"'And the man said unto Eli, I am he that came out of the army, and I
fled to-day out of the army. And he said, What is there done, my son?
"'And the messenger answered and said, Israel is fled before the
Philistines, and there hath been also a great slaughter among the
people, and thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas, are dead, and the
ark of God is taken.'"
But here he could no longer contain himself, and, sobbing bitterly, he
leant his head on the old man's knee, and hid his face in his hands.
The latter did not insist on his reading any more; but repeated, in a
low voice, the well-known verse:
"'And it came to pass, when he made mention of the ark of God, that he
fell from off the seat backward by the side of the gate, and his neck
brake, and he died.'"
* * * * *
Beneath an acacia tree, at a little distance from the rest, stood two
females.
The eldest might have been six-and-thirty; her features, though stern
and severe, were still beautiful, and her dark lustrous eyes glowed
with the fire of enthusiasm. She was very pale, and the lightning
which glimmered around her gave a still more livid hue to her
features.
Judith--for so she was called--was a true type of the Szekely women;
one of those unfading forms who retain to an advanced age the keen
expression of countenance, the brilliancy of the large dark eye, the
thrilling and musical tones, and slender but vigorous form; while the
mind, instead of decaying, grows stronger with years.
Round her majestic figure, a slight girl of sixteen twined her arms,
clinging to her like the gentle convolvulus to the stately pine.
Aranka was a lovely blue-eyed maiden, with bright golden locks, and a
form so fragile, that it seemed to bend like the lily to the breeze.
She was betrothed to the son of that proud matron to whom she clung,
and the eyes of the mother and the bride sought the beloved, as they
gazed eagerly through the dim apace.
"Do you not see a form approaching there?" asked Judith, pointing
towards the plain.
Aranka drew still closer, that she might see the object pointed out;
her head rested on Judith's shoulder, but she could not discern
anything, for the starry beam of the blue eye cannot pierce the
distance, like the more fiery ray of the black eye.
In a few minutes the form became more distinct, and the timid blush of
love flitted over the young girl's cheek, while a deep flush of anger
mantled on the mother's.
"It is he, my beloved!" murmured Aranka, pressing her small hand on
her heart, as if to still the little flutterer.
"He has no arms!" cried Judith with horror, as she turned away her
head, and covered her eyes with her hand; for, though still indistinct
to others, the gentle girl recognised her lover, and the mother had
seen her son's disgrace.
With slow and uncertain steps the figure approached; his head hung
dejectedly on his breast, and he appeared to move with pain.
On seeing the women assembled in the churchyard, he bent his steps
thither.
They all now recognised Judith's son, and surrounded the mother as he
approached.
The churchyard moat lay between the mother and her son. Unable to
cross it, the young man sank on the ground before it. His clothes were
torn and covered with blood, and his hand endeavoured to conceal a
wound in his breast.
"Where have you left your arms?" cried his mother in a stern voice,
advancing from among the crowd.
He would have replied, that he had left it in his enemy's heart; but
he had not strength to speak, and the words died on his mouth.
"Speak! is the battle lost?"
The youth made a sign of the affirmative.
"And why did you not fall with the rest? Why did you leave the field
for the sun to rise on your disgrace? Why have you come hither?"
The youth was silent.
"Wherefore should you desire to outlive your country? And, if you have
come to be buried here, better far to have sought a grave where it had
been glory to have died--on the battle-field. Away! This churchyard
has no place for you--you can have no part among our dead--leave us,
and deny that you were born here! Live or die, but forget us."
The youth looked in his mother's face with an imploring expression,
and then at the women who surrounded her; but he encountered no
glance--no trace of sympathy--his eyes sought his bride, his heart's
brightest hopes, the blue-eyed maiden; but she had fallen on her knees
at his mother's feet, hiding her face in Judith's dress, to conceal
her sobs.
The youth still hesitated--still waited to see if any one would bid
him stay; and when he saw that none spoke, not even his bride, he
raised himself slowly and silently from the earth, still holding his
hand across his breast, and, with tottering steps, turned once more to
the trackless plain, and wandered into the woods beyond, where he sank
never to rise again.
One or two of the Szekely youths returned afterwards from the lost
field, but the women refused them admittance.
"Seek another home," they said, "than the one you could not defend!"
And the few who survived wandered into distant countries, for none
dared return who had outlived his country's ruin.
* * * * *
Bitter were the sounds of weeping and lamentation in the churchyard of
Kezdi-Vasarhely--the cry of the Szekely women rose to heaven.
The old man at the crypt-door asked, in a feeble voice, the cause of
the weeping.
"Szekely-land is lost!" they cried; "your son and your grandsons have
fallen on the field with their leader, and Gabor Aron; and all their
cannon is taken!"
The old man raised his hands and sightless eyes to heaven. "My God!"
he exclaimed, and, sinking to the earth, he ceased to be blind; for
the light of eternity had risen on his spirit.
