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Updated: May 22, 2025
Go to Turkey; I will give you letters by which you may pass in security through Wallachia and Moldavia; and here is a purse of gold do not scruple to accept it, for it is your own, it belonged to THEM. Promise me, for her sake," he continued earnestly, pointing to Jolanka, "that you will not go to Hungary." Imre hesitated.
The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's song as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had lost their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets, where the grass began to grow. Imre Bardy rode through the streets of the village without meeting a soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through the kitchen windows.
Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right and left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above the rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him as he passed.
All was still, excepting the echo of the miner's hammer, and the monotonous sound of his horse's step along the rocky path. He rode on, lost in thought; when suddenly the horse stopped short, and pricked his ears. "Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the cannon yet."
Accursed be the sun that rises after such a night!" The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of fresh-raised mould. "They are all there!" he said. Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down. His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass was least red. They then began to dig twelve graves with their swords. Imre watched them in silence.
They were dressed alike, and the resemblance between them was so striking that they were constantly mistaken. They were twin-children of the young couple. At the lower end of the table sat Imre Bardy, a young man of twenty, whose handsome countenance was full of life and intelligence, his figure manly and graceful, and his manner courteous and agreeable.
At first he would not believe his eyes, then at last he clapped his hands together and exclaimed: "Why, if it is not young Master Imré himself. Good Heaven!" and deeply agitated he approached the young man and began to soothe him, finally falling upon his neck and weeping along with him. "Nobody recognises me," sobbed the youth, whose left hand was bleeding badly.
"Who is that apparition," whispered old Hétfalusy to his son, "who has twice descended from Heaven to save us?" Imré looked with some hesitation at Maria, the girl gazed back at him encouragingly. "Yes, tell him! Why not? I am your wife, the famous Maria Kamienszka, and this is not the first time I have been in the midst of a scrimmage.
Everything had been eviscerated, torn to atoms, reduced to powder. A large portion of the mob was down in the cellars dead drunk. Imré Hétfalusy who, all this time, had held his father closely embraced, now deposited him on a torn and ragged hair mattress, and then they both embraced each other again, and neither could speak a word.
Who knows what may come over us yet? This is no good world no good world!" Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it. "And so you are going? Well, God bless and speed you, if you go beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise your heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand upon her grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"
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