"At these words the people uttered a loud and furious cry. The women, like so many Bacchantes, ran in search of weapons, and mounted the ramparts by the side of their husbands, whom the determination of their wives had turned into veritable heroes. Every one seized the first thing that came to hand--scythes, spades, flails. Meanwhile, Dame Vizaknai was everywhere at once, marshalling and haranguing the combatants, barricading the church, breaking down the bridge, so that when I left the town, it was already in a fair state of defence. Thereupon I swam the Körös, to avoid making a long circuit, and came hither through the woods and by-ways." During the latter part of this narrative Banfi seemed to be nearly beside himself. He waited now for neither armour nor helmet, but roared for his horse; and as he sprang into the saddle, cried to Veer, who was hastening up-- "After me to Banfi-Hunyad! March day and night. The infantry must go round by the Gyalyui Alps. The cavalry will follow me to Klausenburg. Light beacons in the mountains as you approach, that I may attack the foe simultaneously with the vanguard." "Would it not perhaps be better if your Excellency remained behind with the main army?" said George Veer, with an anxious face. "Do what I bid you, sir!" was Banfi's reply; and giving his horse the spur, he dashed off, followed by about half-a-dozen of his suite. "What ails him then, that he will neither wait for us, nor inform his wife and the Princess of what has happened?" "He was aghast when I told him that Dame Vizaknai was defending Banfi-Hunyad," said Benkö apologetically. "She is an old flame of his whom he has long forgotten; but his youthful affection seemed to revive him when he heard of her heroic audacity." George Veer, satisfied with this explanation, ordered his squadrons to take horse forthwith; and after previously informing Lady Banfi that he was off on a petty raid, departed for Klausenburg, leaving the command of the infantry to Captain Michael Angel, who did not break up till evening, the road along the Snow Mountains being much the shorter way. Just as they were about to start, a tattered young Szekler, with pale cheeks but strong arms, stepped forth. His companions had pushed him into the front ranks. "Come, sing us a battle-song!" they cried. It was the rude, popular poet, Ambrose Gelenze. Drawing from the pocket of his tunic his Bible, on the inside of the parchment covers of which he used to jot down his improvised war-songs, he placed himself in front of the host, and began to sing the following simple lay, the whole of the Transylvanian gentry repeating it word for word as they marched after him--