"You're a fool!" said Janosh, angrily. "A good soldier won't run away, nor will he be driven. I have never been in a battle in which we did not beat the enemy, and yet we retreated!"

The old hussar, like many soldiers in the Austrian army, was firmly convinced that the Emperor's troops had never been defeated.

"To retreat," added he, "means to fall back, after you've given your enemy a drubbing. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes! I understand!" replied Gatzi; "but I can't make out why you should fall back after a victory."

"Donkey!" said Janosh, with a compassionate smile; "you retreat because you're ordered to fall back; and a soldier who doesn't obey orders is shot. That's all!"

"But why do they order you back?"

"Why, indeed? That's not our business!" replied the old trooper, angrily; for it was the very question which had puzzled him all his life. "Why, indeed? A good soldier obeys his officers, and the rest doesn't concern him. Why they order you back? A stupid question that! Perhaps it is to make you advance, for if you fall back you've got room to go forward. Perhaps they do it to give the enemy time to rally their men, and to prepare for another battle. I say, Gatzi, if you were a soldier, and if you were to ask such questions, they'd shoot you on the spot!"

Such conversations were instructive to the Vagabond Gatzi, and entertaining for Janosh, who gloried in the reminiscences of his campaigns; but they did not promote the ends of the two travellers. The Gulyash of Kishlak was as little communicative to Janosh as he was to his young master, nor was the hussar more lucky in his inquiries in other quarters.

"It strikes me they've agreed upon it!" murmured he. "They have but one answer to all my questions, and that answer is the worst they can give. Every one says, 'I don't know; you'd better inquire somewhere else!' and so we go from one tanya to another, without being any the wiser for it!"

They had, indeed, by this time, made the round of three counties; and though Gatzi became gradually accustomed to their roving life, and though Janosh, riding, as he did, through forests and over moors, felt almost happy to live again the life of a trooper, they came at length to be fairly tired of their fruitless search. The season, too, was by no means favourable. The month of April has a general reputation for changeableness; but in the year in which Janosh and Gatzi rode in search of Viola, that month was by no means changeable. On the contrary, it rained from the first day to the last. Janosh had seen a deal of hardship in the course of his long and eventful life; but still his temper was not proof against the provoking sameness of this extraordinary April weather. At length he fairly lost his patience.

They were just traversing the third county, at a distance of about eighty miles from Dustbury. They had been on horseback from an early hour in the morning, and now the sun was setting, when Gatzi confessed to his older comrade that he could not find the tanya to which he had promised to conduct him. The old man had hitherto borne all disappointments with great fortitude, still hoping to get news of Viola; for Gatzi had told him that the Gulyash to whom they were going knew all the herdsmen of the district. What was to be done? They were in the heart of the forest; they had lost their way; and, although Janosh swore that it was a shame for an old man to follow at the heels of a mere boy like Gatzi, he could not but wrap himself up in his bunda, and follow his companion, who was looking for marks on the trees, and for cross branches on the road, these being the signs by which men of doubtful honesty are in the habit of marking their track for the benefit of their comrades. It was quite dark when the two wanderers were at length attracted by the glare of a fire. They struck from the path which they had hitherto pursued, and reached the tanya which they sought. The pleasure which Janosh felt as he stretched his limbs by the fire could not be greater than the rapture of the Gulyash when he recognised Gatzi. The old herdsman, it seems, had been Gatzi's partner in more than one affair of which they did not care to inform the county magistrates.

When the old Gulyash had had his chat with his young companion, Janosh stepped in and asked for Viola. The first answer which he received was a profession of utter ignorance on the part of the Gulyash; when Gatzi too showed his desire for information, the herdsman told them to stay the night.

"To-morrow morning," said he, "I'll conduct you to somebody who is likely to answer your questions. There is a Gulyash in this neighbourhood who came last autumn from your part of the country. He is a good-for-nothing fellow, who does not associate with any one. He doesn't sell cattle, and there is no talking to him. But, after all, it is very likely that he can give you the information you require."

"Who can he be?" said Gatzi, astonished. "I don't know of any herdsman from our parts who has gone to this county."

"It's the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak," replied the old man. "His brother is a trump of a fellow; but this chap is a blockhead. He won't speak to a body."

