[5]The victory of Croatia.
[5]The victory of Croatia.
Baroness Plankenhorst and her daughter, with Sister Remigia and Edith, sat talking over the battle of Isaszeg and the supposed victory of the Austrians. Three of the ladies were in the best of humours. Inthe midst of their lively discussion there came a knock at the door and Rideghváry entered. Both of the Plankenhorst ladies hastened to meet him, greeted him with loud congratulations, and seated him in an armchair. Then for the first time they noticed how pale he looked.
"What news from the front?" asked the baroness eagerly.
"Bad news," he replied; "we have lost the battle of Isaszeg."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Antoinette.
"Yes, it is true," declared the other.
"But why are you so certain of it?" asked Alfonsine. "People are so easily deceived by false rumours."
Rideghváry threw a searching glance at the speaker. "It is more than a rumour, Miss Alfonsine," said he with emphasis. "What I tell you is the truth. The messenger who brought the news was on the spot when Otto Palvicz fell."
The colour suddenly faded from the young lady's cheeks.
"Otto Palvicz?" repeated Sister Remigia. No one else uttered the name.
"Yes," returned Rideghváry, "the courier who was despatched to us was an eye-witness of the encounter between Otto Palvicz and Richard Baradlay. They aimed their swords at each other's headsboth at the same time, and both fell at the same instant from their horses."
There were now two pale faces turned anxiously toward the speaker, who continued with cruel deliberation:
"Baradlay still lives; Otto Palvicz is dead."
Edith sank back with a sigh of relief and folded her hands as one who gives thanks in silence, while Alfonsine, her features convulsed with rage and despair, sprang up from her chair and stood looking down wildly upon the speaker. Her mother turned to her in alarm. Was she about to betray her carefully guarded secret? But the girl cared little then what she said or who heard her.
"Cursed be he who killed Otto Palvicz!" she exclaimed, with an ungovernable outburst of passion; and then, overcome by her feelings, she sank down on the sofa, sobbing violently. "Oh, my dear Otto!" she moaned, and then, turning again to Rideghváry: "There is no one in this city or in the whole world that can hate better than you and I. You know all: you have seen me and heard me. Is there any retribution in this world?"
"Yes," answered Rideghváry.
"Find it for me, even if hell itself has to be searched for it. Do you understand me?"
"We both understand each other," was the quiet reply.
"And if at any time your hatred slumbers or your zeal slackens, come to me."
"Never fear," returned Rideghváry; "we shall see ourselves revenged in good time—though the heavens fall. We will turn all Hungary into such a scene of mourning as will live in the memory of three generations. For the next ten years black shall be the fashionable colour to wear. I hate my country, every blade of grass that grows in its soil, every infant at its mother's breast. And now you know me as I know you. Whenever we have need of each other's aid, we shall not fail to lend it."
So saying, he took his hat and departed without bowing to any one in the room.
Sister Remigia, as in duty bound, sought to administer spiritual consolation and advice to Alfonsine. "Throw yourself in your affliction on Heaven's mercy," said she with unction, "and God will not fail to strengthen and console you."
Alfonsine turned upon her with a wild look. "I ask nothing of Heaven's mercy," she retorted; "I have ceased to pray."
The nun folded her hands piously and sought to soothe the passionate young woman. "Remember," she urged, "that you are still a Christian."
"I am a Christian no longer," returned the other. "I am a woman no longer. Just as there are creatures on earth who cease to be women, call themselves nuns, and do nothing but pray, so there are others that cease to be women and do nothing but curse—or worse if they can."
Sister Remigia, shocked by these impious words, which it was sacrilege even to listen to, gathered up her cloak and hastened to depart, motioning to Edith to follow. But Alfonsine barred the young girl's way and held her back.
"You are not to return to the convent," said she; "you will stay here with us."
The pious nun did not stop to remonstrate. She was only too glad to escape from the house.
"Do you know why I have kept you?" asked Alfonsine, when the other had gone. "I have kept you in order that I may whisper in your ear every night, when you lie down to sleep: 'I will kill him. The man you love has murdered the man whom I love, and the murderer must die.' You shall taste the despair that embitters my heart. You shall not be happy while I am miserable."
She threw herself into an armchair, weeping passionately, and Edith sought her old room.
A whole nation's gaze was turned toward the fortress of Buda. There it stood, weak when it came to self-defence, yet capable of working fearful destruction in case of attack. From the summits of the surrounding mountains one could overlook Buda and examine its interior as if it had been an open book. Old brick walls formed its sole fortifications, with no outworks of any sort.
Wherein, then, lay its mysterious strength? In the fact that Pest lay outstretched at its feet, and for every cannon-ball directed against the fortress it could retaliate with a deadly shower of fire and iron. The enemy on the hill said to his foe across the river: "If you draw your sword against me I will slay your wife and daughters and the infant in its cradle." Nevertheless the sword was drawn.
For the fiery and impetuous, nothing tries the patience more than the forced inactivity of a siege,—the sitting down before a blank wall from behind which the enemy sticks out his tongue and laughs inderision. Before three days had passed, nine-tenths of the besieging army had become fretful with impatience. The men were eager to storm the enemy's stronghold on all sides. Even in the council of war the spirit of impatience was rife and the commanding general was urged to order an assault. Violent scenes were enacted, in which the best friends fell to quarrelling. All were divided between two parties, the hot-headed and the cool-headed. Thus it came about that the two Baradlay brothers, Ödön and Richard, found themselves opposed to each other in the council, and on the fourth day of the siege they went so far as to exchange hot and angry words.
