"There seems to be a bad electricity in the air--a sort of general distrust."

"In what, or whom?"

"In Georgei. I could see that the people have lost confidence in him.

They even suspect that he's playing traitor, and has thoughts of surrendering to the enemy."

"What! Georgei--their favourite general! Is he not so?"

"Of the old army, yes. But not of the new levies or the people. In my opinion, the worst thing that could have happened to them is his having become so. It's the old story of regulars _versus_ volunteers. He hates the Honveds, and Kossuth for creating them, just as in our little Mexican skirmish, there was a jealousy between West Pointers and the newly-raised regiments.

"There are thousands of donkeys in Hungary, as in the United States, who believe that to be a soldier a man must go through some sort of a routine training--forgetting all about Cromwell of England, Jackson of America, and a score of the like that might be quoted. Well, these common minds, running in the usual groove, believe that Georgei, because he was once an officer in the Austrian regular army, should be the trusted man of the time; and they've taken him up, and trusted him without further questioning. I know him well. We were at the military school together. A cool, scheming fellow, with the head of a chemist and the heart of an alchemist. Of himself he has accomplished nothing yet. The brilliant victories gained on the Hungarian side--and brilliant have they been--have all been due to the romantic enthusiasm of these fiery Magyars, and the dash of such generals as Nagy Sandor, Damjanich, and Guyon. There can be no doubt that, after the successes on the Upper Danube, the patriot army could have marched unmolested into Vienna, and there dictated terms to the Austrian Empire. The emperor's panic-stricken troops were absolutely evacuating the place, when, instead of a pursuing enemy, news came after them that the victorious general had turned back with his whole army, to lay siege to the fortress of Ofen! To capture an insignificant garrison of less than six thousand men! Six weeks were spent in this absurd side movement, contrary to the counsels of Kossuth, who had never ceased to urge the advance on Vienna. Georgei did just what the Austrians wanted him to do--giving their northern allies time to come down; and down they have come."

"But Kossuth was Governor--Dictator! Could he not command the advance you speak of?"

"He commanded it all he could, but was not obeyed. Georgei had already sapped his influence, by poisoning the minds of the military leaders against him--that is, the factious who adhered to himself, the old regulars, whom he had set against the new levies and Honveds. 'Kossuth is not a soldier, only a lawyer,' said they; and this was sufficient.

For all their talk, Kossuth has given more proofs of soldiership and true generalship than Georgei and his whole clique. He has put an army of two hundred thousand men in the field; armed and equipped it. And he created it absolutely out of nothing! The patriots had only two hundred pounds weight of gunpowder, and scarce such a thing as a gun, when this rising commenced. And the saltpetre was dug out of the mine, and the iron smelted, and the cannon cast. Ay, in three months there was a force in the field such as Napoleon would have been proud of. My dear captain, there is more proof of military genius in this, than in the winning of a dozen battles. It was due to Kossuth alone. Alone he accomplished it all--every detail of it. Louis Kossuth not a general, indeed! In the true sense of the word, there has been none such since Napoleon. Even in this last affair of Ofen, it is now acknowledged, he was right; and that they should have listened to his cry, 'On to Vienna!'"

"Clearly it has been a sad blunder."

"Not so clearly, Captain; not so clearly. I wish it were. There is reason to fear it is worse."

"What mean you, Count?"

"I mean, treason."

"Ha!"

"The turning back for that useless siege looks confoundedly like it.

And this constantly retreating down the right bank of the Theiss, without crossing over and forming a junction with Sandor. Every day the army melting away, becoming reduced by thousands! _Sacre_! if it be so, we've had our long journey for nothing; and poor liberty will soon see her last hopeless struggle on the plains of the Puszta, perhaps her last in all Europe! _Ach_!"

The Count, as he made this exclamation, drove the spur hard against the ribs of his horse, and broke off into a gallop, as if determined to take part in that struggle, however hopeless.

The younger man, seemingly inspired by the same impulse, rode rapidly after.

Then gallop was kept up until the spire of Vilagos came in sight, shooting up over the groves of olive and acacia embowering the Puszta village.

