, and indeed she had reason enough, poor soul! for I had kept her a week and a half in bed, with eyes blindfolded and ears stuffed,—and, moreover, she now believed that I had killed her cat.

"Nephew!" cried Uncle Gergely, beckoning me; "run after her," he whispered, "and console her a little, poor child! or she will cry her soul out."

This needed no repetition. I darted after Esztike, and, seizing her hand, pressed it to my lips. "Esztike, dear Esztike, one word!"

"Excuse me," she said faintly; "I feel very ill."

"My Esztike, do you know your future bridegroom?"

"May I die sooner than know him!"

"Then do not die, for he is now so near you that none can be nearer."

For the first time, the whole business began to dawn on her; and in an instant all the blood rushed to her cheeks, and dyed them a deep crimson.

Had I not caught her in my arms, she would have fallen. How quickly her heart beat!—and oh! that sigh, which released it! I felt its deep throb. Once more I strained her to my heart, and whispering—"But it is all still a secret," I tore myself away, and hurried back to the arbour.

Meanwhile, Uncle Gergely had announced the news, to the joy of all the assembled guests, but the rage of Mistress Debora; and when I returned I was received with such a burst of congratulations, that I was quite overpowered.

"I will bet you anything," said Uncle Gergely, "that this girl will bring anything back with her except the sugar-box, which she was sent for."

He might have betted what he liked; when little Esztike returned, her artless countenance beamed with some joyful mystery, but there was no sugar-box in her hand.

Every eye was turned upon her; it was no wonder, therefore, that she blushed like the morning sky.

"Well, where is the sugar-box?" cried Mistress Debora impatiently.

Esztike blushed still deeper, looked still more confused; but at last, when she saw that everybody began to smile on her, she ran over to her father and hid her burning face in his bosom. The old man laughed, and kissed the little bride again and again, making her face still redder with his rough beard.

"I will go for the sugar myself," said I; for I felt as if thorns were under my feet.

"Certainly, go for it, both of you," said Uncle Gergely, putting Esztike's hand in mine.

"And now I will answer for it, we shall not see the sugar box to-night," remarked the assessor on the two chairs.

We went into the house together.

Who can presume to compare his happiness with mine? Who would be so audacious as to seek words to express such happiness? I am silent; for that small white hand, that smiling but fitful glance, those artless lips, whose silence spoke so much—all were mine; and their possession made me wealthier than if an empire had been conferred on me. O God! what a beautiful thought of thine was love!

When we returned to the arbour with the sugar-box, the company had long forgotten that they had drunk coffee; and we excused ourselves by saying that there was no sugar in the box when we went into the house. Fortunately they did not investigate the matter farther. So far was true—the box was empty when we went for it; but when we returned with it—there was still nothing more in it!

"This day two months I will be glad to see you all at the wedding." And with these words, my uncle closed the fiançailles.

But the will of poor mortals is in the keeping of God.

Before the two months were over, my uncle was obliged to take a long journey—so long, that he could not even take his pipe with him! He blessed us both, and died like a good Christian, scarcely cursing the doctor and the medicines; and we buried my good uncle, Gergely Sonkolyi.

Esztike and I mourned for him a whole year—outwardly; for in our hearts we remember him as tenderly to this day as if he had died but yesterday. And this was the reason that I could never call him 'father,' for there is no advancement in death: in whatever relation we die, there we remain.

When the year was out, that happy moment arrived when my earthly paradise was at last attained, and I pressed to my heart my own dear Esztike.

Never, indeed, did such sweetness meet my lips, as when for the first time she kissed me of her own good-will. I remember it all well to this day.

And yet it was a long while ago.

That beautiful little sylph-like form, which in those days I could have spanned, has now so increased in size that I have enough to do to embrace it with both arms; but for all that, I love her as my very soul's core.

Mistress Debora still lives and rules, though unable to move a member of her body—her tongue always excepted. This member is still sound and healthy; and she has engaged herself to teach our grandchildren to speak. Heaven may grant it to her; but it is not my prayer.