"It can't be the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak. Old Ishtvan had but one brother, who died last autumn."

"Nonsense! I tell you, man, I have seen him. He is a handsome fellow, and darkish. He brought his wife and two children. Don't tell me he's dead."

"I say, the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak is dead, though the man, whom you take to be his brother, may be alive, for all I know: but I am sure he is no relation to Ishtvan the herdsman!"

"But I tell you he is! Don't teach me to know Ishtvan the herdsman! It's true I haven't seen him for many years: but formerly we were much together; and last year, when he brought his brother's family to this place, they all slept in my hut. One of the children is not at all likely to live; but the other boy is a fine fellow. I am sure he'll be a better sort of a man than his father. There! now don't you believe that I am going to take you to the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak?"

In the course of this conversation, Gatzi cast significant looks at the old hussar; and when their host had retired for the night, he said, "I'll lose my head if the fellow he speaks of isn't Viola!"

"I am sure it's he," whispered Janosh. "Let us keep our own counsel, lest he refuse to show us to the place."

"How he'll stare, when he hears that his neighbour, of whom he thinks so little, is no other than Viola, the great robber! What a treat!" said Gatzi, as he lay down by the fire. "But I'm as sleepy as a dog! Good night!"

"Good night!" responded Janosh, turning round, and arranging his bunda for the night. The day had been one of extraordinary fatigue. His lair in the hut was comfortable, and the fire burnt bright and cheerful at his side; but still the old hussar could not sleep. He turned and tossed about, a prey to restlessness and harassing thought. Now that Viola was all but found, Janosh began to doubt whether he was justified in disturbing the poor man's quiet life, and whether it was not better to leave him where he was.

"He's come to be an honest man," thought he; "why should I remind him of his former misfortune? I dare say they won't hang Mr. Tengelyi; but as for Viola, I'm not at all sure whether they'll stick to their word when they have him in their power. His wife will despair, and his children come to be little vagabonds; and who will be the cause of all this misery but I, who am now trying to entrap him, for all the world like one of those d—d spies whom we used to hang in France!"

Old Janosh had but one comfort amidst these distressing reflections. He might indeed find Viola; but there was no necessity which forced him to give him up to the county magistrates: and, after all, was it not possible, in conversing with Viola, that they might find out a means of liberating the notary without any prejudice to the late robber's life and liberty?

"For," said Janosh, "God knows he has suffered enough! and his children, bless them! they are such fine creatures, and so loving. I wouldn't harm them; no, not for the world!"

As for the object of old Janosh's search, it was he who, under the assumed name of a brother to Ishtvan, the herdsman of Kishlak, inhabited the tanya to which Gatzi's friend had promised to conduct the two adventurers. The outlaw's place of refuge was not quite so large and commodious as his farm-house at Tissaret; but it was as favourable a specimen of a tanya as a man of Viola's character and habits might wish to see. The roof was made of reeds, and afforded a shelter against the rain; the walls were newly washed, and shone hospitably over the dun and desolate heath. The tanya was built on a slope of the mountains, which, forest-crowned, extended in the rear; and in front lay the immense plain, dotted with flocks and herds of cattle and horses, with here and there a steeple rising on the far horizon. Near the house was a stable and some haystacks; and close to the threshold lay a couple of large fierce wolf-hounds, basking in the rays of the sun.

Viola might have been happy. He had found a place of refuge: he was removed from all social intercourse; and this is, in itself, a blessing for the persecuted and maligned. He might have been happy, if our happiness or misery were not at least quite as much depending on the past as it is on the present. Viola's recollections were most gloomy. His mind was saddened by the thought that he was compelled to leave the scenes of his former life. An exile from the place of his birth, he languished and grieved quite as much as men of better education do, when fate compels them to fly from their own country. The lower classes cling, not only to their country, but also to the place of their birth. Their lives lie within a narrower circle; and, however great his patriotism, a peasant's love for his home is still greater. With some it is a predominant feeling; with others it is a madness. His real country, his real fatherland, is the village in which he saw the light,—the narrow spot of earth on which he passed his earliest years. If you remove him from that place, he finds little consolation in the thought that his new abode is still on Hungarian soil, that his country's language is still spoken around him. He sighs for his birth-place, for the humble roof of his parents, for the fields in which he used to work, for the trees in the shade of which he took his rest. His reminiscences are not national, but local; his sphere of interest and action is limited to the confines of his parish. And even if this were not the case, is not our life a totality? Can we separate the past from the present, or the present from the future? Are not our joys bound up in remembrance and hope? And what was there in Viola's past, what was there in his future, to cheer him up, and to nerve him amidst the sorrows of life?