The old man was dead.
The Szekely women surrounded the body with deep reverence, and bore it
in their arms into the town.
The cripple followed slowly on his crutches, repeating bitterly to
himself, "Why could not I have been there too? why could not I have
fallen among them?"
In all Kezdi-Vasarhely there was not a man to be seen; the brave had
fallen, the deserters had been turned away, and the last man they were
now placing in his coffin, and he was an old man past eighty, and
blind.
Only women and children now remained--widows and orphans--who wept
bitterly round the old man's bier, but not for the dead.
The cripple knelt unheeded at the foot of the coffin; and hid his face
in his hands, as he heard them say that the _last_ man was dead; they
did not consider him as one!
The house was quite full, as well as the court--for the old man's
grandchildren and great-grandchildren formed a large congregation; and
all those to whom he had done good during his life, whom he had
assisted with his counsel or supported in their sorrow--how many there
were! and yet the greater part was absent, covering the
battle-field!--and among all his sons and grandsons, only that one
cripple was present, and he was not considered as a man!
They had all their dead to mourn--all their peculiar sorrows, but none
more than the high-minded Judith, and the poor cripple,--and yet they
alone wept not. A restless fever burned within them, and, instead of
tears, sparks of fire seemed to burst from their eyes.
In the midst of the weeping and lamentation, Judith beckoned the
cripple aside.
"David!" she exclaimed, taking the youth's damp, cold hand, "your
grandfather lies stretched out before you, and yet you stand beside
the coffin without shedding a tear! what are you thinking of? Last
night I heard you sighing and tossing on your bed--you never
slept--what were you thinking of then, David?"
The cripple hung his head in silence.
"David, if you were a strong, sound man--if you could hold a sword or
a lance, instead of those crutches--would you hang your head in
silence as you do now?"
The cripple raised his glowing face, and his large, dark eyes met
Judith's with such a gleam of enthusiasm, it seemed as if the ardent
spirit had forgotten for a moment the weakness of its mortal dwelling.
"And you will never be happy," she continued; "no joys await your lot
in this life, and yet who knows how long that life may be. Speak!
should death appear before you in its most brilliant form--more
glorious than on the battle-field--and bid you cast away your crutches
and embrace the weapons of destruction, giving you all you loved on
earth as a funeral pile to perish around you, that none should remain
to whom your thoughts might return from the other world"--
"I do not understand you."
"You _will_ not, perhaps. The world is still fair to you, even amidst
ruins, and blasted by dishonour; unfortunate as you are, life is still
dear--even your crutches are not to be exchanged for wings!"
"Oh! speak not thus; how often would I have given the life I abhor for
the death I envy!" exclaimed the unhappy youth; and added, in a lower
tone, "for the death of glory!"
"And what death would be more glorious than yours? on a battle-field
in which the elements themselves should join, where you would stand in
the midst, high above all, like the angel of death, proclaiming
resistance to the last, in a voice which would be heard above the
battle-cry; and, when all had fallen, when there remained none to
help, you alone would snatch the victory from the enemy's hand, and
bear it with you--not to the grave, but to heaven!"
"O that I could!" sighed the cripple; "but what is my voice? it would
not be heard in battle; and my arm could snatch the victory from
none!"
"Listen to me! The victors will arrive to-day or to-morrow; but
neither repose nor enjoyment shall await them here--they shall find
every door closed, and our weapons shall be the reply to theirs. If
the men of Kezdi-Vasarhely have fallen in defence of their country,
the women shall not be unworthy of them! We shall lose--for the arm of
woman is weak, though her heart is strong--we have neither the weapons
nor the force to resist, only the will; and therefore our aim is not
victory, but an honourable death. You will go up to the tower, and
when you see the enemy approaching at a distance, ring the bell; we
will then carry out the dead to be buried, and await the hated foe
beside his grave; and wo to them if they try to enter by force, we
shall defend every house to the last--despair will teach us to fight;
and should fear or hesitation overcome our weak hearts for an instant,
the voice of your bell will revive our courage, and inspire us with
new strength. And you must not cease one moment till the combat is
over; then take the wreaths of tarred pine, which you will find in a
niche of the tower ready prepared, and when the enemy have taken
possession of the town, throw them down on the roofs of the houses!
Thus you will regain the town from the enemy, and, amidst smoke and
flames--the funeral-pile of all you love on earth--you will bear
victory along with you to heaven!"
The cripple listened with increasing agitation to Judith's words; and
when she had finished, he dashed away his crutches, and, falling at
her feet, embraced her knees, and murmured some unintelligible words;
but the enthusiasm which glowed in every feature told how the spirit
rejoiced to meet the death she had portrayed in such brilliant
colours.
"Will you have courage?" asked Judith.
