"We shall stop it!" simultaneously exclaimed a dozen. "Let us demand the order to advance! To his tent, comrades! to his tent!"

There could be no mistaking which tent; for, with the cry still continuing, the hussar officers rushed toward the marquee--the other groups pouring in, and closing around it, after them.

Several rushed inside; their entrance succeeded by loud words, in tones of expostulation.

They came out again, Georgei close following. He looked pale, half-affrighted, though it was perhaps less fear than the consciousness of a guilty intent.

He had still sufficient presence of mind to conceal it.

"Comrades!" he said, with an appealing look at the faces before him, "my children! Surely you can trust to me? Have I not risked my life for your sake--for the sake of our beloved Hungary? I tell you it would be of no use to advance. It would be madness, ruin. We are here in an advantageous position. We must stay and defend it! Believe me, 'tis our only hope."

The speech so earnest--so apparently sincere--caused the mutineers to waver. Who could doubt the man, so compromised with Austria?

The old officer, who led them, did.

"Thus, then!" he cried, perceiving their defection. "Thus shall I defend it!"

Saying this, he whipped his sabre from its sheath; and grasping it hilt and blade, he broke the weapon across his knee--flinging the fragments to the earth!

It was the friend of Roseveldt who did this.

The example was followed by several others, amidst curses and tears.

Yes; strong men, old soldiers, heroes, on that day, at Vilagos, were seen to weep.

The Count was again getting into his stirrup, when a shout, coming from the outer edge of the encampment, once more caused him to keep still.

All eyes were turned toward the sentry who had shouted, seeking the explanation. It was given not by the sentinel, but something beyond.

Far off, men mounted and afoot were seen approaching over the plain.

They came on in scattered groups, in long straggling line, their banners borne low and trailing. They were the _debris_ of that devoted band, who had so heroically held Temesvar. Their gallant leader was along with them, in the rear-guard--still contesting the ground by inches, against the pursuing cavalry of Rudiger!

The old soldier had scarce time to regret having broken his sword, when the van swept into the streets of Vilagos, and soon after the last link of the retreating line.

It was the final scene in the struggle for Hungarian independence!

No; not the last! We chronicle without thought. There was another--one other to be remembered to all time, and, as long as there be hearts to feel, with a sad, painful bitterness.

I am not writing a history of the Hungarian war--that heroic struggle for national independence--in valour and devotedness perhaps never equalled upon the earth. Doing so, I should have to detail the tricks and subterfuges to which the traitor Georgei had to resort before he could deceive his betrayed followers, and, with safety to himself, deliver them over to the infamous enemy. I speak only of that dread morn--the 6th day of October--when _thirteen general officers_, every one of them the victor in some sternly contested field, were strung up by the neck, as though they had been pirates or murderers!

And among them was the brave Damjanich, strung up in spite of his shattered leg; the silent, serious Perezel; the noble Aulich; and, perhaps most regretted of all, the brilliant Nagy Sandor! It was in truth a terrible taking of vengeance--a wholesale hanging of heroes, such as the world never saw before! What a contrast between this fiendish outpouring of monarchical spite against revolutionists in a good cause, and the mercy lately shown by republican conquerors to the chiefs of a rebellion _without cause at all_!

Maynard and Roseveldt did not stay to be spectators of this tragical finale. To the Count there was danger upon Hungarian soil--once more become Austrian--and with despondent hearts the two revolutionary leaders turned their faces towards the West, sad to think that their swords must remain unsheathed, without tasting the blood of either traitor or tyrant!

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A TOUR IN SEARCH OF A TITLE.

"I'm sick of England--I am!"

"Why, cousin, you said the same of America!"

"No; only of Newport. And if I did, what matter? I wish I were back in it. Anywhere but here, among these bulls and bull-dogs. Give me New York over all cities in the world."

"Oh! I agree with you there--that do I--both State and city, if you like."

It was Julia Girdwood that spoke first, and Cornelia Inskip who replied.

They were seated in a handsome apartment--one of a suite in the Clarendon Hotel, London.

"Yes," pursued the first speaker; "there one has at least some society; if not the _elite_, still sufficiently polished for companionship. Here there is none--absolutely none--outside the circle of the aristocracy.

Those merchants' wives and daughters we've been compelled to associate with, rich as they are, and grand as they deem themselves, are to me simply insufferable. They can think of nothing but their Queen."

"That's true."

"And I tell you, Cornelia, if a peeress, or the most obscure thing with 'Lady' tacked to her name, but bows to one of them, it is remembered throughout their life, and talked of every day among their connections.

Only think of that old banker where mamma took us to dine the other day.

He had one of the Queen's slippers framed in a glass case, and placed conspicuously upon his drawing-room mantelshelf. And with what gusto the old snob descanted upon it! How he came to get possession of it; the price he paid; and his exquisite self-gratulation at being able to leave it as a valued heirloom to his children--snobbish as himself!

Faugh! 'Tis a flunkeyism intolerable. Among American merchants, one is at least spared such experience as that. Even our humblest shopkeepers would scorn so to exhibit themselves!"

"_True_, true!" assented Cornelia; who remembered her own father, an humble shopkeeper in Poughkeepsie, and knew that _he_ would have scorned it.

"Yes," continued Julia, returning to her original theme, "of all cities in the world, give me New York. I can say of it, as Byron did of England, 'With all thy faults, I love thee still!' though I suspect when the great poet penned that much-quoted line, he must have been very tired of Italy and the stupid Countess Guiccioli."

"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the Poughkeepsian cousin, "what a girl you are, Julia! Well, I'm glad you like our dear native New York."

"Who wouldn't, with its gay, pleasant people, and their cheerful give and take? Many faults it has, I admit; bad municipal management-- wholesale political corruption. These are but spots on the outward skin of its social life, and will one day be cured. Its great, generous heart, sprung from Hibernia, is still uncontaminated."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Cornelia, springing up from her seat and clapping her little hands. "I'm glad, cousin, to hear you speak thus of the Irish!"

It will be remembered that she was the daughter of one.

"Yes," said Julia, for the third time; "New York, of all places, for me!

I'm now convinced it's the finest city in the world!"

"Don't be so quick in your conclusions, my love! Wait till you've seen Paris! Perhaps you may change your mind!"

It was Mrs Girdwood who made these remarks, entering the room at the conclusion of her daughter's rhapsody.

"I'm sure I won't mother. Nor you neither. We'll find Paris just as we've found London; the same selfishness, the same social distinctions, the same flunkeyism. I've no doubt all monarchical countries are alike."

"What are you talking about, child? France is now a republic."

"A nice republic, with an Emperor's nephew for its President--or rather its Dictator! Every day, as the papers tell us, robbing the people of their rights!"

"Well, my daughter, with that we've got nothing to do. No doubt these revolutionary hot-heads need taming down a little, and a Napoleon should be the man to do it. I'm sure we'll find Paris a very pleasant place.

The old titled families, so far from being swept off by the late revolution, are once more holding up their heads. 'Tis said the new ruler encourages them. We can't fail to get acquainted with some of _them_. It's altogether different from the cold-blooded aristocracy of England."