Could he ever forget the injustice and cruelty of mankind? Could he forget that they had hunted him like a beast of the forest? And, worse than all, could he forget his own deeds? the blood he had shed,—the blood which still clung to his trembling hands? How could he hope for happiness? The future lowered over him like a pall. His name was, indeed, unknown in that part of the country. His master, and the people with whom he had dealings, took him for a brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak; but what guarantee had he for his safety? The arrival of any of his former associates, the discovery of his having come to the county with a false passport, was sure to divulge his real name, and deliver him into the hands of justice. Every stranger who approached the tanya made him tremble. He trembled to think that his own boy might betray the secret of his father's guilt. But still, he could have borne all this. He might have inured his heart to sorrow and anxiety if his wife had been happy, if the love of his children had withdrawn his mind from the remorse and fear in which it lay shrouded.

Fate willed it otherwise!

Susi wanted but little for happiness. To love, was her vocation. She had no wish but to live with her husband and her children, to devote herself to them, to care, labour, and pray for them. Her heart was made to resist the blows of fate, if they failed to strike at that one tender point. When she knew of her husband's liberation,—when she took her children to their new home, she felt as if there was nothing to wish for, or to hope; and all her past sufferings were lost in the feeling of happiness which pervaded her mind. To live far away from mankind, removed from the scene of her former sufferings,—to live a new life, lonely and unknown,—had been her wish for many years; and that wish was now realised. She knelt down at the threshold of her new tanya, and wept and prayed with a grateful heart. She had nothing to ask for, nothing to desire!

But her happiness was of short duration. Her younger child was weak and sickly. Its little face had that expression of sadness which, in children, is a sure sign of suffering and disease.

"How could it be otherwise?" said Susi; "sorrow was its first food. My tears have effaced its smiles, and ever since it opened its soft blue eyes it has seen nothing but grief and sorrow. The poor child cannot help being sad!"

The unsettled life which Susi had latterly been compelled to lead, and which the infant had shared with her; the cold autumnal air to which it was exposed; and last, not least, the fatigue and exposure of the journey to their place of refuge, had a fatal effect upon the tender health of the child. So long as the excitement continued, and while she had to tremble for the safety of her husband, Susi took no heed of its altered appearance; but a few days after their meeting in the tanya, she became alive to the danger which threatened the infant's life. To see and despair of all hope was one and the same thing. After some days of maddening anxiety, the child died, and a little grave near the tanya was all that remained of so much sorrow and so much love.

The child's death struck a deeper blow to Susi's heart, from the circumstance of its occurring in the very first week of her new-found repose; but when she remarked her husband's sadness, who, still depressed by the late events, considered the death of his youngest born as a harbinger of the approach of avenging fate, she felt that Viola wanted to be cheered and comforted, and her love for him conquered the grief of her mother's heart.

"Who knows," said she, "whether the child is not all the better off for leaving this world of sorrow; and perhaps this misfortune has been sent to us, to prevent our becoming too presumptuous in our happiness? And, after all, have we not Pishta, and does he not grow up to be a fine bold fellow, like his father?"

But in January little Pishta was seized with the fever. His mother's anxiety, her watchfulness, her care, the smiles of comfort from her breaking heart, and her secret tears and wailings,—all,—all could not prevail against the stern decree of fate; and after three long weeks, Pishta was buried by the side of his little brother, and Susi felt that there was nothing in the world that could make her happy.

She complained not; she spoke not of her misfortune; she strove to hide her grief from her husband: but the forced smile on her pale face, the rebellious sigh which would break forth, the trembling of her voice, when an accident, when

reminded her of her children, and her turning away to hide the tears which would bedew her cheeks, spoke more plainly than any wailing and mourning by which the wretched woman might have given vent to her grief. Viola loved his wife too warmly to be deceived by her seeming calmness; his keen eye found the traces of secret tears upon her face; he understood her wordless woe, and his heart was a prey to the bitterness of sorrow. To love, to see the loved one suffering, and to feel that we cannot do any thing to lessen her grief, is a bitter feeling indeed; and Viola felt as if fate had saved his life, only for him to drain the cup of misfortune to the very dregs.

