better; let me not see you! Do not think I speak in anger, but I
cannot bear to look at you, and think where you are going. You are
my only son, and you know how I have loved you--how all my hopes
have been concentrated in you. But do not think that these tears,
which you see me shed for the first time, are on your account; for
if I knew I should lose you,--if your blood were to flow at the
next battle,--I should only bow my head in dust and say, 'The Lord
gave, and the Lord takes away, blessed be His holy name!' Yes, if
I heard that you and your infatuated companions were cut to pieces,
I could stifle the burning tears; but to know that your blood, when
it flows, will be a curse upon the earth, and your death will be
the death of two kingdoms--"
"They may die now; but they will regenerate--"
"This is not true; you only deceive yourselves with the idea that
you can build up a new edifice when you have overthrown the old
one. Great God, what sacrilege! Who had intrusted you with the
fate of our country, to tempt the Almighty? Who authorized you to
lose all there is for the hope of what may be? For centuries past
have so many honorable men fought in vain to uphold the old
tottering constitution, as you call it? Or were they not true
patriots and heroes? Your companions have hissed their persecuted
countrymen in the Diet; but do they love their country better than
we do, who have shed our blood and sacrificed our interests for her
from generation to generation, and even suffered disgrace, if
necessary, to keep her in life?--for though that life has been
gradually weakened, still it is life. You promise her glory; but
the name of glory is death!"
"It may be so, father; we may lose our country as regards
ourselves, but we give one instead of ten millions, who were
hitherto our own people, and yet strangers in their native land."
"Chimera! The people will not understand you. They never even
dreamt of what you wish to give them. The true way to seek the
people's welfare is to give them what they need.
"Ask my dependents! Is there one among them whom I have allowed to
suffer want or ruin, whom I have not assisted in times of need?--or
have I ever treated them unjustly? You will not hear a murmur.
Tell them that I am unjust notwithstanding, because I do not call
the peasant from his plow to give his opinions on forming the laws
and constitution,--and what will be the consequence? They will
stare at you in astonishment; and yet, in their mistaken wrath,
they will come down some night and burn this house over my head."
"That is the unnatural state of the times. It is all the fault of
the past bad management, if the people have no better idea. But
let the peasant once be free, let him be a man, and he will
understand all that is now strange to him."
"But that freedom will cost the lives of thousands!"
"I do not deny it. Indeed, I believe that neither I nor any of the
present generation will reap the fruits of this movement. I think
it probable that in a few years not one of those whose names we now
hear spoken of may still be living; and what is more, disgrace and
curses may be heaped upon their dust. But a time will come when
the great institutions of which they have laid the foundation will
arise and render justice to the memory of those who sacrificed
themselves for the happiness of future generations. To die for our
country is a glorious death, but to carry with us the curses of
thousands, to die despised and hated for the salvation of future
millions, oh! that is sublime--it is Messiah-like!"
"My son--my only son!" cried his father, throwing himself
passionately on the young man's neck and sobbing bitterly. "Do you
see these tears?"
"For the first time in my life I see them, father--I see you weep;
my heart can scarcely bear the weight of these tears--and yet I go!
You have reason to weep, for I bring neither joy nor glory on your
head--and yet I go! A feeling stronger than the desire of glory,
stronger than the love of my country, inspires my soul; and it is a
proof of the strength of my faith that I see your tears, my father--
and yet I go!"
"Go!" murmured his father, in a voice of despair. "You may never
return again, or, when you do, you may find neither your father's
house nor the grave in which he is laid! But know, even then, in
the hour of your death, or in the hour of mine, I do not curse you--
and now, leave me." With these words he turned away and motioned
to his son to depart.
Imre silently left the apartment, and as soon as he had closed the
door the tears streamed from his eyes; but before his sword had
struck the last step his countenance had regained its former
determination, and the fire of enthusiasm had kindled in his eye.
He then went to take leave of his Uncle Jozsef, whom he found
surrounded by his family. The twins were sitting at his feet,
while his wife was playing bo-peep with the little one, who laughed
and shouted, while his mother hid herself behind his father's
armchair.
