“Imre!” exclaimed the starting girl.  “You have seen him, then?—­oh! where is he!”

The Decurio hesitated.  “He should not have delayed so long,” he murmured, pressing his hand against his brow; “all would have been otherwise.”

“Oh! let me go to him; if you know where he is.”

“I do not know, but I am certain he will come here if he is alive—­indeed he must come.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he will seek you.”

“Did he then speak—­before you?”

“As he lay wounded on that couch, he pronounced your name in his dreams.  Are you not that Jolanka Bardy whom they call ‘The Angel’?  I knew you by your golden locks.”

The young girl cast down her eyes.  “Then you think he will come?” she said in a low voice.  “And my relations?”

“He will come as soon as possible; and now you must take some food and rest.  Do not think about your relations now; they are all in a safe place—­nobody can hurt them more.”

The Decurio brought some refreshment, laid a small prayer-book on the pillow, and left the orphan by herself.

The poor girl opened the prayer-book, and her tears fell like rain-drops on the blessed page; but, overcome by the fatigue and terror she had undergone, her head ere long sank gently back, and she slept calmly and sweetly the sleep of exhausted innocence.

As evening closed, the Decurio returned, and softly approaching the bed, looked long and earnestly at the fair sleeper’s face, until two large tears stood unconsciously in his eyes.

The Roumin hastily brushed away the unwonted moisture, and as if afraid of the feeling which had stolen into his breast, he hastened from the room, and laid himself upon his woolen rug before the open door.

The deserted castle still burned on, shedding a ghastly light on the surrounding landscape, while the deepest silence reigned around, only broken now and then by an expiring groan, or the hoarse song of a drunken reveler.

Day was beginning to dawn as a troop of horsemen galloped furiously towards the castle from the direction of Kolozsvar.

They were Imre and his comrades.

Silently and anxiously they pursued their course, their eyes fixed upon one point, as they seemed to fly rather than gallop along the road.  “We are too late!” exclaimed one of the party at last, pointing to a dim red smoke along the horizon.  “Your castle is burning!”

Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a swifter pace.  A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to their view, its blackened walls still burning, while red smoke rose high against the side of the hill.

The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly down the declivity.  In less than a quarter of an hour he stood before the ruined walls.

“Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?” he shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of a half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined portico.