"We must bring the siege to an end," declared the younger brother, vehemently.
"And I say," rejoined the elder, "that we have but just begun it and must wait for our heavier guns before we can think of making an assault. Otherwise we shall provoke a deadly fire on Pest, and all to no purpose."
"What is Pest to us in this crisis?" cried Richard. "Ten years ago the great flood destroyed the city, and we rebuilt it. Let the enemy burn it down; in ten years it will have risen from its ashes, more beautiful than ever."
"Yet even at that fearful sacrifice are we at all sure that we can take the fortress? Can we scale its heights in the face of the enemy's fire?"
"Yes. A subterranean channel, constructed by the Turks, runs from Buda down to the river. Through this a company of infantry could make its way into the fort while a hot attack was maintained from without."
"I have studied the situation, too," returned Ödön, "and I have learned positively that the upper end of the subterranean passage is in ruins; but even if it were not, and a company of our men succeeded in effecting an entrance, would they not, in all probability, be cut down before they could open the gates to us or we could join them?"
"Do you, then, place no confidence whatever in the courage and determination of our soldiers?" asked the other.
"On the contrary," was the reply; "but even courage and determination cannot prevail against such overwhelming odds."
Richard's eyes flashed fire. He was in that tense and irritated condition in which a man feels that he must utter a sharp retort or burst with passion. "You say that," he exclaimed hotly, "because, like all civilians, you are a coward at heart."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them. Ödön turned pale. "No man ever before applied that term to me," said he, in a low but firm tone, regarding his brother steadily, "nor shall you do so with impunity."
This scene was suddenly interrupted by a twelve-pound cannon-ball which burst through the west wall of the room and went out through the opposite side. A second shot struck the roof, and then a bomb landed in the courtyard and exploded.
"There is treason abroad!" cried the members of the council, springing to their feet. "Some one has betrayed our headquarters to the enemy, and we are being fired upon."
"We can't stay here a moment longer, that's certain," said the commanding officer, and he prepared to leave the room.
Richard looked at his brother, who alone kept his seat at the table, a pen in his hand, and gave no sign of leaving his chair, despite the crashing of the enemy's shots. The younger brother was irritated at what seemed to him ostentatious recklessness; and he was, besides, touched with another feeling toward his elder brother.
"Come, old man," said he, "I know well enough you have nerve for anything; but don't stay here now that all the rest of us are leaving."
"I am sitting here," replied the other calmly, "because I am secretary of the council, and I am waiting to record the motion to adjourn, whenever it shall be made."
"He is right," exclaimed the others; "we must adjourn the meeting in due form."
Accordingly all resumed their places around the table, while cannon-balls continued to strike the building, and a formal vote was taken on the motion to adjourn. It was carried unanimously, and all hurried out of the room except Ödön, who lingered behind to complete his minutes. Richard, too, remained at the door until his brother was ready to go.
"Come, hurry up!" he urged; "every one knows you are a man of courage. Coward is the last word to apply to you."
Ödön, however, folded his papers deliberately. "On that point I shall have something to say to you later," said he calmly, freeing his arm from his brother's touch as he walked out.
"Surely you are not going to challenge me to a duel?" exclaimed Richard.
"You will soon see," replied the other, turning proudly away.
The order for a general assault had been given. At midnight of the 21st of May, a sham attack was to be made against the bastions, after which the troops were to retire and remain quiet until three o'clock in the morning. Then, while the enemy were counting confidently on being left undisturbed for another day, a vigorous assault was to be undertaken in earnest, with scaling-ladders and bayonets.
The hardest part would fall to those who shouldcharge over the crumbling masonry where breaches had been effected, or mount the tall scaling-ladders under a deadly fire from above. For these most dangerous tasks the bravest and most experienced battalions were selected, while volunteers were called for from the whole army to join them. The honour of being among the first to scale the hostile ramparts was eagerly sought by hundreds of brave men.
On the evening preceding the assault, Ödön Baradlay sought his brother. Since their recent encounter in the council-chamber they had not met, and their relations were felt to be somewhat strained. Richard was delighted to see his brother; he acknowledged in his heart that the other showed great generosity in thus making the first advances, and he gave him a very cordial reception. Ödön's bearing, however, was as calm and undemonstrative as usual. He was dressed in the uniform of the national guard.
"So to-morrow is the decisive day," he remarked as he entered.
"Yes," answered the other; "a sham attack to-night at twelve, and a general assault just before dawn."
"Is your watch right?" asked Ödön.
"Oh, I don't pay much attention to the time," was the answer, in a careless tone; "when the artillery gives the signal I know the dance is about to begin."
"You are not well-informed," rejoined Ödön. "Half an hour before the first cannon-shot, the volunteers from the third army-corps who are to attack the great bastion must be ready to start, and also those from the second army-corps who are to scale the wall of the castle garden. So it will be well for you to set your watch by mine, which agrees with the general's."
"Very well, I'll do it." Richard still maintained a certain condescending superiority in his manner toward his brother, as is customary in the bearing of seasoned soldiers toward civilians, however greatly they may esteem the latter.
"And now please listen to what I have to say," continued Ödön, with his usual calm. "You have allowed yourself to use certain words in addressing me which I cannot repeat even between ourselves."
"What do you mean?" interposed the other. "You surely don't think of calling me out?"
