e world's caprice once
more brought them together, and they met as foes, both were struck by
some strange sympathy, some sad chord which touched each alike, and
their hearts felt oppressed, and their arms sank, they knew not
wherefore.

The leader of the troop was a young chief, whose oval face, handsome
sunburnt features, and dark eyes, bore great resemblance to the
Szekely Magyar, and if he had worn a dolmany, none would have
distinguished the one from the other; but his dress was not that of
the present Magyar, and yet the crimson-bordered toque, the short
linen vest, beneath which flowed the long coloured kaftan, the curved
sword--even the manner of girding it on--all recalled some well-known
object, like a portrait once seen, the name of which we have
forgotten, or the impression caused by some dream, or bygone scene of
childhood, and we sigh to be unable to speak to them, or understand
their language, to ask if they are happier among their mountains than
their brothers on the plain, or if they, too, weep like us; and bid
them, when they return, and sit in the evenings at the threshold of
their mountain homes--those which they so bravely defended, speak of
us to their children, and point to where the setting sun gilds the
home of the Magyar, and breathe a prayer for their suffering brethren.

The grave was dug, and the women stood before it chanting their
mournful dirges, while the measure was now and then interrupted by
sobs, and the solemn bell tolled the knell of death--the death of the
town.

The leader of the troop alighted from his horse, his comrades followed
his example, and taking their csalmas from their heads, they clasped
their hands and stood beside the grave in silent prayer. Who would
have thought that these were enemies?

After a pause of a few minutes, the leader made a motion to approach
the women on the opposite side of the grave, but Judith calmly
advanced, and waved him back. "Approach not," she exclaimed--"the
grave is the boundary between us; there is nothing to seek in the
town--none but women and children inhabit it--the widows and orphans
of those you have killed; and here, in this grave, lies the last man
of Kezdi-Vasarhely, a holy man, whom God permitted to live
eighty-nine years, to be the friend and counsellor of the whole town,
and has now called to Himself, because the town has no more need of
him: his spirit fled at the first news of the lost battle, for he was
blind ten years