"Oh! I shall rejoice in it! I shall no longer be a cripple--no longer
unhappy; I shall die like a hero! and when the flames are bursting
around me, I shall sing with the prophet, 'Cry out, ye gates, cry out,
O city, for the terrible day of the Lord is come!'"
And the cripple trembled violently with agitation, and his withered
arm was raised to heaven.
Judith gazed at him in silence, as he still knelt, with his hands and
eyes upraised, as if inspired.
"Come with me!" she exclaimed, after a few moments' pause, raising him
from the ground.
David took up his crutches and followed her, with such joyful alacrity
that his feet scarcely seemed to touch the earth; he appeared already
to possess wings instead of crutches.
As they passed the chamber of the dead, he approached his
grandfather's coffin, and, kissing the cold face and hands, murmured,
with an expression of unwonted joy, "We shall meet soon!"
The women looked at him with surprise; they had never seen him smile
thus before, and thought that grief had estranged his mind. Judith
left the room, telling them she would soon return, and herself
conducted the cripple to the tower, while he followed with a vigour he
had hitherto never displayed;--the spirit seemed actually bearing up
the fragile body.
When they reached the top, Judith kissed the cripple's brow, and
pressed his hand in silence.
David locked the door after her, and threw the key out of the window
along with his crutches.
"I shall want them no more," he cried, as Judith passed below the
tower. "I wish to be certain that I shall not fail in the hour of
temptation."
He then placed himself at the window, and looked out towards the
mountains.
* * * * *
Judith returned to the house of mourning, and found the women still
weeping round the bier.
She motioned to them to dry their tears--her majestic form, calm
features, and commanding eye, seemed formed to be obeyed. The women
were silent, and Judith addressed them in a clear, steady voice:
"Sisters!--widows and orphans of Kezdi-Vasarhely!--Heaven has visited
us with great and severe trials; we have outlived all that was
good--all that we loved on earth; there is not a house in which some
beloved one was not expected who will never now return! However long
we may live, no happiness awaits us in this world! we may grow old and
gray in our deserted homes, but the best part of our lives lies
beneath the sod; and this is not the heaviest stroke which awaits us.
Instead of the beloved, those who have shed their heart's-blood will
come--we shall see them take possession of the places which our
beloved ones have left; instead of the familiar voices, we shall hear
the harsh tones, and meet the unfeeling gaze of strangers--of our
bitter enemies! Shall we await that time? Death gives back all that
life has taken away--and death can take nothing but life! If I did not
know that I am among Szekely women, I would take leave of you, and
say, I go alone to die! but I know you all--where I am you will be
also; you will act as I do, and be worthy of your dead. Go home to
your houses, conceal everything you value; make fires in every stove,
and boil water and oil in every vessel. At the first sound of the
bell, let every one of you assemble here; we will then carry out the
dead to the gate of the town, and dig his grave across the road before
it, and with this moat the town shall be closed--none shall pass from
within alive! Haste! put your houses in order, and return here at the
first sound of the bell!"
The women dispersed--with the calmness of despair they went home, and
did as Judith desired, and collected all the weapons they could find,
but not another tear was shed.
* * * * *
The bell of the tower had begun to toll; it was the only bell left in
Kezdi-Vasarhely; the rest had all been founded into cannon. Clouds of
dust were seen to rise far off on the winding mountain-path, above
Predialo, and the tolling of the bell announced the approach of the
Russian troops. Two companies marched towards the gates of
Kezdi-Vasarhely; one from without, the other from within the town. One
was formed of hardened soldiers, the other of women and girls. On one
side the enlivening sound of military music was heard, and colours
floated on the breeze; on the other, the dismal tones of the funeral
song arose, and mourning veils fluttered round the bier.
A troop of Circassian horsemen paused before the gates. Their dress,
their features, their language--all seemed to recall a strange image
of the past, of those ancient times when first the Magyar people
sought a home in the unknown world--for even then, persecuted by fate,
they wandered forth in millions, driven from their own country; and
some found a home among the wild mountains of the Caucasus, others
wandered still farther, and the parted brethren never met, or heard of
each other more, till, mingled with the surrounding nations, both had
changed; and when, a thousand years later, the world's caprice once
more brought them together, and they met as foes, both were struck by
some strange sympathy, some sad chord which touched each alike, and
their hearts felt oppressed, and their arms sank, they knew not
wherefore.
The leader of the troop was a young chief, whose oval face, handsome
sunburnt features, and dark eyes, bore great resemblance to the
Szekely Magyar, and if he had worn a dolmany, none would have
distinguished the one from the other; but his dress was not that of
the present Magyar, and yet the crimson-bordered toque, the short
linen vest, beneath which flowed the long coloured kaftan, the curved
sword--even the manner of girding it on--all recalled some well-known
object, like a portrait once seen, the name of which we have
forgotten, or the impression caused by some dream, or bygone scene of
childhood, and we sigh to be unable to speak to them, or understand
their language, to ask if they are happier among their mountains than
their brothers on the plain, or if they, too, weep like us; and bid
them, when they return, and sit in the evenings at the threshold of
their mountain homes--those which they so bravely defended, speak of
us to their children, and point to where the setting sun gilds the
home of the Magyar, and breathe a prayer for their suffering brethren.