"That is my intention," replied the elder brother composedly. "I challenge you to the most desperate duel ever fought between two men, to the only duel that brothers can engage in who love each other, and yet cannot be reconciled by peaceful means. You have joined the volunteers who are to storm the castle garden at the point of the bayonet; I am enrolled among those whose task it will be to carry the main bastion by scaling-ladders. When the firstcannon-shot is fired our duel will begin, and he who first mounts the enemy's fortifications will have obtained satisfaction from the other."
Richard seized his brother's hand with a look of alarm. "Brother," he exclaimed, "you are joking; you are trying to frighten me. That you, who have more sense in your little finger than a great bully like me in his whole head, should rush to almost certain destruction, where some blockhead of an Austrian may easily brain you with the butt end of his rifle; that you should go scrambling up the ladders with the militia, where the first to mount are well-nigh sure to meet their death, and where no one can rush in to save you; that you, the pride of our family, the apple of our eye, our mother's support, our country's hope, should throw yourself against the enemy's bayonets,—oh, that is a cruel punishment you have planned for me! No one demands such a proof of your courage. War is not your profession; that is for us rough men who are good for nothing else. You are the soul of our army; don't try to be its hand or its foot at the same time. We honour superior intelligence, however much we may boast of our physical prowess. Don't think of taking such a revenge on those who love you, just because of a hasty word, long since repented of and retracted. Do what you will with me if you still feel offended; bid me ram my head into the mouth ofone of the enemy's cannon and I will do it. Tell me you only meant to frighten me—that you are not in earnest."
"I am in earnest, and shall do as I have said," answered the other firmly; "you may do as you think best." With that he prepared to take his leave.
Richard tried to stop him. "Ödön, brother," he cried, "I pray you forgive me! Think of our mother, think of your wife and children!"
Ödön regarded him, unmoved. "I am thinking of my mother here," said he, stamping with his foot on the ground, "and I shall defend my wife and children yonder," pointing toward the fortress.
Richard stood out of his brother's way; further opposition would have been worse than useless. But his eyes filled with tears, and he reached out both his hands toward Ödön. At such a moment the brothers might well have embraced each other, yet Ödön never offered his hand. Before a duel the adversaries are not wont to shake hands.
"When we meet up yonder," said he significantly, "don't forget to look at your watch and note the minute when you first plant your foot on the fortifications." With that he left the room.
Three o'clock was at hand. The cannoneers stood at their guns, watches in hand. A deep and peaceful quiet reigned, broken only by the note of the nightingale. At the first stroke of three, fifty-nine cannon burst forth in one thundering volley which was caught up by the loud huzzas of thousands of voices on every side. The sun was still far below the horizon, but the scene was soon illumined by the destructive fire of hostile artillery. In the glare of bombs and rockets the volunteers of the thirty-fourth militia battalion could be seen, like a hill of ants, swarming up toward the breach in the enemy's wall. They were driven back, and again they advanced, fighting with their bayonets in a hand-to-hand struggle. A second time they were repulsed, and their officers were left, dead and dying, before the breach.
Two other battalions, the nineteenth and thirty-seventh, with the volunteers who had joined them, pressed forward with their scaling-ladders. A hot fire was opened upon them, but in vain; they planted their ladders against the wall and ran up the rounds. To turn them back was impossible; the only thing remaining was to shoot them down as fast as they climbed the ladders.
Leading the way on one of the ladders was Ödön Baradlay, his drawn sword in his hand. A detachment of the Italian regiment was defending that part of the wall, and the defence was well maintained. It was a grim task climbing the ladders in the face of a deadly fire of sharpshooters, and the air was filled with the groans of those that fell. Theirs was atwofold death, shot down as they were by the enemy, and then falling, only to be caught on the bayonets of their own comrades behind them.
Ödön mounted his ladder as coolly as if he had been climbing an Egyptian pyramid on a wager to show himself proof against giddiness. Looking up, he could see a soldier standing at the head of the ladder, half concealed by the breastworks and holding his rifle ready to shoot. That soldier was his opponent in this fearful duel. Reaching the middle of the ladder, he suddenly heard himself hailed from below. The voice was a familiar one.
"Aha, patron, I'm here too!"
Ödön recognised Mausmann's call. The daring gymnast was climbing up the under side of the ladder and making every effort to overtake his leader, eager to gain the top before him. With the agility of a monkey, he passed Ödön and swung himself around on the front of the ladder over the other's head, shouting down to him triumphantly:
"Don't think you are going to get ahead of me, patron. I am captain here, and you are only a private."
Ödön was eager to recover his lead, but the gallant youth only pressed him back with one hand, saying, as he did so:
"Let me go first, patron; I have no one in the whole world to care if I am killed."
With that he sprang upward, two rounds at a time. The soldier above brought his rifle to his shoulder and aimed downward. Mausmann saw him, and shouted tauntingly:
"Take good aim, macaroni, or you might hit me."
The next moment the Italian pulled the trigger. Mausmann's hands relaxed their hold of the ladder. "Look out!" he called down to Ödön.
"What's the matter?" returned the other.
"Something that never happened to me before; I am killed." Therewith he fell backward over Ödön's head.
Ödön now climbed higher, anxious to reach the top of the ladder before the Italian should have reloaded his piece. But the soldier was too quick for him, and he found himself looking into the very muzzle of his rifle. Still he mounted. He could see the rifleman's finger press the trigger; the piece missed fire, and the next instant Ödön sprang over the breastworks.