THE UNLUCKY WEATHERCOCK.

Two personages were sitting together before a small table at the hotel "Nagy Pipa,"57 to whom the German saying might have been applied—"Der eine schweigt, der andere hört zu,"58 for one of these two personages seemed attentively considering the probable or possible cause of his companion's silence, casting, from time to time, a scrutinizing glance on his countenance, intended to penetrate whatever dark project might be passing within.

This observant individual was no other than the humane Master Janos, Police-corporal, and vice-jailer of the noble city of Pesth; and when we inform our readers that he occupied this post during Metternich's time, and that, notwithstanding that minister's overthrow, he still retained his position, unlike the usual fate of the adherents of a fallen ministry, they will surely admit that the favourite of fortune could not be better personified than by the same Master Janos; nor can it be denied that the individual opposite was no less persecuted by the fickle goddess, not only because he was the object of honest Master Janos's suspicious glances; but more especially because a nailsmith's apprentice from Vienna could think of coming to Hungary of all places on earth—a country where the craft is carried on wholesale at the corner of every village, by the Wallachian gipsies.

Master Janos had not studied Lavater, but long experience had led him to conclude, after minute examination of the man's countenance, that some counter-revolutionary scheme was turning in his head.

Consequently he drew his chair nearer, and determined to break the silence.

"Where do you come from, sir? if I may presume to ask," he inquired, with a wily glance at his companion.

"Hyay! from Vienna," sighed the stranger, looking into the bottom of his glass.

"And what news from that city?"

"Hyaee! nothing good."

"Eh, what? nothing good!—what bad, then?"

"Hyay! war is much feared."

"Feared! what audacity!—how dare they fear?"

"Hyay! sir, I do not fear either at thirty leagues' distance; but once I heard from the cellar how they were bombarding the streets, and I found nothing agreeable in it."

Master Janos found still greater reason for suspicion. He resolved to make him drink, and he would probably come on the traces of some dangerous plot.

How much does a nailsmith's stomach require? At the second pitcher his head sank slowly back, and his tongue moved with difficulty.

"Now for it!" thought Master Janos, filling his glass. "Eljen! liberty!" he exclaimed, waiting for the nailsmith to strike glasses.

The latter was not long in responding to the invitation, and echoed the "Eljen!" as far as his thickening tongue permitted.

"Now it is your turn to give a toast," said the vice-jailer, slily eyeing his victim.

"Indeed, I am not used to give toasts, sir; I only drink them."

"Come, don't play the egotist, but drink to whoever you consider the greatest man in the world!"

"In the whole world?" replied the nailsmith, reflecting that the world was very large, and that he knew very little about it.

"Yes, in the whole world!—the whole round earth!" pursued Master Janos, confidently.

The nailsmith hesitated, scratched his nose, scratched his ear, scratched his whole head, and, finally, cried out, "Success to Master Slimak!"

The vice-jailer shuddered at this public demonstration. It was quite clear that this Master Slimak was some gunpowder-sworn commander-in-chief—there was no doubt of it, and, without any further ado, he seized the nailsmith by the collar, and, brevi manu, escorted him to the town-hall, where he dragged him into a narrow, ominous-looking chamber, before a stout, red-faced gentleman.

"This man is a suspicious character," he exclaimed. "In the first place, he has the audacity to fear war; in the next place, he sat from seven o'clock until half-past nine, two whole hours and a half, without opening his lips; and, finally, he was impious enough to give a public toast to a certain Master Slimak, who is probably quite as suspicious a character as himself."

"Who is this Master Slimak?" asked the stout, red-faced gentleman, sternly.

"Nobody, indeed," replied the trembling Viennese, "but my former master, an honest nailsmith, whom I served four years, and would be serving still, had his wife not beaten me."

"Impossible!" ejaculated the fat, red-faced gentleman. "It is not customary to give public toasts to such personages."

