One of these marches up the Danube is worthy of more minute record. It was leafy June: luxuriant foliage and gorgeous flowers decorated the banks of the river with loveliness which attracted the admiration even of semi-barbarian eyes. The turbulent host, counting within its ranks two hundred and fifty thousand veteran warriors, for many days sauntered joyously along, encountering no foe. War seemed but the pastime of a festival-day. Banners floated gayly in the breeze; music enlivened the march. Arabian chargers pranced proudly beneath their riders, glittering in Oriental gorgeousness of costume. A fleet of gayly-decorated barges filled the stream, impelled by sails when the wind favored, and urged by rowers when the winds were adverse. Each night, upon some smooth expanse of the river’s banks, the white tents of the invaders were spread, and a city of nearly two hundred thousand inhabitants rose as by magic, with its grassy streets and squares, its busy population, its trumpet-peals from martial bands, and its bannered magnificence blazing in all the regalia of war. Like a fairy vision the city rose in the rays of the declining sun; and like a vision it disappeared in the early dawn of the morning, and the mighty host moved on. But the black day came. The Turks had ascended the river about a hundred and fifty miles, when they came to a small island called Zigeth. It was strongly fortified, and commanded both banks of the stream. Not another mile could the Moslems advance till this fortress was battered down. Zrini, the heroic Christian commander, and his whole garrison of six thousand men, took an oath that they would surrender the post only with their lives. Day and night, week after week, the assault continued unintermitted. The besieged, with guns in battery to sweep all approaches, mowed down their assailants with awful carnage; but bastion after bastion was crumbled by the tremendous cannonade of the Moslems: the walls of solid masonry were battered down till they presented but a shapeless pile of rocks. The Turks, reckless of life, like swarming bees swept over the smouldering ruins. They had apparently cut down every inmate of the fort; and, with shouts of victory, were raising the crescent over the blackened and blood-stained rocks, when there was an earthquake roar, and an explosion almost as appalling as the thunders of the archangel’s trump. Zrini had fired the subterranean vaults containing thousands of kegs of powder. The whole citadel――men, horses, rocks, and artillery――was thrown into the air, and fell a commingled mass of ruin, fire, and blood. The Turks, having lost their leader and a large part of their army, retreated, exhausted and bleeding, but only to gather strength to renew the strife.