Meanwhile the sixty-first battalion had effected an entrance into the castle garden. Three step-like terraces remained to be surmounted, and the men climbed one another's shoulders or stuck their bayonets between the stones of the scarp, and so worked their way upward. The defenders of the garden had retreated to the third terrace. As theHungarians were about to scale this also, they were suddenly brought to bay by the arrival of a fresh force of the enemy. It included some of the bravest soldiers of the army, being composed of four platoons of the William regiment.
On the second terrace of the castle garden the two hostile bands met in desperate conflict.
"Surrender!" called the militia major.
"Fire! Charge bayonets!" was the Austrian captain's response, as he gave the commands to his men.
A volley was discharged on each side. The Austrian captain and his lieutenant fell, while the Hungarian major and one of his officers were wounded. Neither party heeded its loss. Richard snatched up the rifle of a wounded soldier and dashed forward to meet the enemy. He was a master of bayonet fighting, and he resolved that, if he had to succumb at last to superior numbers, he would at least sell his life dearly.
An inner voice seemed to whisper to him that he was fighting his last battle. What if he slew ten opponents in succession? The eleventh would surely get the better of him and he must fall. At this thought, and in the thousandth part of a second, he took leave of all that was dear to him,—of the faithful girl awaiting him in Vienna, of the dear mother praying for him at home, of the slain foe to whom he had given a promise that he could not now fulfil. Hesaw only too well the fearful odds against him, and prepared to die.
His first adversary he sent headlong down the embankment; the second he drove back wounded into his comrades' arms; the third stopped suddenly as he was rushing to the encounter and pointed with his bayonet to the terrace above them. A dense array of flashing bayonets was seen advancing, and it was at once evident that the side which they should join would win the day. To which side, then, did they belong?
The rising sun answered the question. Shooting its beams from behind a cloud at that moment, it lighted up a banner fluttering in the advancing bayonet-hedge. The flag bore the national colours of Hungary.
"Éljen a haza!" resounded from the third terrace, and the relief party plunged down the scarp like an avalanche. The Austrians, thus overwhelmed by their opponents, were forced to surrender.
Yonder blue-coated figure which had come with this succour like a rescuing angel, just at the moment when aid was most sorely needed, was Ödön Baradlay. The two brothers fell into each other's arms.
"I am very angry with you," cried Richard, as he folded his brother in a warm embrace.
It was six o'clock in the morning. From every turret and pinnacle in Buda the tricolour waved inthe breeze, and all the streets of Pest rang with loud huzzas. Turning his back, however, on these scenes of rejoicing, Richard Baradlay, refreshed by a cold bath and a soldier's breakfast, made his way to a neighbouring village, to fulfil the promise so solemnly pledged to poor Otto Palvicz.
Three thousand six hundred feet above the sea-level, on a height of the Carpathian mountain range, a convivial party, consisting mostly of army officers, was enjoying itself with wine and music. A splendid view lay spread out before the merrymakers,—a wide-reaching landscape lighted by the slanting beams of the western sun as it sank in golden radiance beneath the horizon.
"Look there," Rideghváry was saying, as he named, one after another, the cities and villages that lay before them; "yonder lies the way to Constantinople."
His words were greeted with a shout: "Hurrah! Long live the Czar!" Glasses clinked, and the company struck up the Russian national anthem. Rideghváry joined in, and all uncovered during the singing.
"Don't you sing with us, Zebulon?" asked Rideghváry, turning to his friend, who sat silent and melancholy.
"No more voice than a peacock," was Zebulon's curt reply.
The crags about them gave back the tuneful notes, while far below the long line of Russian cavalry regiments, on their march from the north, caught up the song.
"See there!" cried Rideghváry to Zebulon, pointing to the troops as they wound their way southward toward the heart of Hungary; "now comes our triumph; now we shall tread our foes under our feet. No power on earth can withstand our might." His face beamed with exultation as he spoke.
Zebulon Tallérossy was out of humour. His present part had pleased him so long as he had nothing to do but travel about with his patron, make the acquaintance of foreign celebrities, and receive honours and attentions wherever he went. That, he thought, was the fitting occupation of a great statesman, and he had looked to this same kind of statesmanship to bring everything to a quiet and orderly conclusion. But when he saw that matters were not destined to flow on so harmoniously much longer, he fell out of conceit with his rôle of statesman.
Returning with Rideghváry to the town that lay beneath them in the valley, he gave his friend and patron a hint of his dissatisfaction. "Yes," said he, "she is a mighty power,—Russia; I don't know whocould withstand her. But what will be the fate of the conquered?"
"Væ victis—woe to the vanquished!" returned the other sententiously.
"Well then," continued honest Zebulon, "let us suppose a case: what about such a man as Ödön Baradlay, whom we and all his countrymen esteem and love, and who, if his zeal has led him a little too far, has yet been influenced by none but the loftiest motives,—what will be done to him? A good man, fine talents, sure to be a credit to his country—he ought to be spared."
"Mitgefangen, mitgehangen,"[6]quoted Rideghváry briefly.
[6]Caught with the rest, hung with the rest.
[6]Caught with the rest, hung with the rest.
For the rest of the drive Zebulon was silent.
In the evening, as Rideghváry was looking over the passport blanks which he kept in one of the pigeonholes of his desk, he missed the very one to which he attached the greatest value. It was an English passport with the official signature and stamp of the ambassadors of all the intervening countries, the name and description of the bearer being alone left blank. Such forms were commonly held in readiness for secret missions. No one could have taken the missing paper except Zebulon; and when he had reached this conclusion, Rideghváry smiled.