Imre's entrance interrupted the general mirth. The little boy ran
over to examine the sword and golden tassels, while the little one
began to cry in alarm at the sight of the strange dress.
"Csitt, baba!" said his mother, taking him from his father's arms;
"your cousin is going to wars, and will bring you a golden horse."
Jozsef wrung his nephew's hand. "God be with you!" he exclaimed,
and added in a lower voice, "You are the noblest of us all--you
have done well!"
They then all embraced him in turns, and Imre left them, amidst
clamors of the little ones, and proceeded to his grandmother's
apartments.
On the way, he met his Uncle Barnabas, who embraced him again and
again in silence, and then tore himself away without saying a word.
The old lady sat in her great armchair, which she seldom quitted,
and as she heard the clash of Imre's sword, she looked up and asked
who was coming.
"It is Imre!" said the fair-haired maiden, blushing, and her heart
beat quickly as she pronounced his name.
Jolanka felt that Imre was more than a brother to her, and the
feeling with which she had learnt to return his affection was
warmer than even a sister's love.
The widow lady and the cripple were also in the grandmother's
apartment; the child sat on a stool at the old lady's feet, and
smiled sadly as the young man entered.
"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble
voice. "Ah, this is no good world--no good world! But if God is
against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead
again in dreams. I thought they all came around me and beckoned me
to follow them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with
gratitude and confidence in the hands of the Lord. Last night I
saw the year 1848 written in the skies in letters of fire. Who
knows what may come over us yet? This is no good world--no good
world!"
Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it.
"And so you are going? Well, God bless and speed you, if you go
beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise
your heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand
upon her grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"
"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed
the widow lady as she embraced her nephew. "God bless you!"
The little cripple threw his arms around his cousin's knees and,
sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.
The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with
downcast eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered
cockade, which she placed on his breast. It was composed of five
colors--blue and gold, red, white, and green.*
* Blue and gold are the colors of Transylvania.
"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise,
as he pressed the sweet girl to his heart, "Erdely* and Hungary
united! I shall win glory for your colors!"
* Transylvania.
The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released
her, "Remember me!"
"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the
youth fervently.
And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding
farewell, he hurried from the apartment.
Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.
"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and
give you strength to cut down many Turks!"
"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the
young man, smiling.
"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century,
correcting himself.
A page waited at the gate with two horses saddled and bridled.
"I shall not require you--you may remain at home," said Imre, as,
taking the bridle of one of the horses, vaulting lightly into the
saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the
castle.
As he rode under the cross, he checked his horse and looked back.
Was it of his grandmother's words, or of the golden-haired Jolanka
that he thought?
A white handkerchief waved from the window. "Farewell, light of my
soul!" murmured the youth; and kissing his hand, he once more
dashed his spurs into his horse's flank, and turned down the steep
hill.
Those were strange times. All at once the villages began to be
depopulated; the inhabitants disappeared, none knew whither. The
doors of the houses were closed.
The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's
song as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had
lost their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets,
where the grass began to grow.
Imre Bardy rode through the streets of the village without meeting
a soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through
the kitchen windows.
Evening was drawing on, and a slight transparent mist had
overspread the valley. Imre was desirous of reaching Kolozsvar*
early on the next morning, and continued his route all night.
* Klausenburg.
About midnight the moon rose behind the trees, shedding her silvery
light over the forest. All was still, excepting the echo of the
miner's hammer, and the monotonous sound of his horse's step along
the rocky path. He rode on, lost in thought; when suddenly the
horse stopped short, and pricked his ears.
"Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the
cannon yet."
The animal at last proceeded, turning his head impatiently from
side to side, and snorting and neighing with fear.
The road now led through a narrow pass between two rocks, whose
summits almost met, and a slight bridge, formed of one or two
rotten planks, was thrown across the dry channel of a mountain
stream which cut up the path.