"But I don't know what the custom is here."

"If you wished to give a toast, why did you not drink to constitutional liberty, to the upper and lower Danube armies, or to freedom of the press, and such toasts?"

"Hyay, sir! I could not learn all that in a month!"

"But in three months I daresay you will be able to learn it well enough. Master Janos, take that man into custody."

The humane Master Janos again seized the delinquent by the collar, ut supra, and escorted him to the place appropriated to such malefactors, where he had time to consider why he was put there.

The three months passed slowly enough to the nailsmith. It was now the middle of March.

Master Janos punctually released his prisoner, and the honest man, in order to prove the reform in his sentiments, and thereby rise in Master Janos's opinion, greeted him with, "Success to liberty, and the Hungarian arms!"

Master Janos stumbled against the wall in speechless horror, and as soon as he had regained his equilibrium, he seized the astonished nailsmith, who, when he had recovered his terrified senses, found himself again in the narrow, ominous chamber; but now, instead of the stout, red-faced gentleman, he stood before a lean, black gentleman, who, when he understood the charge against the prisoner, without permitting any explanation, condemned him to three months' imprisonment, informing him that henceforth, unless he wished to fare worse, he would exclaim, "Success to the imperial armies, the great constitution, and the one and powerful Austria!"

And the nailsmith, having made three steps beyond his prison door, was brought back to renew his captivity, and ponder over his strange fate.

The three months had again passed over. It was some time in June.

The humane Master Janos did not fail to release his captive. The poor man began at his prison door to declaim the redeeming words of "Long live Prince Windischgrätz! success to glorious Austria!"

Master Janos laid his hand upon his sword, as if to protect himself from this incorrigible man.

"What! was it not enough to imprison you twice? Have you not yet learned what you should say? Have the kindness to step in here."

And for the third time they entered the narrow chamber.

Instead of the meagre, black gentleman, it was again the fat, red-faced gentleman before whom our victim was called in question for his repeated crime.

"Obstinate traitor!" he exclaimed; "are you aware of the extent of your offence, and that if I did not condemn you to an imprisonment of three months on my own responsibility, instead of giving you up to justice, you would be cut into four quarters, as you deserve?"

The unhappy nailsmith must needs rejoice, in his extreme terror, at the mildness of the punishment.

"But what should I have said?" he asked his lenient judge, in a voice of despair.

"What should you have said? why, Success to the republic! Success to democracy! Success to revolution!"

The poor man repeated the three injunctions, and promising faithfully to attend to them, he resigned himself patiently to a new lease of his dark abode.

During the ensuing three months, everything had changed except the good fortune of Master Janos. Neither time nor chance could succeed in displacing him, as they had so many others. He was still vice-jailer of the noble city of Pesth, as he had formerly been.

It was now September. The nailsmith's penalty was out, and Master Janos called him forth.

The prisoner's countenance expressed something unusually important, and no sooner did the vice-jailer approach, than, seizing his hand, he exclaimed, between his sobs, "Oh, Master Janos, tell the black gentleman that I humbly kiss his hand, and wish him from the bottom of my heart, 'Success to the Republic!'"

As the hungry wolf pounces on the lamb, Master Janos once more seized the nailsmith by his ill-used collar; and indeed, so shocked was the worthy jailer, that, having brought his prisoner into the narrow chamber, it was some time before he could recover himself sufficiently to explain the circumstance to the lean, black gentleman, who once more occupied the place of the fat, red-faced one; and great was his vexation when this individual, instead of sentencing the delinquent to be broken on the wheel, merely awarded him three months more imprisonment!

On the third of November 1849, all who had been imprisoned for slight political offences were released from their confinement, and among others the nailsmith.

As Master Janos opened the door, the unfortunate man stopped his mouth with his pocket-handkerchief, giving the humane jailer by this pantomime to understand, that he would henceforth keep his demonstrations to himself.

It might have been some consolation to him to know that he was not the only one who cried out at the wrong time!

