It was Ödön Baradlay. In his rich mourning attire, and with stern displeasure on his brow, he looked like an angry god. Without uncovering,--whether from forgetfulness or design,--he advanced to the president's chair, his face flushed with wrath and his eyes flashing resentment. Rideghváry eyed him askance, like the jackal that suddenly encounters a tiger in the forests of India. "I hold you responsible for this shameful occurrence, which will stand as a disgrace to our country before the world," declared Ödön, sternly confronting the occupant of the chair. "Me responsible?" cried Rideghváry, his voice betraying a mixture of anger, haughtiness, alarm, and astonishment. "Yes, you!" repeated the other, and, laying his hand on the back of the president's chair, he shook it in the excess of his wrath. "And now leave this seat," he continued. "This is the chair that my ancestors have occupied, and only during my father's illness were you authorised to take his place. The lord lieutenant is well again." At these words there was an outburst of cheers in every part of the hall,--yes, in every part. Those familiar with Hungarian political assemblies will recall many a similar instance where one fearless stroke has gained the admiration and support of all parties. Likes and dislikes, political prejudices and private interests, are all forgotten, and the whole assembly is swept off its feet as one man--whither, no one asks. Such a miracle was wrought on the present occasion. Rideghváry read only too plainly in the faces of his partisans and hirelings that his rule was at an end. Here was no place for him now. Pale with shame and fury, he rose from his chair. With one look of wrath and hatred at the assembly, he turned to Ödön and, with lust for revenge in his tones, muttered between his teeth: "This is the first step to that height of which I have warned you." Ödön measured him with a look of scorn. He knew well enough from his mother what height was meant, but he deigned no reply. The door closed upon the administrator, and the young lord lieutenant took the president's chair amid the huzzas of all present. Then at length he removed his fur cap. His action had been, it must be admitted, unconstitutional, since he had not yet been installed as lord lieutenant, and so was unqualified to assume the duties of the office. But the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance was warm and genuine, and he accepted it as a sanction of his course. His had been a bold stroke, and one pregnant with results for himself, for his county, for his native land,--yes, for his generation. But it succeeded. His action formed a turning-point in his country's history. Whither the course he had adopted would lead, he knew not, and no little courage was called for in facing its possible issue. What else occurred in that assembly is simply a matter of history, but the glory of that day belongs to Ödön Baradlay. CHAPTER XII. SPRING DAYS.