In his comings and goings, the great man alwaystook his friend with him. But how explain the friendship which he manifested for him? Easily enough. Rideghváry was not a master of the common people's language, and it was the common people that he wished to reach. Zebulon was their oracle, their favourite orator. One needed but to give him a theme, and he could hold his simple auditors spellbound by the hour. In his expeditions, therefore, Rideghváry knew that his honest friend would be indispensable to him when it came to persuading the good people that the invading hosts which passed through their villages were not enemies, but friends, allies, and brothers. That, then, was to be Zebulon's mission, and he already suspected as much; but he had no heart for the task before him. Rideghváry, in his concern lest he should lose his spokesman, hardly let him go out of his sight, and even shared the same room with him at night; otherwise he might have found himself some morning without his mouthpiece.
Zebulon racked his brains for a plan of escape from his illustrious patron, but all in vain. The patron was too fond of him. He had even tried to pick a quarrel with Rideghváry; but the other would not so much as lose his temper. Since their last talk, however, Zebulon was more than ever determined to shake off his affectionate friend.
"If you won't let me run away from you,"said he to himself, "I will make you run away from me."
He had been pondering a scheme of his own ever since he chanced to see a Cossack eating raw cucumbers on an empty stomach. The Cossack plucked the cucumbers in a garden, and munched them with the greatest apparent relish. The plan was further developed as he watched the preparation of a dainty dish for the epicures of the Russian camp. Turnips and beets were cut up together, mixed with bran, and then boiled in an immense kettle, the finishing touch being added by dipping a pound of tallow candles into the steaming mixture. The candles came out thinner, to be sure, but were still serviceable for illumination, while the stew was rendered perfect.
Zebulon's scheme attained to full development when the cholera broke out so fiercely in the Russian army that even a disastrous battle could hardly have wrought greater havoc. Rideghváry was mortally afraid of the cholera, carried in his bosom a little bag of camphor, wore flannel over his abdomen, shook flowers of sulphur into his boots, always disinfected his room with chloride of lime, drank red wine in the evening and arrack in the morning, and chewed juniper berries during the day.
On this weakness of the illustrious man Zebulon counted largely for the success of his scheme. Entering a druggist's shop one evening, he asked for anounce of tartar emetic. The apothecary was disinclined to furnish the drug without a physician's order, but Zebulon cut his objection short.
"Doctor's prescription not necessary," said he sharply. "I prescribe for myself—exceptional case. If I say I must have it, that's enough." And he received histartarus emeticus, divided into small doses.
In the night, while Rideghváry was asleep, Zebulon took two doses of his emetic. Honour to whom honour is due! Every man has his own peculiar kind of heroism. In Zebulon it was an heroic deed to bring on himself an artificial attack of cholera at a critical time like that. But his scheme worked admirably. The audible results of the double dose of tartar emetic awakened Rideghváry from his slumbers. With one leap from his bed, he landed in the middle of the room, and ran into the passageway, shouting: "The cholera is here! the cholera is here!" He left his clothes lying in the room, and procured fresh ones to put on. Whatever luggage and papers of his were in the bedchamber, he ordered to be fumigated before he would touch them. Then, calling for his carriage, he drove out of the town in all haste.
Meanwhile, Zebulon, after the drug had done its work, went to sleep again and snored till broad daylight. With thissalto mortalehe disappeared from public life.
It was the evening of the thirteenth of August. The Hungarians had that day laid down their arms. Ödön Baradlay sat at an open window in the fading twilight, writing letters to his mother and his wife, informing them that he should await his fate where he was, even as the Roman senators had calmly awaited theirs, sitting in their curule chairs and scorning to fly before the invader. He viewed the situation with the calmness of a philosopher and showed none of the feverish uneasiness of those who were intent only on their own personal safety. He had not even thought to provide himself with a passport, as so many of his associates had done.
While he thus sat, writing his letters and heedless of his surroundings, a stranger approached him.
"Am I addressing Ödön Baradlay?" he asked.
"That is my name," replied Ödön. "May I ask yours in return?"
"My name is Valentine Schneiderius, evangelical clergyman of Pukkersdorf. I have brought you aletter, but am in haste and must not linger. As long as the Russians are in our rear the way is open; but presently it will be closed." He delivered his letter and withdrew.
Ödön broke the seal and read:
"Dear Friend,—I shall never forget the ties that unite our families. Your late lamented father was my friend, and nothing could now induce me to look on and see the destruction of a true patriot like yourself. Would to God I could help many more! I send you an English passport, all signed and sealed, to take you out of the country. Write any name you choose in the blank space. Burn this."Your old friend,"Zebulon Tallérossy."P. S. Go by way of Poland and you won't be known. When safe, think of your country; perhaps you can yet do something for your poor people."Z. T."
"Dear Friend,—I shall never forget the ties that unite our families. Your late lamented father was my friend, and nothing could now induce me to look on and see the destruction of a true patriot like yourself. Would to God I could help many more! I send you an English passport, all signed and sealed, to take you out of the country. Write any name you choose in the blank space. Burn this.
"Your old friend,
"Zebulon Tallérossy.
"P. S. Go by way of Poland and you won't be known. When safe, think of your country; perhaps you can yet do something for your poor people.
"Z. T."
Ödön examined the passport and found it complete in every detail,—even to being creased and soiled like a much-handled document. Then he threw it down, ashamed at the thought of using it to save his life when so many of his comrades in arms were in danger of death or captivity. Yet the mere prospect of safety made his pulse beat more rapidly, and involuntarily his thoughts turned to those dear onesat home who looked to him for comfort and support,—his wife and two little children.
