"Welcome, Captain! You come at the right moment to accompany us to Hungary. Short time is there for deliberation. Decide quickly. We will seize your horse's bridle, and take you with us by force. Well do we know that you come willingly; but so will you avoid disgrace, should defeat be our lot. You must with us--by force. If we succeed, yours the glory; if we fall, the guilt is ours, since we compel you. Play your part! Defend yourself! Cut one or two of us from our saddles, the first who lays hand on your rein--see, I grasp it! Strike, Captain, and with a will." He did as he said, and seized the horse's bridle; whilst, on the other side, an old serjeant laid hand on its mane. The horse stirred not. The Captain gazed hard at them, each in turn; but he raised not his sabre to strike. Behind him his forsaken bride, before him the mountain frontier of his native land. On the one hand, a heaven of love and happiness; on the other, glory and his country's cause. Two mighty passions striving against each other with a giant's force. The fierce conflict went nigh to overpower him; his head sank upon his breast. Suddenly blared the trumpets in rear of the squadron; at the martial sound his eager war-horse bounded beneath him. With awakening enthusiasm the rider raised his head and waved his sabre. "Forward, then," he cried, "in God's name!" And forward he sprang into the river, the two hussars by his side; the cloven waters plashing in pearls around their heads. Forward, forward to the blue mountains! In lengthening column, the hussars followed across the stream--the horses bravely breasting the flood, the bold riders singing their wild Magyar ditty. But dark and gloomy was their leader's brow, for each step led him farther from happiness and his bride. In the midst of the troop rode George of St Thomas, in his hand the banner of Hungary. His cheek glowed, his eye flashed: each step brought him nearer to revenge. The troubled stream is once more stilled, the fir-wood receives the fugitives, their horses' tramp dies away in the darkness. Here and there, from the distant mountains, the herdsman's horn resounds; on their flanks the shepherd's fire gleams like a blood-red star. Forward, forward! * * * * * Back to thy lair, bloodthirsty monster, back and sleep! Let the forest-grass grow over the ensanguined plain. How much is destroyed, how much has passed away. How many good men, who were here, are here no longer; and how many who remain would grieve but little if they, too, were numbered with the dead. The hero of battles is once more a robber and a fugitive. The iron hand of the law drives him from land's end to land's end. In the mad-house mopes a captain of hussars, and ever repeats,--"WAIT BUT A MOMENT!" None there can guess the meaning of his words. Only George of St Thomas is happy. He sleeps in a welcome grave, dreaming of sweet renown and deep revenge. * * * * *