As Imre reached the bridge, the horse backed, and no spurring could
induce him to cross. Imre at last pressed his knee angrily against
the trembling animal, striking him at the same time across the neck
with the bridle, on which the horse suddenly cleared the chasm at
one bound and then again turned and began to back.
At that instant a fearful cry arose from beneath, which was echoed
from the rocks around, and ten or fifteen savage-looking beings
climbed from under the bridge, with lances formed of upright
scythes.
Even then there would have been time for the horseman to turn back,
and dash through a handful of men behind him, but either he was
ashamed of turning from the first conflict, or he was desirous, at
any risk, to reach Kolozsvar at the appointed time, and instead of
retreating by the bridge, he galloped towards the other end of the
pass, where the enemy rushed upon him from every side, yelling
hideously.
"Back, Wallachian dogs!" cried Imre, cutting two of them down,
while several others sprang forward with the scythes.
Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right
and left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and
taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to
slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of
the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above
the rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him
as he passed.
He was only a few paces from the spot, when a gigantic figure,
armed with a short broad-axe, and with a Roman helmet on his head,
descended from the rock in front of him, and seizing the reins of
the horse forced him to halt. The young man aimed a blow at his
enemy's head, and the helmet fell back, cut through the middle, but
the force of the blow had broken his sword in two; and the horse
lifted by his giant foe, reared, so that the rider, losing his
balance, was thrown against the side of the rock, and fell
senseless to the ground.
At the same instant a shot was fired toward them from the top of
the rock.
"Who fired there?" cried the giant, in a voice of thunder. The
bloodthirsty Wallachians would have rushed madly on their
defenseless prey, had not the giant stood between him and them.
"Who fired on me?" he sternly exclaimed. The Wallachians stood
back in terror.
"It was not on you, Decurio, that I fired, but on the hussar,"
stammered out one of the men, on whom the giant had fixed his eye.
"You lie, traitor! Your ball struck my armor, and had I not worn a
shirt of mail, it would have pierced my heart."
The man turned deadly pale, trembling from head to foot. "My
enemies have paid you to murder me?" The savage tried to speak, but
words died upon his lips.
"Hang him instantly--he is a traitor!"
The rest of the gang immediately seized the culprit and carried him
to the nearest tree, from whence his shrieks soon testified that
his sentence was being put in execution.
The Decurio remained alone with the young man; and hastily lifting
him, still senseless, from the ground, he mounted his horse, and
placing him before him ere the savage horde had returned, he had
galloped some distance along the road from whence the youth had
come, covering him with his mantle as he passed the bridge, to
conceal him from several of the gang who stood there, and
exclaiming, "Follow me to the Tapanfalva."
As soon as they were out of sight, he suddenly turned to the left,
down a steep, hilly path, and struck into the depth of the forest.
The morning sun had just shot its first beams across the hills,
tinting with golden hue the reddening autumn leaves, when the young
hussar began to move in his fevered dreams, and murmured the name
"Jolanka."
In a few moments he opened his eyes. He was lying in a small
chamber, through the only window of which the sunbeams shone upon
his face.
The bed on which he lay was made of lime-boughs, simply woven
together, and covered with wolves' skins. A gigantic form was
leaning against the foot of the bed with his arms folded, and as
the young man awoke, he turned round. It was the Decurio.
"Where am I?" asked the young man, vaguely endeavoring to recall
the events of the past night.
"In my house," replied Decurio.
"And who are you?"
"I am Numa, Decurio of the Roumin* Legion, your foe in battle, but
now your host and protector."
* The Wallachians were, in the days of Trajan, subdued by the
Romans, with whom they became intermixed, and are also called
Roumi.
"And why did you save me from your men?" asked the young man, after
a short silence.
"Because the strife was unequal--a hundred against one."
"But had it not been for you, I could have freed myself from them."
"Without me you had been lost. Ten paces from where I stopped your
horse, you would inevitably have been dashed to pieces by huge
stones which they were preparing to throw down upon you from the
rock."
"And you did not desire my death?"
