ar dinner-hour arrived joined Marie, as
usual, in the dining-room, to enjoy with her the delicate snail-soup and
other dainties.

CHAPTER III

At last war was declared; but it brought only days of increased
unhappiness and discontent to the tiger imprisoned in his cage at the
Nameless Castle--as if burning oil were being poured into his open
wounds.

The snail-like movements of the Austrian army had put an end to the
appearance of the apocalyptic destroying angel.

Ludwig Vavel waited like the tiger crouched in ambush, ready to spring
forth at the sound of his watchword, and heard at last what he had least
expected to hear.

The single-headed eagle had not hesitated to take possession of that
which the double-headed eagle had hesitated to grasp.

Napoleon had issued his memorable call to the Hungarian people to assert
their independence and choose their king from among themselves.

Count Ludwig received a copy of this proclamation still damp from the
press, and at once decided that the cause to which he had sacrificed his
best years was wholly lost.

He was acquainted with but a few of the people among whom he dwelt in
seclusion, but he believed he knew them well enough to decide that the
incendiary proclamation could have no other result than an enthusiastic
and far-reaching response. All was at an end, and he might as well go to
his rest!

In one of his gloomiest, most dissatisfied hours, he heard the sound of
a spurred boot in the silent corridor.

It was an old acquaintance, the vice-palatine. He did not remove his
hat, which was ornamented with an eagle's feather, when he entered the
count's study, and ostentatiously clinked the sword in its sheath which
hung at his side. A wolfskin was flung with elaborate care over his left
shoulder.

"Well, Herr Count," he began in a cheery tone, "I come like the gypsy
who broke into a house through the oven, and, finding the family
assembled in the room, asked if they did not want to buy a
flue-cleanser. At last the watchword has arrived: 'To horse, soldier! To
cow, farmer.' The militia law is no longer a dead letter. We shall
march, _cum gentibus_, to repulse the invading foe. Here is the royal
order, and here is the call to the nation."[3]

[Footnote 3: Written by Alexander Kisfalndy, by order of the palatine. A
memorable document.]

Count Vavel's face at these words became suddenly transfigured--like the
features of a dead man who has been restored