He read once more the last words of Zebulon's postscript; they showed no little shrewdness on the writer's part. What if he could really secure aid for his country abroad? The temptation was too great. He took up the passport again and glanced at the signatures on its back. Among them was Rideghváry's. No, that man should never enjoy the triumph of hissing in his ear: "This is the last step to that height!"
He burned Zebulon's letter, as well as the two he had just written to his wife and his mother, and, summoning his servant, bade him hasten to Nemesdomb and inform his mother of his flight to a foreign country; she should hear further particulars from him later. Then he completed his preparations for a hasty departure, wrote in the name "Algernon Smith" on the passport, put the paper in his pocket, called a carriage, and set out on his flight.
The enemy's first outpost was successfully passed. The commanding officer examined his passport, found it correct, and affixed his signature. Ödön was free to go on. His second station was Gyapju, whence he wished to continue directly to Várad, and thence by way of Szigeth into Galicia. At Gyapju he was conducted to the commandant's quarters. Entering with an unconcerned air, he inquired towhom he should show his papers. There were several officers in the room, one of whom asked him to wait a few minutes until the commandant came in. Meanwhile an adjutant made the necessary examination of his passport and found it apparently all right; the one thing now required was the signature of the commanding officer.
The entrance of the latter caused Ödön a violent start. The man before him was—Leonin Ramiroff, grown to manly proportions and wearing the stern, soldierly look of one entrusted with military responsibility. The adjutant called his attention to the paper awaiting his signature, assuring him that it was all in order. Leonin took up a pen, wrote his name, and then turned to hand the passport to Ödön. The latter felt his heart stop beating as he met that sharp, penetrating gaze.
"You are not Mr. Algernon Smith," exclaimed the Russian officer in English, drawing himself up to his full height; "you are Ödön Baradlay."
Ödön's heart sank within him. "And are you going to betray me?" he asked, likewise in English.
"You are my prisoner."
"This from you, Leonin Ramiroff, my bosom friend of old, my faithful comrade on a long winter journey when we were chased by wolves; you, the man who plunged into the icy river to save me at the risk of your own life?"
"I was merely a young lieutenant in the guard then," replied Leonin coldly.
"And now will you hand me over to my bitterest foes, to the derisive laughter of the conqueror, to a miserable death on the scaffold?"
"I am now a colonel of lancers," was the other's only reply; and with that he tore the passport in two and threw it under the table. "Take the prisoner away and put him under guard."
The adjutant took Ödön by the arm and led him out. The house was full of officers and their servants, so that no place could be found for the prisoner but a little shanty built of boards, adjoining the stable. Here he was confined, and a Cossack stationed with his carbine outside as guard.
Every three hours the guard was changed. Being acquainted with Russian, Ödön understood the order given to his jailer,—"If he tries to escape, shoot him."
At nine o'clock in the evening a thunder-storm came up. The rain descended in torrents, and in the flashes of lightning the captive could look through the cracks in his prison-wall and see the Cossack standing ankle-deep in mud and water, his carbine ready for instant use. The storm passed over; the tower-clock struck eleven; in the adjoining stable Ödön heard the Russian cavalrymen snoring, while their horses were stamping under an improvised shed near by.
Suddenly he heard his name called, cautiously and in a whisper.
"Who is calling me?" he asked.
"I—the guard."
"What! do you know me, too?"
"Do you remember your sledge-driver on the Mohilev steppe,—the time we were nearly eaten up by the wolves? You stood by me then, and I'm going to stand by you now. At the back of your shanty is a loose board,—the fourth from the bottom. You can push it aside and crawl out. The horse-shed is behind. My horse has his saddle and bridle on; you'll know him by his white tail. He's the fastest runner in the regiment. Mount him and make for the garden in the rear, and then follow the storm. You'll find the horse a good one, and easy on the bit. Don't be afraid of me if I shoot after you; I'm bound to do it, though I'm not to blame for all the loose boards in your prison. And one word more: when you have mounted my horse, and want him to go, press his flanks with your knees, but don't whip him. If you use the whip he'll stand stock-still, and the harder you whip the stiller he'll stand. More than one horse-thief has come to grief for want of knowing that. His name is Ljubicza, and he likes to be called by it. If you whisper in his ear, 'Hurrah, Ljubicza!' he'll dart away like the wind."
Ödön felt renewed life thrill through his veins.He lost no time in following his humble friend's directions. Finding the loose board, which seemed to be secured only by a rusty nail, he softly removed it, and squeezed through the opening. Making his way to the horse-shed, he soon picked out the white-tailed horse, swung himself on to its back and turned it around. Then, pressing his knees inward, he whispered, "Hurrah, Ljubicza!" The well-trained animal darted away through the garden.
At the sound of the galloping horse the guard sprang forward, drew his carbine to his shoulder, and, whispering, "St. George preserve him!" pulled the trigger. At the report all the sleepers leaped to their feet.
"What's up?"
"Prisoner escaped."
"After him!"
A score of Cossacks threw themselves on their horses and gave chase, discharging their pieces in the darkness as they rode. An occasional flash of lightning revealed the fugitive ahead of them, and stimulated the pursuers to renewed efforts. But the fleet stallion soon overtook the storm, and it proved a good travelling companion, wrapping the fugitive in its mantle of rain, and drowning with its thunder-claps the beating of his horse's hoofs. It took the side of the escaped prisoner, and he was not caught.
