y as the young man entered.

"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble
voice. "Ah, this is no good world--no good world! But if God is
against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead again
in dreams. I thought they all came around me and beckoned me to follow
them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with gratitude and
confidence in the hands of the Lord. Last night I saw the year 1848
written in the skies in letters of fire. 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!"

"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed
the widow lady as she embraced her nephew. "God bless you!"

The little cripple threw his arms around his cousin's knees and,
sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.

The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with downcast
eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered cockade, which
she placed on his breast. It was composed of five colors--blue and
gold, red, white, and green.[3]

"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise, as
he pressed the sweet girl to his heart, "Erdely[4] and Hungary united!
I shall win glory for your colors!"

The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released her,
"Remember me!"

"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the youth
fervently.

And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding
farewell, he hurried from the apartment.

Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.

"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and give
you strength to cut down many Turks!"

"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the young
man, smiling.

"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century,
correcting himself.

A page waited at the gate with two horses saddled and bridled.

"I shall not require you--you may remain at home," said Imre, as,
taking the bridle of one of the horses, vaulting lightly into the
saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the
castle.

As he rode