The grave was dug, and the women stood before it chanting their
mournful dirges, while the measure was now and then interrupted by
sobs, and the solemn bell tolled the knell of death--the death of the
town.
The leader of the troop alighted from his horse, his comrades followed
his example, and taking their csalmas from their heads, they clasped
their hands and stood beside the grave in silent prayer. Who would
have thought that these were enemies?
After a pause of a few minutes, the leader made a motion to approach
the women on the opposite side of the grave, but Judith calmly
advanced, and waved him back. "Approach not," she exclaimed--"the
grave is the boundary between us; there is nothing to seek in the
town--none but women and children inhabit it--the widows and orphans
of those you have killed; and here, in this grave, lies the last man
of Kezdi-Vasarhely, a holy man, whom God permitted to live
eighty-nine years, to be the friend and counsellor of the whole town,
and has now called to Himself, because the town has no more need of
him: his spirit fled at the first news of the lost battle, for he was
blind ten years: had he not been blind, the steel and not the news of
the battle would have killed him, as it killed the rest. The women of
Kezdi-Vasarhely have buried him here, that none may enter the town.
They wish to live in solitude, as becomes widows whose husbands have
fallen in battle; and therefore, blessed be the grave which shuts us
out from the world, and accursed be he who steps over it, both before
and after his death!"
The Circassian drew a white handkerchief from his bosom, and placing
it on the end of his spear, spoke to the Szekely women in a language
unknown to them, although the tone, and even the accent, seemed
familiar. He wished to tell them that he had brought peace to their
town; that they had nothing to fear from him; that he only desired
admittance. The women understood his intention, but motioned a
refusal. "In vain you bring peace!" they exclaimed; "as long as there
is a living breath here, there must be war between us and you; only
death can bring us peace. Seek quarters for your troops elsewhere; the
world is large enough--there is no rest for you here; grief reigns
alone in this town, where the ghosts of the grave wander through the
streets, women bewailing the dead, and driven by despair to
madness--depart from here!"
The action of the women, the unknown yet familiar tones, awakened a
strange sad echo in the heart of the young Circassian, as he stood
supported on his lance, looking on the mourners before him.
Brought up in the stern exercise of military duty, he was accustomed
to fulfil the word of command, without regard to circumstances; but
now his strength seemed to fail him, and he hesitated to force his way
through a party of weak women.
"Take the white handkerchief from your lance," cried Judith, "and
steep it in our heart's blood--then you may enter our town;" and as he
leapt into the saddle, several of the women threw themselves before
his horse's feet, causing the animal to rear and neigh.
But the Circassian remembered that he had a beloved mother at home
whose words so much resembled those of that proud matron--and sisters,
and a young bride, beautiful as those young girls who had thrown
themselves before his horse's feet--with just such dark glorious eyes,
sad features, and light forms; and his heart failed him. He turned
quickly aside, that the women might not see the tears which filled his
eyes; and then, dashing his spurs into his horse's side, he once more
waved his white handkerchief to the kneeling women, and galloped from
the gate. His comrades hastened after him; their lances gleamed
through clouds of dust, which soon concealed them from view; but
neither the Szekely nor the Circassian women saw that young chieftain
more.
He was summoned before a military tribunal for transgression of duty,
and suffered the stern fate of the soldier.
Troops of a different nature were sent next against the town, whose
horses trampled down the grave, and whose bayonets forced open the
closed doors.
It was a weary strife, without the glory of war; one by one each house
was taken, defended as they were by women and children; the contest
was renewed in every street; the infuriated inhabitants pouring
boiling water and oil over the heads of their enemies, while the
fearful tolling of the bell, heard above the cries and the clang of
arms, excited them to still greater desperation.
The combat continued till night, when the song of triumph was heard
in the streets--the town was in the hands of the enemy. Suddenly, as
if it had descended from heaven, fire burst from the roofs of the
houses, and in an instant, the wind coming to the assistance of the
flames, carried the fiery embers from one end of the town to the
other. Cries of despair arose amidst the howling of the blast, but
dense clouds of smoke concealed all but the flames which darted
through them, devouring as they passed; and high above, the roof of
the tower blazed like a gigantic torch, while the solemn tolling still
continued, the voice of battle, of fire, of tempest, and of death: a
fearful crash was heard, and all was still--the bell had fallen.
* * * * *
The two elements remained joint masters of the field. The wind and the
flames contended over the ruins of Kezdi-Vasarhely.