"Wretched man that I am!" cried he, as he stood alone on the heath; "after all my sufferings, must I live to see this day? If I had suffered for my crimes, God would perhaps have pitied my children; but now His hand strikes me in them! There is blood on my hands,—but is it Susi's fault? Are my little ones guilty? Father in heaven! what have they done, that Thy wrath should pursue them?"

Thus lost in the bitterness of his grief, he sat on the hill near his house, when his attention was attracted by the violent barking of his dogs, and as he looked in the direction of the tanya, he beheld a stranger approaching him. Viola lived in solitude; the Gulyash of Kishlak had only called on him once since he dwelled in the tanya, and the herdsmen and outlaws of the county were by no means inclined to cultivate the acquaintance of their new neighbour, for a few unsuccessful attempts had convinced them of his reluctance to join them in their illicit doings. No wonder, then, that the approach of a stranger attracted Viola's attention. But his astonishment passed all bounds when he recognised the sheriff's hussar, and when the latter called him by his real name, a name which he had not heard for many months.

At some distance from the tanya, Janosh had thanked his guide for his trouble, and sent him and Gatzi back, for he wished to speak to Viola freely and without being interrupted. The latter could hardly trust his own eyes, when he saw the old soldier, who used to be a pattern of neatness, attired in a peasant's dress, travel-stained, and with his hair and beard neglected.

"Is it you, Janosh?" said he, addressing the new comer. "What does this dress mean?"

"It's strange, isn't it? We are naked when we are born, and naked do we go to the grave, or at best they give us a gatya to sleep in. A soldier was a peasant at one time, and to a peasant's estate he returns; that's how the world goes. After all, my present dress is none of the worst, only I felt queer in it at first, accustomed as I am, you know, to be buttoned up in a tight hussar jacket. For some days I fancied I was not dressed at all!"

"But where did you come from, and what has brought you all this way from home?"

The old soldier, who had some secret misgivings about the honesty of his errand, felt uncomfortable at this question.

"Why," said he, scratching his head, "I wanted to call on you,—that is to say, I wanted to find you. I've some important matters to talk to you about. But don't be frightened, man!" added he, on seeing Viola's astonishment; "I have indeed promised to find you, but I have not promised to tell them where you are. I'll have my palaver with you, that's all, and you may afterwards do as you please. As for the worshipful magistrates, they shall never get any thing out of me; no! not even if they'd skin me alive! I'm not the man to blow upon a deserter! Bless you! I never did that sort of a thing!"

Viola's curiosity was heightened by the words and the manner of Janosh; and his desire for an account of the sudden and mysterious appearance of the latter was at length gratified by a circumstantial statement of all the events which had taken place at Dustbury and Tissaret, since the assassination of Mr. Catspaw. The impression which this news produced upon Viola was fearful.

When Janosh told him of Tengelyi's situation, he cast a despairing look to heaven, and cried:—

"I am a cursed being! I am born to destroy all who come near me, no matter whether they are my friends or my foes!"

And covering his eyes with his hands, he gave himself up to a transport of grief.

His distress moved the old hussar, who endeavoured to comfort him in his own rough manner.

"Don't you think," said Janosh, "that Mr. Tengelyi is very badly off! Nonsense, man! he isn't even in gaol."

"But where is he?"

"Why he is not exactly in gaol; but he's in a room of his own in the prison. He has plenty to eat and to drink, for it's I who wait upon him; and you might have known that I am not a man who would give Master Akosh's father-in-law cause to complain. He's all right and comfortable, and there's no reason why he should not walk away, if they had not got that accursed criminal process (for that's the name they give it, I believe,) against him. But there's the rub! Unless his innocence is proved, they'll sentence him—Heaven knows to what! And you see——"

"Did I not wish to serve him?" cried Viola, in a violent burst of grief. "I'm in gratitude bound to serve him! He gave shelter to my wife and children. I would have given my life to make him happy. I killed the attorney because I thought to do him good, and what has come of all my gratitude?"

"Well?"