The dawn found Ödön alone on the wide heath,—a bare and desolate plain before him, where nothing but earth and sky met the view, except that in the distance the faint outline of a well-sweep could be descried. Ödön turned his horse in that direction. The animal seemed thirsty, and quickened his pace as he drew nearer the well. After watering him and turning him loose to seek what forage the barren heath had to offer, the rider sat down on the low well-curb and gazed over the plain. But he was not long left to his meditations; the distant neighing of a horse aroused him, and his faithful Ljubicza, with an answering whinny, came trotting to his side, as if offering himself for farther flight.
Resting one arm on the saddle, Ödön stood awaiting the stranger's approach. It certainly could not be an enemy roaming the plain in that manner; it must be a travelling companion, a fugitive like himself, who had been attracted thither by the well-sweep, that lighthouse of the arid plains. As he drewnearer, the unknown rider looked like some stray member of a guerilla band. A bright red ribbon adorned his round hat. Upon his closer approach Ödön recognised his old acquaintance, Gregory Boksa, the ox-herd; and he was glad even of this humble man's company in the lonely desert.
"Hurrah!" cried Gregory, as he rode up on his white-faced horse; "how glad I am to see you, my dear sir! May Heaven preserve you! It is well you made your escape, for they're having bad times back yonder. I myself only got away with difficulty."
So saying, the driver of cattle dismounted and patted his horse on the neck.
"Yes, sir," he resumed, "if old White-face hadn't held out as well as he did, it would have been all over with me. You see, when I learned that our people had laid down their arms, I said to myself: 'The Russians sha'n't have my hundred head of cattle for nothing.' So I drove the herd to Várad through the Belényes forest, and walked into the Russian camp. 'I've got some cattle to sell,' said I, 'and if you want to buy, now's your chance.' The stupid Russians snapped at the bait, agreed to my price after a little haggling, and gave me a money-order for the lot. I was to go to Rideghváry, said they, and he would pay me the cash."
"Is Rideghváry in Várad?" asked Ödön quickly.
"Yes, indeed, he's there; but I took good carenot to go near him. I was glad enough to be off before dog or cat could see me. The devil take the money! Rideghváry would have paid me in coin that I had no use for."
Ödön felt lighter of heart. If Rideghváry was in Várad, he himself owed his life a second time to Leonin Ramiroff; for had not the latter arrested him, he would have run into the arms of the former. What if Leonin had foreseen this and stopped him on purpose? Perhaps, too, his escape was really all of his friend's planning, and he had thus shown himself a true friend after all. Whether it was so or not, Ödön clung to the belief that Leonin had behaved with noble generosity toward his old friend.
"I am very grateful to you," said he, "for telling me where Rideghváry is at present. In all the world there is no one I am so anxious to avoid."
"But what are your plans?" asked Boksa.
"I shall go to the very first Austrian officer I can find and tell him who I am. He shall do what he chooses with me. I am going to face the music."
This proposal by no means met with the other's approval. "That is not wise on your part," he remonstrated. "No, indeed! I am a simple man, but I can't approve of your course. When the conqueror is in his first frenzy, I say, keep out of his way, for he is sure to show no mercy to his first victims. Why, then, such haste?"
"You don't suppose I care to lie hidden in the woods month after month, or wander about like a tramp and be hunted from one county to another?"
"No, no," returned Gregory, "I don't say you should do that, though for myself I don't expect anything better. But you are a nobleman with an estate of your own; go home and take your ease, as becomes a man of your station, until they choose to send for you."
"And so make my hard fate all the harder to bear, after seeing again those that are dearest to me in the world? No; both for their sakes and for my own I must refuse to follow any such advice."
"When did you last see your family?"
"It is now four months since I left Nemesdomb."
"And when did you last visit Körös Island?"
"I have never been there at all. My father bought that summer residence while I was abroad, and since my return I have had no leisure for summer vacations."
"Very well, sir. I think now I understand you perfectly. With my poor wits I can easily see that a person of your importance would prefer not to surrender himself a prisoner to the first corporal or sergeant that comes along. You wouldn't enjoy being driven through the nearest market-town with your hands tied behind you,—the sport of your enemies. Now supposing you let me lead you, bylonely paths where we sha'n't meet a soul, to the house of an acquaintance,—an out-of-the-way place,—where you can write a letter to the Austrian commander-in-chief, and quietly wait for things to take their course. A thousand things may happen in the meantime. Why should you rush to your destruction? Wait and let your fate come to you, I say, and meantime keep your pipe lighted. If I were a great lord, that's what I should do."
"I accept your offer, my good Boksa," returned Ödön. "Your head seems better than mine. Conduct me whither you will."
"All right!" responded the other. "Let us mount and be off."
Throughout the night the full moon lighted the two travellers on their way. Many stretches, too, of dry, hard ground were encountered, where more rapid progress was possible than among the bulrushes and tall reeds. The horses, moreover, found occasional forage, stout grass and blackberry bushes being abundant. Toward morning they came to a river, and here Boksa and his charge rested in the hut of a fisherman who was known to the ox-herd, and who served his guests a hotly spiced fish-chowder. After partaking of it Ödön stretched himself on the rush mat, and, wearied as he was with his long wanderings, slept as soundly as a tired child. When he awoke, Boksa was sitting on the door-sill near him.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Near sunset," was the answer.
"So late as that? Why didn't you wake me?"
"Ah, that would have been a sin. You were at home, talking with your little boy."
The road lay thenceforth along the riverside. It was late in the evening when they came to an island of some size lying in the middle of the stream, and communicating by a bridge with the bank on which Ödön and his guide were standing.