THE TWO BRIDES.

All day and through the night the whistle of the train was heard, as it came and went incessantly; and the arrivals and departures being at uncertain hours, the terminus was crowded with people wearing gloomy and anxious countenances, while the new-comers gazed perplexed around them, ignorant whither to turn in the confused and unknown town.

Beyond the terminus, heavy baggage-carts had overturned numerous unclaimed wares; while, farther off, uncovered waggons stood about, and great guns, chests bearing the Government seal, arms, vessels, and articles of clothing, lay strewn unheeded all around.

Again the train came in with cold and anxious passengers, while outers pressed into the vacant seats; and many who had waited all day in vain, finding no places, were obliged once more to return weary and disconsolate.

Armed and official men alighted from the nearest coaches, and again the terminus was crowded. Women closely veiled and muffled, pale trembling girls, and little children were there also, taking a hurried farewell, or waiting anxiously for expected friends and relatives; and many were the unheeded inquiries—an hundred questions put for every answer.

And now the train was filled with military, whose wild songs chimed strangely with the noise of the machinery.

Meanwhile, all was hurry and confusion within the town: each individual seeming occupied by his especial grievances—each felt alone among the thousands who surrounded them. The new-comers went from house to house, asking lodgings and warmth from inmates more wretched than themselves. Powerful magnates, whose palaces had been scarcely large enough for their numerous guests and retinues, were glad to find shelter on the earthen floor of a reed cottage; while ancient enemies, whose feuds had made a kingdom too small to contain them, now shared their broken fortunes in one room; and high-born maidens, accustomed to every refinement, received with thankfulness the benches proffered by strangers, who found a scarcely harder bed upon the earthen floor.

On the other side of Szolnok, numerous vehicles pursued their course in long unbroken lines, moving with difficulty on the frozen uneven roads, and filled with men, women, and children—cold and anxiety depicted in every countenance. Whole caravans passed on foot, in miserable clothing, carrying empty sacks, and followed by carts loaded with iron machines and broken weapons, on the tops of which women and children lay huddled together in blankets and rugs. One or two noblemen's calèches, with the windows drawn up, were obliged to follow slowly in the rear of these creaking machines, which the badness of the roads, or the steep banks, made it impossible to pass.

Thus closed the last day of the old year, and the first day of the new was a weary repetition of similar scenes.

The trains moved again all day and all night, bringing more anxious and gloomy countenances, baggage, coaches, and cannon. Those who had arrived yesterday hastened on to-day, while the fresh comers again sought shelter from house to house, and the lingerers still awaited the next coaches—searching in vain for relatives, or friends, or trunks.

On the opposite side of the Theiss, the carriages of the fugitives seemed to have no end. Here and there a few mat-covered vehicles might be seen, where a mother, hastening to join her husband's flight, had brought her infant in its cradle; but the rest being mostly uncovered, were exposed to the chill blast and the drifting snow, which seemed to turn every face to stone.

Travellers were seen crossing the inhospitable waste from morning till night, and all night again till morning; while the little inns, at the distance of a day's journey on the puszta, were empty and deserted.

Troops of riders, and heavy cannon, pursued their doubtful path among the hills, or, stopped up by the snow, were obliged to remain stationary till chance should bring them assistance, or they should perish in the cold.

And so it continued on the second, third, fourth, fifth day; on the sixth the movement ceased, and all was silent. The train brought only one or two passengers—taciturn and moody, like the rest. Clerks and officials left their places and retired; the lingerers took their lonely and sad way home; and the cannon, chests, and baggage, which had not hitherto been removed, were left on the roads to the care of fate.

The last fugitives had left the town with break of day: all was calm, silently awaiting the mysterious future.

Towards noon, the beating of drums and the sound of the trumpet announced the entrance of the Hungarian army. The troops had an hour's rest, and received a hearty welcome from citizens who willingly shared their last morsel with the national guards, after their many vicissitudes, and days and nights of hardship and privation.

