lity of triumph and omnipotent pessimism, had
preserved their traditions of idealism, chivalry, and faith in the
old honor; the Hungarian nationality was also the only one which had
conquered its conquerors by its virtues, its persistence in its hopes,
its courage, its contempt of all baseness, its extraordinary heroism,
and had finally imposed its law upon Austria, bearing away the old
empire as on the croup of its horse toward the vast plains of liberty.
The ideal would, therefore, have its moments of victory: an entire
people proved it in history.

"Let this world boast," said Andras, "of the delights of its villainy,
and grovel in all that is low and base. Life is not worth living unless
the air one breathes is pure and free! Man is not the brother of swine!"

And these same ideas, this same faith, this same dreamy nature and
longing for all that is generous and brave, he suddenly found again in
the heart of Marsa. She represented to him a new and happy existence.
Yes, he thought, she would render him happy; she would understand him,
aid him, surround him with the fondest love that man could desire. And
she, also, thinking of him, felt herself capable of any sacrifice. Who
could tell? Perhaps the day would come when it would be necessary to
fight again; then she would follow him, and interpose her breast between
him and the balls. What happiness to die in saving him! But, no, no!
To live loving him, making him happy, was her duty now; and was it
necessary to renounce this delight because hated kisses had once soiled
her lips? No, she could not! And yet--and yet, strict honor whispered
to Marsa, that she should say No to the Prince; she had no right to his
love.

But, if she should reject Andras, he would die, Varhely had said it. She
would then slay two beings, Andras and herself, with a single word. She!
She did not count! But he! And yet she must speak. But why speak? Was
it really true that she had ever loved another? Who was it? The one whom
she worshipped with all her heart, with all the fibres of her being, was
Andras! Oh, to be free to love him! Marsa's sole hope and thought were
now to win, some day, forgiveness for having said nothing by the most
absolute devotion that man had ever encountered. Thinking continually
these same thoughts, always putting off taking a decision till the
morrow, fearing to break both his heart and hers, the Tzigana let the
time slip by until the day came when the fete in celebra