Outside on the skirts of the far-spreading town they could see tents pitched upon the plain, with standards floating over them--cavalry moving about in squadrons--infantry standing in serried ranks--here and there horsemen in hussar uniforms hurrying from point to point, their loose dolmans trailing behind them. They could hear the rolling of drums, the braying of bugles, and, away far beyond, the booming of great guns.

"Who goes there?" came the abrupt hail of a sentry speaking in the Magyar tongue, while a soldier in Honved dress showed himself in the door of a shepherd's hut. He was the spokesman of a picket-guard concealed within the house.

"Friends!" answered the Austrian Count, in the same language in which the hail had been given. "Friends to the cause: _Eljen Kossuth_!"

At the magic words the soldier lowered his carbine, while his half-dozen comrades came crowding out from their concealment.

A pass to headquarters, obtained by the Count in Arad, made the parley short, and the two travellers continued their journey amidst cries of "Eljen Kossuth!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE BROKEN SWORDS.

In half an hour afterwards, Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard--for it was they who were thus rapidly travelling--reached Vilagos, and passed on to the camp of the Hungarian army.

They halted near its centre, in front of the marquee occupied by its commander-in-chief. They had arrived just in time to witness a remarkable scene--none more so on military record.

Around them were officers of all ranks, and of every conceivable arm of service. They were standing in groups talking excitedly, now and then an individual crossing hastily from one to the other.

There was all the evidence of warlike preparation, but as if under some mysterious restraint. This could be read in scowling looks and mutinous mutterings.

In the distance was heard the continuous roaring of artillery.

They knew whence it came, and what was causing it. They knew it was from Temesvar, where Nagy Sandor, with his attenuated corps of heroes, was holding the large army of Rudiger in check.

Yes, their brilliant and beloved comrade; Nagy Sandor, that splendid cavalry officer--before whom even the _beau sabreur_ of France sinks into a second place--was fighting an unequal fight!

It was the thought of this that was causing the dark looks and angry mutterings.

Going up to a group of officers, the Count asked for an explanation.

They were in hussar uniforms, and appeared to be more excited than the others.

One of them sprang forward, and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming:

"Roseveldt!"

It was an old comrade, who had recognised him.

"There's some trouble among you?" said the Count, scarce staying to return the salutation. "What is it, my dear friend?"

"You hear those guns?"

"Of course I do."

"It's the brave Sandor fighting against no end of odds. And this scheming chemist won't give us the order to go to his assistance. He stays inside his tent like some Oracle of Delphi. Dumb, too, for he don't make a response. Would you believe it, Roseveldt; we suspect him of treason?"

"If you do," responded the Count, "you're great fools to wait for his bringing it to maturity. You should advance without his orders. For my part, and I can speak, too, for my comrade here, I shan't stay here, while there's fighting farther on. Our cause is the same as yours; and we've come several thousand miles to draw swords in it. We were too late for the Baden affair; and by staying here with you we may again get disappointed. Come, Maynard! _We_ have no business at Vilagos. Let us go on to Temesvar!"

Saying this, the Count strode brusquely back toward his horse, still under the saddle, the captain keeping pace with him. Before they could mount, there arose a scene that caused them to stand by their stirrups, holding their bridles in hand.

The hussar officers, among whom were several of high rank, generals and colonels, had overheard the speeches of Roseveldt. The Count's friend had made them acquainted with his name.

It needed not for them to know his title, to give influence to what he had said. His words were like red-hot cinders pitched into a barrel of gunpowder, and almost as instantaneous was the effect.

"Georgei _must_ give the order?" cried one, "or we shall advance without it. What say you, comrades?"

"We're all agreed!" responded a score of voices, the speakers clutching at their sword-hilts, and facing toward the marquee of the commander-in-chief.

"Listen?" said their leader, an old general, with steel-grey moustaches sweeping back to his ears. "You hear that? Those are the guns of Rudiger. Too well do I know their accursed tongues. Poor Sandor's ammunition is all spent. He must be in retreat?"