the camp-fires, and
setting out for battle as for a ball. He was magnificent (Varhely
remembered him well) at the head of his students, and his floating,
yellow moustaches had caused the heart of more than one little Hungarian
patriot to beat more quickly.

Varhely would experience real pleasure in meeting once more his old
companion in arms. He remembered one afternoon in the vineyards, when
his hussars, despite the obstacles of the vines and the irregular
ground, had extricated Ladany's legion from the attack of two regiments
of Russian infantry. Joseph Ladany was standing erect upon one of his
cannon for which the gunners had no more ammunition, and, with drawn
sabre, was rallying his companions, who were beginning to give way
before the enemy. Ah, brave Ladany! With what pleasure would Varhely
grasp his hand!

The former leader had doubtless aged terribly--he must be a man of
fifty-five or fifty-six, to-day; but Varhely was sure that Joseph
Ladany, now become minister, had preserved his generous, ardent nature
of other days.

As he crossed the antechambers and lofty halls which led to the
minister's office, Varhely still saw, in his mind's eye, Ladany, sabre
in hand, astride of the smoking cannon.

An usher introduced him into a large, severe-looking room, with a lofty
chimney-piece, above which hung a picture of the Emperor-King in full
military uniform. Varhely at first perceived only some large armchairs,
and an enormous desk covered with books; but, in a moment, from behind
the mass of volumes, a man emerged, smiling, and with outstretched hand:
the old hussar was amazed to find himself in the presence of a species
of English diplomat, bald, with long, gray side-whiskers and shaven lip
and chin, and scrupulously well dressed.

Yanski's astonishment was so evident that Josef Ladany said, still
smiling:

"Well, don't you recognize me, my dear Count?" His voice was pleasant,
and his manner charming; but there was something cold and politic in his
whole appearance which absolutely stupefied Varhely. If he had seen
him pass in the street, he would never have recognized, in this elegant
personage, the young man, with yellow hair and long moustaches, who sang
war songs as he sabred the enemy.

And yet it was indeed Ladany; it was the same clear eye which had once
commanded his legion with a single look; but the eye was often veiled
now beneath a lowered eyelid, and only now and then did a glance shoot
forth