A hussar officer rode up to the widow's house. He was a handsome, slender youth, whose raven hair and moustache formed a striking contrast to the olive paleness of his complexion. He wore a double gold cord on his crimson csako, and his breast was already decorated. As he entered the house his dark eye flashed with pleasure, and all his efforts to be serious could ill restrain a smile.

That smile betrayed him!

"Gejza!" exclaimed the widow and her daughters together; and then there was a rush, and a mutual embrace—the first affectionate, the next playful, and the last long and warm.

"I knew you would come," whispered Ilka, as he pressed her again and again to his heart. "How long will you stay with us?"

"As long as we remain in Szolnok."

"And how long will that be?"

"Perhaps an hour."

"Only one hour! And when will you return?"

"Perhaps soon, perhaps—never."

Ilka clung weeping to her lover's neck, who drew her still closer to his heart.

The other sister now approached, and gently chiding Ilka's tears, she asked in a low, tremulous voice: "Where is Laszlo?"

"He will be here this evening, I believe."

"Why did he not come with you?"

The hussar hesitated. "I am retreating, but he is pursuing."

The colour left the young girl's cheek.

"He joined the cuirassiers," continued Gejza, "about two months ago, and now—we are in opposite ranks."

The sisters looked at each other in consternation.

"You fight against each other!" exclaimed Ilka; "my bridegroom against my sister's!—O merciful Heaven!"

"And did you not think of us, then?" said Aniko.

"It is the soldier's fate, my friends: he may love, and be happy; but when the trumpet sounds he must forget love and happiness, and think only of stern duty."

"Ah, Gejza! you must not fight against each other; we must gain one of you over to join the other."

"It cannot be, my friends; I know Laszlo well, and he is what I am. A soldier's place is beside his standard: whereever that leads he must follow—be it to death, or against his own brother."

"And if you should meet upon the field?"

"It nearly happened a short time ago. In the skirmish of Teteny we were scarcely fifty paces apart, when we recognised each other. He suddenly turned his horse's head, I did the same—we both sought another enemy; and when the battle was over, both our swords were red. It is the soldier's fate!"

"And could you have killed him?"

"Far rather die myself; and therefore I do not love the sword—I like the cannon much better. Those soldiers are far happier; they never see the faces of those they kill, or hear their dying groans. More than once, when the madness of glory has made my brain giddy, I have heard my name repeated by the enemy I had cut down—calling to me, 'Thanks, comrade!' as he fell from his horse; and I have recognised some old school-fellow, or some officer who had left our own regiment. And then, when I am alone, that 'Thanks, comrade' always"—

The trumpet sounded before the window. It was the call to march.

The hussar took leave: a short word, a long kiss, a tear hastily brushed aside, and the next moment he was on his impatient charger, and neither the tear nor the kiss were to be traced on his calm countenance.

Again the trumpet sounded—the troop marched forward, white handkerchiefs waved from the widow's window—an hour afterwards, Szolnok was once more deserted and silent.

Towards evening, the sound of martial music was again heard; helmets and cuirasses gleamed in the setting sun. It was the imperial army, well clothed and mounted, and in perfect order. Their troops formed a striking contrast to those which had passed in the morning, who were dejected by want and suffering.

A young cuirassier had quartered himself in the widow's house; he was the gayest officer in his regiment, and more particularly now, as the bridegroom of one of the two fair sisters.

Unlike the young hussar, there was no sadness in his tone; and when he could think of aught but Aniko's bright eyes, victory shone in his glance—for he loved his profession, and was ready to shed his blood or win laurels of glory for it.

"Do not fear, sweet friend!" he exclaimed, seeing Ilka turn away with tearful eyes to weep alone; "I will bring back your bridegroom from the first battle to pass his captivity with you."

But the jest pained Ilka.

She replied with pride: "Gejza will sooner die than be taken prisoner."

Weeks and months passed away, and Laszlo's bride was soon to be his wife.

