er in the presence of his great ancestors, who seemed to
demand whether the newcomer were one of the family; and he, putting his
arm about her, and pressing to his beating heart the Tzigana, whose eyes
were dim with tears, said: "No, I am not better than these. It is not
pity which is my virtue, Marsa: it is my love. For--I love you!"

Yes, he loved her, and with all the strength of a first and only love. He
loved her so that he forgot everything, so that he did not see that in
Marsa's smile there was a look of the other side of the great, eternal
river. He loved her so that he thought only of this woman, of her beauty,
of the delight of her caresses, of his dream of love realized in the air
of the adored fatherland. He loved her so that he left without answers
the charming letters which Baroness Dinati wrote him from Paris, so far
away now, and the more serious missives which he received from his
compatriots, wishing him to utilize for his country, now that he had
returned to it, his superior intelligence, as he had formerly utilized
his courage.

"The hour is critical," wrote his old friends. "An attempt is being made
to awaken in Hungary, against the Russians, whom we like, memories of
combats and extinct hatreds, and that to the profit of a German alliance,
which is repugnant to our race. Bring the support of your name and your
valor to our cause. Enter the Diet of Hungary. Your place is marked out
for you there in the first rank, as it was in the old days upon the
battlefield."

Andras only smiled.

"If I were ambitious!" he said to Marsa. Then he added: "But I am
ambitious only for your happiness."

Marsa's happiness! It was deep, calm, and clear as a lake. It seemed to
the Tzigana that she was dreaming a dream, a beautiful dream, a dream
peaceful, sweet, and restful. She abandoned herself to her profound
happiness with the trustfulness of a child. She was all the more happy
because she had the exquisite sensation that her dream would have no
awakening. It would end in all the charm of its poetry.

She was sure that she could not survive the immense joy which destiny had
accorded her; and she did not rebel against this decree. It seemed to her
right and just. She had never desired any other ending to her love than
to die beloved, to die with Andras's kiss of forgiveness upon her lips,
with his arms about her, and to sink with a smile into the eternal sleep.
What more beautiful thing could she, the Tzigana, h