And while, with long sweeps of his arm, the chief of the Tzigani marked
the measure, and the 'czimbalom' poured forth its heartrending notes, it
seemed to the poor fellows gathered about that the music of the March of
Rakoczy summoned a whole fantastic squadron of avengers, horsemen with
floating pelisses and herons' plumes in their hats, who, erect in their
saddles and with sabres drawn, struck, struck the frightened enemy,
and recovered, foot by foot, the conquered territory. There was in this
exalted march a sound of horses' hoofs, the clash of arms, a shaking of
the earth under the gallop of horsemen, a flash of agraffes, a rustle
of pelisses in the wind, an heroic gayety and a chivalrous bravery,
like the cry of a whole people of cavaliers sounding the charge of
deliverance.

And the young Prince, gazing down upon his dead father, remembered how
many times those mute lips had related to him the legend of the czardas,
that legend, symbolic of the history of Hungary, summing up all
the bitter pain of the conquest, when the beautiful dark girls of
Transylvania danced, their tears burning their cheeks, under the lash
of the Osmanlis. At first, cold and motionless, like statues whose calm
looks silently insulted their possessors, they stood erect beneath the
eye of the Turk; then little by little, the sting of the master's whip
falling upon their shoulders and tearing their sides and cheeks, their
bodies twisted in painful, revolted spasms; the flesh trembled under the
cord like the muscles of a horse beneath the spur; and, in the morbid
exaltation of suffering, a sort of wild delirium took possession
of them, their arms were waved in the air, their heads with hair
dishevelled were thrown backward, and the captives, uttering a sound
at once plaintive and menacing, danced, their dance, at first slow and
melancholy, becoming gradually active, nervous, and interrupted by cries
which resembled sobs. And the Hungarian czardas, symbolizing thus the
dance of these martyrs, kept still, will always keep, the characteristic
of contortions under the lash of bygone days; and, slow and languishing
at first, then soon quick and agitated, tragically hysterical, it
also is interrupted by melancholy chords, dreary, mournful notes and
plaintive accents like drops of blood from a wound-from the mortal wound
of Prince Sandor, lying there in his martial uniform.

The bronzed Tzigani, fantastically illumined by the red glare of the
torche