"Here we are," announced Boksa. "This is where my acquaintance lives,—the one I was going to bring you to."
"What is his name?" asked Ödön.
"You'll know him when you see him," replied the other evasively.
"But shall I not be a burden to him?"
"No, indeed."
They rode over the bridge, and an ivy-covered villa came to view through the foliage. Proceeding up the gravel path to the veranda, they alighted and gave their horses to the stable-boy. Through the long windows that opened on the veranda could be seen a lamp and people gathered about it. A young woman sat with a sleeping child in her lap; an older lady, with a face of marble pallor, sat before an open Bible; and a young man held a little boy on his knee and drew pictures for him on a slate. A bigNewfoundland dog suddenly rose from the corner where he was sleeping, and, with a half-suppressed bark of eager expectation, came bounding to the door.
"Where am I?" stammered Ödön in great agitation.
"At home."
Ödön could not persuade himself that Boksa had done him a kindness in bringing him home. It was a time of torturing suspense for all the family. The Austrian general had been duly informed where Ödön Baradlay could be found, and a summons from him was daily expected. Poor Aranka could not hear a door open, or the sound of a strange step, without starting and turning pale. Every day, when the mail came, they all ran to look over the letters and make sure that the dreaded call to Ödön was not among them.
One day a suspicious-looking letter came to view addressed in German to "Herr Eugen von Baradlay."
Eugen—why, that was German forJenő. He opened the letter, read it, and put it in his pocket. All the family were present, and his mother asked him from whom his letter came, and what news it brought. But Jenő only answered, "I must go on a journey."
"Whither and for what purpose?" asked the baroness.
"I can't sit idle here any longer," he replied. "One of my brothers has vanished from our sight, and the other daily expects to be taken prisoner. Such a life is more than I can bear any longer. It is my turn now to try what I can do."
"But what can you do?" asked his mother.
"That is my secret."
"But I have a right to share it. No member of my family shall adopt a course which affects us all, which I have not first approved."
"You will learn all in due time."
"But what if I then refuse to give my sanction?"
"Your refusal will be too late to be of any avail."
"Then I forbid you to go on."
"I cannot obey you. I am no longer a child, but am responsible to myself alone for my actions."
"But," interposed Ödön, "you are still a son and a brother."
"As you shall soon see," answered Jenő, with significant emphasis.
The baroness took her youngest son by the hand. "You have some plan for saving our family," said she. "I can read your soul; you are an open book to me. I have studied you from your infancy. Youthink now to rescue us by leaving us and resuming your old connections, thus exerting an influence in our favour upon our enemies. I see that you are planning to return to the Plankenhorsts."
Jenő smiled sadly. "Do you read that in my heart?" he asked.
"You wish to marry that girl in order to save your brother through the powerful influence of her family,—that girl whose dower will be my hatred, and on whom her country's curse and God's anger rest."
Aranka threw herself on her mother-in-law's breast. "Mother," she cried, "do not speak of her like that; he loves her!"
Ödön led his wife back to her seat. "Do not interpose, my dear," said he, firmly. "We are here concerned with matters of which your innocent soul can have not the slightest conception. To purchase life and property by swearing fidelity to the woman who was the inspiring demon of all the woe that so lately befell our poor country; who has nursed the hatred of one people against another; who has played the part of traitress, spy, slanderer; who has stirred up men against the throne only for the purpose of delivering them over to the hangman; who harbours such fiendish plots in her bosom that, if she had her way, she would embitter for ever one country against its neighbour,—to bring such a woman as wife into hisfather's house is what no Baradlay shall do, or if he should do it I know one who would refuse the gift of his life at such a price."
The baroness sank weeping on her eldest son's bosom. He had voiced the cry of her own proud soul. Jenő said nothing; he smiled sadly, and went about his preparations for departure. Aranka regarded him with compassion in her eyes.
"And do you, too, condemn me?" he asked softly.
"Do what your heart bids you," she sighed.
"Yes, with Heaven's help I will!"
His mother would not let him leave the room; she threw herself on her knees before him and blocked the way. "My son," she cried, "I beg you not to go. Let misery, torture, death itself overtake us; we will bear them all without complaint. Have not ten thousand already died for the cause? But our souls we will keep unsullied. Oh, do not close against us the way to heaven!"
"Mother, I implore you, rise."
"No; if you go, my place is here in the dust,—crushed to the earth."
"You do not understand me, mother; nor is it my will that you should."
"What!" cried the mother, joyfully; "you are not planning to do as I suspected?"
"That question I must refuse to answer."
"One word more," interrupted Ödön; "if youwould relieve our anxiety, show us the letter you have received."
Jenő put his hand to his breast, as if fearful lest some one might try to take the letter from him by force. "That letter you shall not see," he declared.
"I am determined to read it," returned the other.
At this Jenő's face flushed hotly. "Ödön Baradlay," he exclaimed, "the letter is addressed to Eugen Baradlay. I am Eugen Baradlay." So saying, he turned proudly away.
"Then our mother was right, after all," said his brother bitterly.
The baroness rose to her feet. Tears coursed down her cheeks. "Go, then," she cried, "whither your obstinate will leads you. Leave us here in despair and in tears. But know that, though two of my sons are likely to die on the scaffold, I shall not mourn those that are taken, but the one that is left."
At these hard words Jenő looked with a gentle smile at the speaker. "Mother," said he, "remember that my last words to you were, 'I love you.' Farewell!" And he was gone.
The contents of his letter were as follows: