e, "these people are
phenomena."

"Phenomena? Not at all. Life of to-day is so complicated that the most
unexpected people and events find their place in it. You have not
lived, Varhely, or you have lived only for your idol, your country, and
everything amazes you. If you had, like me, wandered all over the
world, you would not be astonished at anything; although, to tell the
truth"--and the young man's voice became bitter, trenchant, and almost
threatening--"we have only to grow old to meet with terrible surprises,
very hard to bear."

As he spoke, he glanced, involuntarily perhaps, at Marsa Laszlo, leaning
on the railing just below him.

"Oh! don't speak of old age before you have passed through the trials
that Zilah and I have," responded Varhely. "At eighteen, Andras Zilah
could have said: 'I am old.' He was in mourning at one and the same time
for all his people and for our country. But you! You have grown up,
my dear fellow, in happy times. Austria, loosening her clutch, has
permitted you to love and serve our cause at your ease. You were born
rich, you married the most charming of women"--

Michel frowned.

"That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life," continued Varhely. "It
seems to me only yesterday that you lost the poor child."

"It is over two years, however," said Michel, gravely. "Two years! How
time flies!"

"She was so charming," said old Yanski, not perceiving the expression of
annoyance mingled with sadness which passed over the young man's face.
"I knew your dear wife when she was quite small, in her father's
house. He gave me an asylum at Prague, after the capitulation signed by
Georgei. Although I was an Hungarian, and he a Bohemian, her father and
I were great friends."

"Yes," said Menko, rapidly, "she often spoke of you, my dear Varhely.
They taught her to love you, too. But," evidently seeking to turn the
conversation to avoid a subject which was painful to him, "you spoke of
Georgei. Ah! our generation has never known your brave hopes; and
your grief, believe me, was better than our boredom. We are useless
encumberers of the earth. Upon my word, it seems to me that we are
unsettled, enfeebled, loving nothing and loving everything, ready to
commit all sorts of follies. I envy you those days of battle, those
magnificent deeds of 'forty-eight and 'forty-nine. To fight thus was to
live!"

But even while he spoke, his thin face became more melancholy, and his
eyes again sought the dir