Day was beginning to dawn as a troop of horsemen galloped furiously
towards the castle from the direction of Kolozsvar.

They were Imre and his comrades.

Silently and anxiously they pursued their course, their eyes fixed
upon one point, as they seemed to fly rather than gallop along the
road. "We are too late!" exclaimed one of the party at last, pointing
to a dim red smoke along the horizon. "Your castle is burning!"

Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a
swifter pace. A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to their
view, its blackened walls still burning, while red smoke rose high
against the side of the hill.

The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly down
the declivity. In less than a quarter of an hour he stood before the
ruined walls.

"Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?" he
shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of a
half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined portico.

The latter fell to his knees, imploring mercy, and declaring that it
was not he who killed them.

"Then they are dead!" exclaimed the unhappy youth, as, half-choked by
his sobs, he fell forward on his horse's neck.

Meanwhile his companions had ridden up, and immediately sounded the
Wallachian, whom, but for Imre's interference, they would have cut
down.

"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he
continued; "have you not left one alive? 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. He seemed unconscious what they were
about.

When they had finished the graves they proceeded to open the large
pit, but the sight was too horrible, and they carried Imre away by
force. He could not have looked on what was there and still retain his
senses.

In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that
there were only eleven bodies in the grave.

"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of hope
passing over his pale features; "which is it?--speak! Is there not a
young girl with golden locks among them?"

"I know not," stammere