"No, because it would have reflected dishonor on the Roumin name."
"You are a chivalrous man, Decurio!"
"I am what you are; I know your character, and the same feeling
inspires us both. You love your nation, as I do mine. Your nation
is great and cultivated; mine is despised and neglected, and my
love is more bitterly devoted. Your love for your country makes
you happy; mine deprives me of peace. You have taken up arms to
defend your country without knowing your own strength, or the
number of the foe; I have done the same. Either of us may lose, or
we may both be blotted out; but though the arms may be buried in
the earth, rust will not eat them."
"I do not understand your grievances."
"You do not understand? Know, then, that although fourteen
centuries have passed since the Roman eagle overthrew Diurbanus,
there are still those among us--the now barbarous people--who can
trace their descent from generation to generation, up to the times
of its past glory. We have still our traditions, if we have
nothing more; and can point out what forest stands in the place of
the ancient Sarmisaegethusa, and what town is built where one
Decebalus overthrew the far-famed troops of the Consulate. And
alas for that town! if the graves over which its houses are built
should once more open, and turn the populous streets into a field
of battle! What is become of the nation, the heir of so much
glory?--the proud Dacians, the descendants of the far-famed
legions? I do not reproach any nation for having brought us to
what we now are; but let none reproach me if I desire to restore my
people to what they once were."
"And do you believe that this is the time?"
"We have no prophets to point out the hour, but it seems yours do
not see more clearly. We shall attempt it now, and if we fail our
grandchildren will attempt it again. We have nothing to lose but a
few lives; you risk much that is worth losing, and yet you assemble
beneath the banner of war. Then war. Then what would you do if
you were like us?--a people who possess nothing in this world among
whom there is not one able or one instructed head; for although
every third man bears the name of Papa, it is not every hundredth
who can read! A people excluded from every employment; who live a
miserable life in the severest manual labor; who have not one noble
city in their country, the home of three-fourths of their people.
Why should we seek to know the signs of the times in which we are
to die, or be regenerated! We have nothing but our wretchedness,
and if we are conquered we lose nothing. Oh! you did wrong for
your own peace to leave a nation to such utter neglect!"
"We do not take up arms for our nation alone, but for freedom in
general."
"You do wrong. It is all the same to us who our sovereign may be;
only let him be just towards us, and raise up our fallen people;
but you will destroy your nation--its power, its influence, and
privileges--merely that you may live in a country without a head."
A loud uproar interrupted the conversation. A disorderly troop of
Wallachians approached the Decurio's house, triumphantly bearing
the hussar's csako on a pole before them.
"Had I left you there last night, they would now have exhibited
your head instead of your csako."
The crowd halted before the Decurio's window, greeting him with
loud vociferations.
The Decurio spoke a few words in the Wallachian language, on which
they replied more vehemently than before, at the same time
thrusting forward the kalpag on the pole.
The Decurio turned hastily round. "Was your name written on your
kalpag?" he asked the young man, in evident embarrassment.
"It was."
"Unhappy youth! The people, furious at not having found you, are
determined to attack your father's house."
"And you will permit them?" asked the youth, starting from bed.
"I dare not contradict them, unless I would lose their confidence.
I can prevent nothing."
"Give me up--let them wreak their bloody vengeance on my head!"
"I should only betray myself for having concealed you; and it would
not save your father's house."
"And if they murder the innocent and unprotected, on whom will the
ignominy of their blood fall?"
"On me; but I will give you the means of preventing this disgrace.
Do you accept it?"
"Speak!"
"I will give you a disguise; hasten to Kolozsvar and assemble your
comrades,--then return and protect your house. I will wait you
there, and man to man, in open honorable combat, the strife will no
longer be ignominious."
"Thanks, thanks!" murmured the youth, pressing the Decurio's hand.
"There is not a moment to lose; here is a peasant's mantle--if you
should be interrogated, you have only to show this paszura,* and
mention my name. Your not knowing the language is of no
consequence; my men are accustomed to see Hungarian gentlemen visit
me in disguise, and having only seen you by night, they will not
recognize you."