"Why, this has come of it! He's the honestest man on the face of the earth, and they accuse him of my crime! and it's I who have got him into prison,—oh! and if you had not come and told me all, they would execute him in my place!"

"Viola! my boy," said the hussar, "you're wrong. The case is not half so bad as you make it out, I assure you."

"Oh, Janosh! why, when I was sentenced at Tissaret, did you come to my assistance? Why did you save my life? You see what I have come to! I'm ready to bless the day of my death. When a mad dog feels the distemper, he will run away from the house of his master, in order not to harm his benefactor! That's what a mad dog does,—but I, I am worse than a dog, for I am dangerous to those whom I love best!"

Janosh, who was deeply moved by Viola's remorse, endeavoured to comfort him, by protesting he was sure there must be some means of extricating the notary from his present dangerous position.

His words, rude and awkward as they were, had their effect upon Viola. He became more composed, and said—

"As for the notary, he is safe. It will take us three days to go to Dustbury. The papers which I took from the attorney are in my hands; they are covered with blood, and when I tell them how the thing was brought about, they cannot possibly suspect Tengelyi."

The old hussar shook his head.

"I don't think," said he, "you can do it in that way. You're not in a fit state to take a resolution. You are in despair, and what you intend to do ought to be well considered. Nothing is more easy than to go to Dustbury. 'Here I am! I'm Viola! I've killed that rascal, Catspaw!' Why it's mere child's-play to say the words. But the worst is behind. When they've once got you into gaol, I don't see how you can get out of it."

"I don't care!"

"But you ought to care! Why, man! it's the very first thing you ought to think of! They have indeed promised not to take your life, and even the sheriff has pledged his word for your safety! But who can tell? I wouldn't advise you to rely on the promises of the gentry, and it's far more prudent to manage the business otherwise."

"Have you any idea how it can be done?" said Viola, sullenly.

"Of course I have! Give me the papers! I'll take them to Dustbury, and tell the gentlemen that I have spoken to you, that you gave me the papers, and that you made no denial of your having murdered the attorney."

"They'll never believe you!"

"If they don't, I'll call in another witness—Gatzi the Vagabond, who is a good fellow. He's come along with me, and he's now at your neighbour's, the Gulyash. Two honest witnesses can prove any thing; but as Gatzi is not, perhaps, quite honest, because he's in the habit of stealing now and then, we'll have the Gulyash as a third witness. While we are telling our story at Dustbury, you and your wife and children leave this place, and when they come to arrest you they'll find an empty house. That's my plan!"

"I have no children!" said Viola, with a deep sigh; "our last—our little Pishta—was buried two months ago!"

"Pishta!" cried Janosh; "my little Pishta! Why, that's a dreadful misfortune!"

"The two little ones are dead! I am childless! My poor Susi is not likely to survive her sweet children long. She is sinking fast; poor woman, she won't see the next snow!"

The two men sat in silence. Viola was lost in gloomy thought, and old Janosh's eyes were full of tears. At length he said,—

"Truly, God alone knows why fate deals harshly with some people! They tell me we're all going to the same place in the end, and that God, who is a great general, commands us to march straight through this world into another. But I must say, the men of the rear-guard have the worst of it. The advanced guard have it all to themselves—grub, and glory, and all; and those that remain behind are in for short commons and kicks. I've known that sort of thing, my boy! When an army retreats, the best men are ordered to the rear; and in the wars I've been dealt with as you are on this earth. 'Devil take the hindmost!' is a true proverb. Bless me! you can't fancy what hard blows we got, and how we were starved! but, after all, it was then I learnt that a man ought never to despair. For when you've come to the camp, a good general is sure to praise and reward the last man of the regiment; and I'm sure our Father in Heaven will do the same when you march into quarters. And besides, who knows but the tide will turn? Susi is left you, and that's a great blessing. Why shouldn't she have half a dozen children? You won't have another Pishta, I'm afraid; for there is not another such a child on the earth, nor will there ever be; but you'll have plenty of children. And, I say, no one knows what a deal of good luck such a child may bring you; and all I say to you is, you're a fool if you put your neck into the keeping of the Dustbury gentry. Bless you, man, it's the worst you can do! and there's time enough for the worst, I should hope!"