"The first victory," he said, "shall celebrate our marriage!"

"The first victory," sighed Ilka, "will be his defeat!" and then she wept bitterly. But when the sisters were together, each restrained her smiles and her tears so as not to grieve the other.

One day Laszlo whispered gravely to Aniko, "This day week there will be a battle!" and the warm pressure of his hand seemed to say, "and our victory;" while the deep blush on the bride's cheek seemed to reply, "And our wedding!"

Both girls prepared a dress in secret for that day. Aniko's was white embroidery, as for a bridal; Ilka's was simple black!

The imperial troops remained several months in Szolnok, during which time they had raised strong fortifications.

An extensive redoubt guarded the tête de pont on the opposite side of the Theiss. Palisades were constructed to screen the tirailleurs between the entrenchments, before which a little willow thicket concealed a battery of field-pieces.

Within the fortifications was the pontoon bridge, which the imperial army had formed after having burnt the great bridge in January.

Before the bridge could be taken, the enemy had first to drive the troops from their strong entrenchments, and should they even effect this, they would still be exposed to the cross fire of the redoubt and the battery concealed in the thicket, and it was impossible to make a circuit, for the Theiss surrounds two-thirds of the place.

Szolnok is built on the opposite side, and was protected on one side by the river Zagyva and the impassable morasses of the Theiss, and on the other by strong ramparts and entrenchments. Within the tête de pont there were three half-moon bastions, well fortified, and protecting each other.

The terminus, which lay within gun-shot of a bastion running along the Theiss, was also strongly fortified by moats and artillery, whose guns commanded all the defiles leading to it; to the west stood a chapel, built on a knoll—the only elevated position near the place.

An assault from this side was almost impracticable, according to the rules of tactics, for these bastions could only be taken by a large force, with guns of great calibre; and, in case of a repulse, the besiegers would be cut off from all retreat, and exposed to the whole concentrated main body of the imperial forces in Pesth.

The Zagyva morasses alone remained partly unprotected, an attack from that side being considered impracticable.

Patrols were stationed along the right bank of the Theiss, as far as Czibakhaza, which served as a point of passage to the Hungarians, though, according to the information of spies, there were no forces there at present, excepting a few reserve corps, the two Hungarian corps d'armée having united at Torokszentmiklos, under Vecsey and Damjanics.

The attack was consequently expected from that quarter; and, according to the spies' reports, the day was fixed, and the station appointed on the opposite side of the Theiss.

There is a ferry between Szolnok and Czibakhaza, and the boat is guided by the simple means of a rope drawn across the river.

The boat was now on the opposite side, some persons having just crossed with the permission of the imperial party, who kept a patrol to guard the passage.

On the evening of the expected day, two hussars rode up to the ferry from the opposite side.

"Do you see that boat?" cried the elder of the two, as they reached the bank.

"I see it, corporal," replied the other, who appeared to be a recruit.

"Whether you see it or not, we must cross there."

"Very well, corporal."

"Don't argue with me when the order is to cross; we must cross, were a thousand fiery devils on the other side!—Hej! come out, thou slug!" he continued, knocking at the door of the boatman's hut.

"Thou, indeed!" grumbled a voice from within; "I'll hear something more civil first!"

"No arguing, nephew, but turn out, unless you wish your house turned upside down, and yourself left under the clear sky!"

An old grayheaded man appeared. "It is a long time since I was called 'nephew,'" he murmured.

"How old are you?" asked the hussar.

"Some sixty years."

"Pooh! thou art a boy, nephew! I am five years thy senior; forward!—march!"

As the boat put off with the hussars, a chasseur, who was observing their motions from the other side, called across the water in German.

"Cannot you see that we are hussars?" was the reply, in Hungarian.

The soldier levelled his musket and fired, and the ball went through the old hussar's csako. He turned impatiently to the recruit, who had moved his head as the ball whistled past his ear.

