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Updated: May 22, 2025
He knew the heroism of Prince Zilah Sandor falling in Mohacz in 1566 beside his wife Hanska who had followed him, leaving in the cradle her son Janski, whose grandson, Zilah Janos, in 1867, at the very place where his ancestor had been struck, sabred the Turks, crying: "Sandor and Hanska, look down upon me; your blood avenges you!"
Then her head drooped slowly, and fell upon the Prince's shoulder, like that of a tired child, with a calm sweet smile upon her flower-like face. Like the salute they had once given to Prince Sandor, the Tzigani began proudly the heroic march of free Hungary, their music sending a fast farewell to the dead as the sun gave her its last kiss.
I'd even thought, if he stopped drinking, he might make a success as a private detective at Port Sandor, on Fenris! I wondered what color my face had gotten now, and I started looking around for a crack in the floor, to trickle gently and unobtrusively into. And it should have been obvious to me, maybe not that he was an Executive Special, but that he was certainly no drunken barfly.
And who had that story, right in his hot little hand? Walter Boyd, the ace and only reporter for the mighty Port Sandor Times. "Yes," I continued. "The Ravick story's finished. But we still have the Anton Gerrit story, and I'm going to work on it right now."
And, in the great halls hung with tapestry and filled with pictures which the conquerors had respected, before those portraits of magnates superb in their robes of red or green velvet edged with fur, curved sabres by their sides and aigrettes upon their heads, all reproducing a common trait of rough frankness, with their long moustaches, their armor and their hussar uniforms Marsa Laszlo, who knew them well, these heroes of her country, these Zilah princes who had fallen upon the field of battle, said to the last of them all, to Andras Zilah, before Ferency Zilah, before Sandor, before the Princesses Zilah who had long slept in "dull, cold marble," and who had been no prouder than she of the great name they bore: "Do you know the reason why, equal to these in devotion and courage, you are superior to them all!
They were not listened to, and one evening, the negotiations proving futile, Count Batthyanyi said to Jellachich: "We shall soon meet again upon the Drave!" "No," responded the Ban of Croatia, "I will go myself to seek you upon the Danube!" This was war; and Prince Sandor went, with his son, to fight bravely for the old kingdom of St. Stephen against the cannon and soldiers of Jellachich.
I knew you very well, too at one time: we have been colleagues once." "Indeed? And how is that possible? Pray where was that?" "In Budapest, in the Sándor Uteza Palace, the House of Commons." "You have been a member of the Hungarian Parliament? When? And what name did you then bear?" "The name I bear now, which is my own. Only I used to write it in Hungarian, Dumany Kornel."
No man, not even Georgei, the Spartanlike soldier, nor the illustrious Kossuth, was more popular in 1849, at the time of the struggle against Austria, than Prince Sandor Zilah and his son, then a handsome boy of sixteen, but strong and well built as a youth of twenty.
All these bitter memories Prince Andras, in spite of the years that had passed, kept ever in his mind one sad and tragic event the burial of his father, Sandor Zilah, who was shot in the head by a bullet during an encounter with the Croats early in the month of January, 1849. Prince Sandor was able to grasp the hand of his son, and murmur in the ear of this hero of sixteen: "Remember!
Since then he had erected a mausoleum of marble on the very spot where Prince Sandor fell; and of all the moments of that romantic, picturesque war, the agonizing moment, the wild scene of the burial of his father, was most vivid in his memory the picture of the warrior stretched in the snow, his hand on the handle of his sword, remained before his eyes, imperishable in its melancholy majesty.
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