Viola listened to the old hussar's advice, without showing his dissent either by words or gestures; but when Janosh ceased speaking, and looked at him, waiting for a reply, he shook his head sadly, hopelessly, and said,—

"You would not advise me as you do if you could but know what I have suffered. You warn me not to surrender to my judges and you counsel me to fly from punishment. But do you really think, my poor Janosh, that my present and past sufferings are not a hundred times more painful than any punishment which they can award to me? You say they will sentence me to death. It's no more than what I deserve. And what is even the most painful death, compared to the unceasing fear which has weighed upon my heart ever since I came to this place? I am eighty miles from home; but what, after all, are eighty miles? You have found me, and others may!"

"There you are out! It's not every man has been in the wars, and——"

"You found me by accident! Oh, I tell you, I've played the coward! I've crouched among the ferns and the brushwood, when I saw a stranger approaching my house! When my master asked me about my former pursuits, I felt the hot blood rush into my face, and I trembled for all the world as if I stood before my Judge. No, Janosh! my life is a hell! it's not the life of a human being, and the sooner I've got rid of it the better for me, for Susi, for all!"

"They won't hang you!" said Janosh. "The sheriff has come to quarrel with his wife, and he has been an altered man ever since. He has promised to spare your life, and I'm sure he'll stick to his word, that is to say, if he can; for, after all, who knows but the other gentleman may get the better of him? and it's always my opinion one ought never——"

"Stop!" cried Viola. "I'm sure you mean well; but I've made up my mind. Believe me, ever since my children died I've often thought whether to surrender is not the best thing I can do. Even if you had not come and told me of the notary's danger, I think I should have given myself up to the police, to rid myself of the torments which now prey upon my mind. A few days before my poor Pishta died, the child was so thin and worn out you would not have known him if you had seen him at the time. Nothing was left of him but his sweet soft voice; methinks I hear it now; and he——What were we saying?" continued Viola, wiping his eyes; "to think of him makes me forget all and everything. What was it, Janosh?"

"You spoke of Pishta's death. Don't go on, pray!"

"I must! I must tell you, that shortly before he died, and, indeed, all the time he was ill, he entreated me not to go on being a robber: 'Won't you, father, dear! you won't be a robber any more?' were the last words I ever heard him say. Now, tell me, is it in my power to obey my dying child's request if I remain here? Let the meanest thief come to this house who has seen me in former times; is he not my master, because he has my secret? Can he not force me to join him in any crime he may choose to perpetrate? I'm lost! My very honesty depends upon an accident; and chance alone can protect me from falling back into my old ways."

Janosh sighed; for he felt the truth of Viola's remarks.

"There's blood on my hands, and I must die! It's but common justice! I've thought the matter over, and I see no other way to get out of it. And, after all, there is neither peace nor comfort in this world after such a deed! When they have pronounced my sentence, my conscience will cease from accusing me. I have not, indeed, ever had the intention of killing any body! Accident has made me what I am—a murderer! and fate has decreed that I am to suffer for my crime. What man can prevail against his destiny?"

"This is all very well; but what's to become of Susi, I'd like to know?" said Janosh, with a deep sigh.

Viola made no reply. His features were violently contracted; his hands clung with a tremulous grasp to the staff which lay by his side; his chest heaved as if it were bursting. At length he said, with a trembling voice,—

"What is to become of Susi when I am dead? Why, it's this which unnerves me! But what am I to do? Poor woman! If I could do aught to remove her sorrow, if her misery were not so great that nothing can add to it, I would suffer all! all! all! I would not care for the pangs of my conscience! I would not mind my fears and my sorrows, neither here, nor even in the world to come, if I could hope that my life would serve to comfort Susi. But her heart is brimful of anguish. There is no room for fresh griefs, no room for comfort of any kind; nay, more, my presence compels her to forego the only relief she has—that of taking her fill of weeping! No! no!" continued he, passionately, "I cannot bear it any longer. I'll do it, since it must be done, and I'll do it at once. God will perhaps have mercy on her when I'm dead and gone! He'll take her away from this world, in which there is no place of rest—no! none at all for those that love Viola; and even if she does not die, she will be safe, and perhaps some charitable hearts will pity her case and provide for her. Come, Janosh! bind my hands and take me to Dustbury. Be quick!"