"Why do you bend your head?—the balls must fall on one side or on the other; and thou, nephew, get from under my horse, and pull away by the rope."

The peasant, who was lying on his face at the bottom of the boat, never felt less inclined to obey in his life, especially as fifty or sixty grenadiers appeared from behind the entrenchments, and began firing on the hussars.

"Dismount and guide the boat," said the old hussar, turning to the recruit.

The chasseur, seeing that the balls had no effect, ran down to the rope, which he cut with his sword, as the hussars reached the middle of the stream, and the boat was consequently borne back again by the current. The old hussar, swearing that he was not done with them yet, gloomily reascended the bank with his companion, and galloping back to his troop, which was concealed in a wood at a little distance, he reported himself to the captain.

"What news, Gergo?" asked Gejza—for it was he.

"It would not do, captain, as I said before; they did not like our numbers, so they cut the rope when we were half over; they might have allowed me to cross if I had been alone."

"Never mind, Gergo—how did we get over the water before boats were made?"

"Ah, I thought of that, captain dear; but it is my duty to obey, and not to argue."

"Now, lads, whoever likes a bath may follow me!" cried the young soldier, and, spurring his horse, he galloped towards the river followed by his troop.

It was a beautiful sight to see the hundred and fifty hussars go through the water, like a flock of wild birds through the air—only their horses' heads above the foam, and the breeze tossing about the plumes of their red csakos.

The grenadiers having fired one volley with little or no effect, suddenly retired, and were at some distance when the hussars reached the opposite bank.

By this manœuvre the patrol of the Czibakhaza ferry was cut off from Szolnok, while Damjanics was meanwhile rapidly advancing towards the Theiss.

The hussars took prisoners all the couriers and passengers upon the road; and late at night the avant-garde crossed at Czibakhaza, and pressed forward on Szolnok, a reconnoitring party sustaining a brisk fire all the way to Kecskemet.

The same night, Damjanics reached the Theiss at Czibakhaza with his whole army, and advanced by forced marches on Szolnok, before the General of the district had been apprised of his approach.

It was a beautiful evening in spring. The sisters sat side by side at the window of their little chamber, silently watching the stars as they twinkled into light. Neither spoke, for each feared to grieve the other by expressing her hopes or fears; but their tears mingled as they sat clinging to one another, each pale face seeking comfort from the other—their hands clasped, and their hearts raised in prayer.

To-morrow, one may return triumphant from the battle to lay his laurels at his bride's feet. And the other—what may be his fate?

Sleep at last brought rest to the weary eyes, and gave back its restrained feelings to each beating heart, and they appeared again in dreams. And one spoke, not of war, nor of his country, but of love alone, eternal and unchangeable; but the other only came to bid farewell, silently and sadly. And then again she saw him; but his dark eyes were closed, and the pale moonbeams bathed his dying brow.

Their mother heard them murmuring in sleep, and stole to their bedsides.

Tears rolled down one pale sleeper's face; while a bright smile was playing on the other's, and illumined its sweet repose.

Damjanics' army halted opposite Szolnok during the night, after two hours' march, and awaited in battle order, and without watch-fires, the signal to resume the march.

The roar of cannon on the opposite side of the Theiss was the expected signal.

The Hungarian General had seen several campaigns. Whenever he came up with the enemy, his quick glance discovered as if by instinct their strongest point, and there he directed all his force, crying, at the head of his troops, "Follow me!"

His system, however, was not generally approved of in the army. Many of the Generals affirmed that it was not enough to gain a battle: attention must be paid to the rules of war, various obligations attended to for which every General is responsible, proclamations issued, harangues made, &c.—with all of which Damjanics dispensed. He was neither a statesman nor a student—he was simply a soldier.

On quitting the Banat, however, he issued the following proclamation to his enemies:—

"Dogs!

"I retire at present, but I will return.

"If in the meantime you dare stir, I will sweep you from off the face of the earth, and then shoot myself through the head as the last Raczien, that no remnant of our race may be left!"59