* Everything on which a double-headed eagle--the emblem of the
Austrian Government--was painted, engraved or sculptured, the
Wallachians called paszura.
Imre hastily took the dress, while Decurio spoke to the people,
made arrangements for the execution of their plans, and pointed out
the way to the castle, promising to follow them immediately.
"Accept my horse as a remembrance," said the young man, turning to
the Decurio.
"I accept it, as it would only raise suspicion were you to mount
it; but you may recover it again in the field. Haste, and lose no
time! If you delay you will bring mourning on your own head and
disgrace on mine!"
In a few minutes the young man, disguised as a Wallachian peasant,
was hastening on foot across the hills of Kolozsvar.
It was past midnight.
The inhabitants of the Bardy castle had all retired to rest.
The iron gate was locked and the windows barred, when suddenly the
sound of demoniac cries roused the slumberers from their dreams.
"What is that noise?" cried Jozsef Bardy, springing from his bed,
and rushing to the window.
"The Olahok!"* cried a hussar, who had rushed to his master's
apartments on hearing the sounds.
* Olah, Wallachian--ok, plural.
"The Olah! the Olah!" was echoed through the corridors by the
terrified servants.
By the light of a few torches, a hideous crowd was seen before the
windows, armed with scythes and axes, which they were brandishing
with fearful menaces.
"Lock all the doors!" cried Jozsef Bardy, with calm presence of
mind. "Barricade the great entrance, and take the ladies and
children to the back rooms. You must not lose your heads, but all
assemble together in the turret-chamber, from whence the whole
building may be protected. And taking down two good rifles from
over his bed, he hastened to his elder brother Tamas's apartments,
and overlooked the court.
Have you heard the noise?" asked his brother as he entered.
"I knew it would come," he replied, and coolly continued to pace
the room.
"And are you not preparing for defense?"
"To what purpose?--they will kill us all. I am quite prepared for
what must inevitably happen."
"But it will not happen if we defend ourselves courageously. We
are eight men--the walls of the castle are strong--the besiegers
have no guns, and no place to protect them; we may hold out for
days until assistance comes from Kolozsvar."
"We shall lose," replied Tamas coldly, and without the slightest
change of countenance.
"Then I shall defend the castle myself. I have a wife and
children, our old grandmother and our sisters are here, and I shall
protect them, if I remain alone."
At that instant Barnabas and old Simon entered with the widowed
sister.
Barnabas had a huge twenty-pound iron club in his hand; grinding
his teeth, and with eyes darting fire, he seemed capable of meeting
single-handed the whole troop.
He was followed by the widow, with two loaded pistols in her hand,
and old Simon, who entreated them not to use violence or exasperate
the enemy.
"Conduct yourselves bravely!" replied the widow dryly; "let us not
die in vain."
"Come with me--we shall send them all to hell!" cried Barnabas,
swinging his club in his herculean arm as if it had been a reed.
"Let us not be too hasty," interrupted Jozsef; we will stand here
in the tower, from whence we can shoot every one that approaches,
and if they break in, we can meet them on the stairs."
"For Heaven's sake!" cried Simon, "what are you going to do? If
you kill one of them they will massacre us all. Speak to them
peaceably--promise them wine--take them to the cellar--give them
money--try to pacify them! Nephew Tamas, you will speak to them?"
continued the old man, turning to Tamas, who still paced up and
down, without the slightest visible emotion.
"Pacification and resistance are equally vain," he replied coldly;
"we are inevitably lost!"
"We have no time for delay," said Jozsef impatiently; "take the
arms from the wall, Barnabas, give one to each servant--let them
stand at the back windows of the house, we two are enough here.
Sister, stand between the windows, that the stones may not hit you;
and when you load, do not strike the balls too far in, that our aim
may be the more secure!"
"No! no!--I cannot let you fire," exclaimed the old man,
endeavoring to drag Jozsef from the window. "You must not fire
yet--only remain quiet."