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, convinced Janosh of the firmness of Viola's resolution, which he did not attempt to oppose, because he felt the weight of the arguments which the repentant robber had advanced in support of it.

"After all, you're not far from right," said he, after a short pause. "I'll be bound for it they won't hang you; and perhaps it's better for you to have your punishment over, and have done with it. It makes you a free man; and prevents you being brought back to your old ways. But as for the binding part of the business, it's sheer stuff and nonsense, I tell you. If you come of your own accord, they'll put it down on the bill as a special point in your favour, and strike off a few years from the time of your captivity. But, hang me if I take you to Dustbury! It would be a disgrace to me to the end of my life, if people could say, it was old Janosh who arrested Viola!"

"Very well!" said Viola, "if you won't take me, you may go to Dustbury at once, and tell Mr. Tengelyi to be of good cheer, I'll be at Dustbury on the fourth day from this. My Bojtar[33] will soon come back to take charge of the cattle. I must talk to Susi lest she should be shocked by my sudden departure. Poor woman! it will be a hard thing to take leave of her."

"Why," said old Janosh, "if you've made up your mind to go, you had better not mention your plans to Susi. After you've come to Dustbury, I'll go to fetch your wife; and when the sheriff tells her that your life is not in danger, I'm sure she'll get reconciled to the arrangement. Be of good cheer!" added the old soldier, shaking Viola's hand; "all's well that ends well! They'll lock you up for a few years, and after that time you'll go back to Tissaret as an honest man. But I must be off now. It would frighten Susi to death to find me here, and in this dress too!"

Saying which, the hussar turned to leave the spot; but after walking a few yards he came back, and said:

"I forgot to mention, that you need not come if you should repent of your resolution. I'll take my oath nobody shall ever learn from me where your tanya is; and all they can say is, that I'm a greater donkey than they thought I was, because I couldn't manage to find you. But, believe me, I don't care what they say. God bless you, my boy!"

Janosh did not wait for an answer. He hurried away; and after a few minutes, Viola heard the quick trotting of a horse. It was Janosh on his way back from the tanya.

"After all, my life will be good for something," muttered Viola. "I wanted to prove my gratitude to my benefactor, and all I did was to bring another misfortune upon him. At present I have it in my power to save his life by the sacrifice of my own! But what is to become of Susi?"

He sat lost in gloomy thoughts, with his head leaning on his hand, when his wife returned to the tanya. Her voice awoke him from his dreams. It struck her that he looked as if he had wept. But for the poor woman, who came from the grave of her children, there was nothing extraordinary in his tears.

CHAP. X.

Viola had many difficulties to encounter before he could carry his project into execution. His resolution was irrevocable; but what was his most plausible pretence for leaving the tanya without alarming the fears of his wife? Ever since their change of abode, Susi showed the greatest anxiety whenever her husband left her, though but for a few hours; and this anxiety, so natural to a woman in her position, had risen to a formidable height ever since the death of her children. Her husband was her all—her only treasure,—her sole comfort on this earth. And was he not always in danger of a discovery of his former character and pursuits? Her anxious care was, in the present instance, almost maddening to Viola. In the course of that day he attempted a hundred times at least to tell his wife that he must leave her for a few days; and a hundred times he felt that he wanted the strength to break the matter to her. At one time it struck him that Susi was more cheerful than usual, and he was loth to distress her at such a moment; another time he thought she looked sadder than she generally did, and he considered that frame of mind unfavourable to the reception of his communication. Indeed there is no saying how he could have executed his project if Susi had not been struck with his embarrassed manner, and the preparations he made for the journey. She questioned him, and he told her that his master had sent in the morning ordering him to fetch some cattle from a neighbouring county. Susi trembled; but there was no help for it. Viola was bound to obey his master's orders: he could not possibly refuse obedience by stating the reasons of his aversion to the journey; and the poor woman was reduced to snatch at the straws of comfort which lay in her husband's assurance that the place to which he was sent lay at a greater distance from the county of Takshony than their present abode did.

"Don't be afraid. Nobody can know me at that place; no Tissaret people come there!" said Viola; and Susi did her best to appear quiet and unconcerned.

