Thirteen at Table | Page 4

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 Jol?nka. 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.
"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise, as he pressed the sweet girl to his heart, "Erd?ly and Hungary united! I shall win glory for your colors!"
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 B?rdy 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 Jol?nka 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 B?rdy 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 Kolozsv?r early on the next morning, and continued his route all night.
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