At last the voices died away, and the hideous cries of the besiegers ceased.  The trembling women believed that the Wallachians had been driven out, and, breathing more freely, each awaited with impatience the approach of brother—­husband—­sons.

At last a heavy step was heard on the stairs leading to the garret.

“This is Barnabas’s step!” cried the widow, joyfully, and still holding the pistols in her hand, she ran to the door of the garret.

Instead of her expected brother, a savage form, drunken with blood, strode towards her, his countenance burning with rage and triumph.

The widow started back, uttering a shriek of terror, and then with that unaccountable courage of desperation, she aimed one of the pistols at the Wallachian’s breast, who instantly fell backwards on one of his comrades, who followed close behind.  The other pistol she discharged into her own bosom.

And now we must draw a veil over the scene that followed.  What happened there must not be witnessed by human eyes.

Suffice it to say, they murdered every one, women and children, with the most refined and brutal cruelty, and then threw their dead bodies out of the window from which Barnabas had dashed down the iron fragments on the besiegers’ heads.

They left the old grandmother to the last, that she might witness the extermination of her whole family.  Happily for her, her eyes had ceased to distinguish the light of sun, and ere long the light of an eternal glory had risen upon them.

The Wallachians then dug a common grave for the bodies, and threw them all in together.  The little one, whom his parents loved so well, they cast in alive, his nurse having escaped from the attics and carried him downstairs, where they had been overtaken by the savages.

“There are only eleven here!” cried one of the gang, who had counted the bodies, “one of them must be still alive somewhere—­there ought to be twelve!” And then they once more rushed through the empty rooms, overturning all the furniture, and cutting up and breaking everything they met with.  They searched the garrets and every corner of the cellars, but without success.

At last a yell of triumph was heard.  One of them had discovered a door which, being painted of the same color as the walls, had hitherto escaped their observation.  It concealed a small apartment in the turret.  With a few blows of their axes it was broken open, and they rushed in.

“Ah! a rare booty!” cried the foremost of the ruffians, while, with bloodthirsty curiosity, the others pressed round to see the new victim.

There lay the little orphan with the golden hair; her eyes were closed and a death-like hue had overspread her beautiful features.

Her aunt; with an instinctive foreboding, had concealed her here when she took the others to the attic.

The orphan grasped a sharp knife in her hand, with which she had attempted to kill herself; and when her fainting hands refused the fearful service, she had swooned in despair.