Viola was conscious of the fate which awaited him. Whenever he looked at his wife he shuddered to think what her anguish would be when the true nature of his errand was revealed to her; and all his strength of mind could scarcely suppress his tears. He struggled hard to keep them down; and in the evening, when, after pressing Susi to his heart for the last time, he mounted his horse, she could not, by any outward signs, get a clue to the deep despair which ate into his heart. When his voice came to her with the last "God bless you!" she had no idea of the truth. It never struck her that she heard his voice for the last time.

Viola was inured to suffering. His grave aspect hid the anguish which convulsed his mind: but when his horse had borne him onwards to the deep forest, his grief leapt forth like a giant; and, shaking off the bonds of restraint, he bent his head low down on his horse's neck, and his powerful frame trembled with the convulsions of deep, hopeless, unmitigated grief.

It was late in the afternoon when he left the tanya; the faint rays of the setting sun shone from the west, and the crescent, shedding her silver light through a few feathery clouds, shone upon the solemn silence of the earth below. The beauty of Nature cannot prevail against the existence of care; but it can lessen its intensity: grief, with its bitter and passionate expression, yields to solemn sadness. Nature seems to share our woe: each star looks feelingly down from its sphere; and the boundless horizon brings our own littleness, and the trivial character of our sorrows, home to us.

The peaceful silence which surrounded Viola gave peace to his weary heart. He dried his tears as he looked up to the stars, that send forth their rays of hope from their spheres of silence and mystery.

He came to the hill whence, but a few short months ago, he had cast the first glance at his new tanya. He stopped his horse and looked back. The dim light of the moon showed him but a whitish speck, and a herdsman's fire near it. He thought of the hopes which bloomed in his heart when he came to the place; he thought of the events which destroyed those hopes in their first and fairest bloom. He thought of his children, who lay buried at the foot of the hill, and of their wretched mother, and of the cruel blow which was about to descend on her devoted head. Again the big tears gushed forth from his eyes; but when this sudden burst of sorrow was over, he regained all his former firmness.

"Who can help it?" said he, with a deep sigh, as he turned his horse's head away from the place which contained all he loved best. "What man can run away from his fate? I was born for misery!"

Viola intended to go to Tissaret and to surrender to Akosh Rety, or, if he did not find him, at least to send the Liptaka to tend and comfort his wife. The distance from the tanya to Tissaret was full eighty miles; and Viola, to avoid being seen by any one, especially in the county of Takshony, shunned the roads and beaten paths, and journeyed mostly at night. He had therefore time enough to think of his situation and prospects. But his thoughts would still return to Susi.

"I would not care," said he to himself, "if I could but be comforted on her account. She'll despair when they tell her that I have surrendered to the county magistrates. She will think me cruel! But what was I to do? They would have found me out at last. Old Janosh found me sure enough, and others might follow in his track any day. They would have pounced upon me and arrested me. But now that I surrender of my own free will, I can at least prevent them from taking Mr. Tengelyi's papers. I can get him out of his troubles, and who knows? perhaps they'll give me a pardon, Janosh said they would!"

This last reflection was a great comfort. If ever a man expected the approach of death calmly and with firmness, that man was Viola. But death by the hands of the executioner is terrible even to the most courageous; and Viola, who thought of Susi, was prepared to suffer all and everything, except this one last infamy, which he felt convinced his wife could never survive.

"Perhaps they will lock me up for ten years—let them! they may torture me, they may do their worst, I won't care for it. It will give Susi strength to know that I am alive, and that she can be of use to me; and I, too, I'm sure I'll bear any thing if I can see her at times; and after all there must be an end even to the worst punishment, as Janosh told me, and I shall be able to live as an honest man to the end of my life!"

Such is human nature. In the worst plights we cast the anchor of our hope amidst the shoals of lesser evils; but without hope we could not live for a day.

Viola's reflections on his position tended greatly to calm and comfort his mind. He was a two-fold murderer: but there were a variety of extenuating circumstances in both the cases; and, with the exception of his two great crimes, of all his breaches of the law, there was not one which exposed him to capital punishment; the circumstance that he had already undergone what the Hungarian law calls "the agony,"[34] namely, the mortal anxiety of a culprit under sentence of death, and in the present instance his voluntary surrender to the criminal justice of his country would stand in the way of a capital sentence. And if he succeeded in liberating the notary from his present painful position, could he not rely on the protection of Akosh Rety and his friends?