The widow was the first to recover her composure. She dried her tears and rose. "Check your grief for a moment," said she to the other two, and then she went to the door and bade the messenger enter. "Have you any further communication for us?" she asked. "Yes," he replied, drawing a small package from his breast pocket, and delivering it to the baroness. She opened it. It contained a blue silk waistcoat which Aranka had embroidered with lilies of the valley and pansies. In the midst of the embroidered flowers were three holes, each as large as a rifle ball, singed and blood-stained at the edges. The embroidery and the bullet-holes explained all. The government emissary uttered no word, but for a moment, while the packet was being opened, he removed his cap. The baroness forced herself to bear up yet a little longer. With a firm step she went to a cupboard; returning, she handed the man a gold coin. He murmured a "thank you" and something about God's blessing; then he saluted and withdrew. The necessity of restraint being removed, the grief-stricken family were at liberty to moisten the dear memento with their tears and pay their loving tribute to the noble martyr's memory. CHAPTER XXX. THE PRISON TELEGRAPH. But had Jenő held no communication with his brother Richard before his death? Yes; Richard was a prisoner in the same building, and it was fitted with a telegraph which communicated with all the cells and was never idle. It could not be silenced; the prisoners could not be prevented from making use of it at all hours of the day and night. It consisted simply of the prison walls. No wall is so thick that a knocking on one side cannot be heard on the other. One rap stood for A, two for B, three for C, and so on through the alphabet. The rapping went on continually all over the building, and each new prisoner learned its meaning on the very day of his arrival, and became a telegraph operator himself. A message sent out from one cell was passed along until it reached its destination, when an answer was returned by the same route. On the day which was destined to be Jenő's last on earth, the following questions and answers passed from cell to cell. "What news?" "Death sentence." "Who?" "Baradlay." "Which one?" "The oldest." Through Richard's cell, too, passed this cryptogram, and he asked again: "First name?" But the only reply he could elicit was a repetition of the above: "The oldest." CHAPTER XXXI. A HEADACHE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.