flags taken at Goedolloe; the assaults of Buda; the defence
of Comorn; Austria, dejected and defeated, imploring the aid of Russia;
Hungary, beaten by the force of numbers, yet resisting Paskiewich as she
had resisted Haynau, and appealing to Europe and the world in the name
of the eternal law of nations, which the vanquished invoke, but which is
never listened to by the countries where the lion is tearing his prey.
And again, Zilah would remember the heroic fatherland struck down at
Temesvar; the remnants of an armed people in refuge at Arad; and Klapka
still holding out in the island of Comorn at the moment when Georgei
had surrendered. Then, again, the obscure deaths of his comrades;
the agonies in the ditches and in the depths of the woods; the last
despairing cries of a conquered people overwhelmed by numbers:

Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary!

All this bloody past, enveloped as in a crimson cloud, but glorious with
its gleams of hope and its flashes of victory, the Prince would revive
with old Varhely, in the corner of whose eye at intervals a tear would
glisten.

They both saw again the last days of Comorn, with the Danube at the
foot of the walls, and the leaves of the trees whirling in the September
wind, and dispersed like the Hungarians themselves; and the shells
falling upon the ramparts; and the last hours of the siege; and the
years of mournful sadness and exile; their companions decimated,
imprisoned, led to the gallows or the stake; the frightful silence and
ruin falling like a winding-sheet over Hungary; the houses deserted, the
fields laid waste, and the country, fertile yesterday, covered now with
those Muscovite thistles, which were unknown in Hungary before the year
of massacre, and the seeds of which the Cossack horses had imported in
their thick manes and tails.

Beloved Hungary, whose sons, disdaining the universe, used proudly to
boast: "Have we not all that man needs? Banat, which gives us wheat;
Tisza, wine; the mountain, gold and salt. Our country is sufficient for
her children!" And this country, this fruitful country, was now covered
with gibbets and corpses.

CHAPTER IV. "WHEN HUNGARY IS FREE!"

All these bitter memories Prince Andras, in spite of the years that had
passed, kept ever in his mind one sad and tragic event--the burial of
his father, Sandor Zilah, who was shot in the head by a bullet during an
encounter with the Croats early in the month of January, 1849.

Pri