class="pnext">I ran down to the first landing, and overtook a frightened, pale-faced man--a servant, probably, belonging to the hôtel. The fellow looked at me with such a comical expression of woe, that, in spite of the day's work, I could hardly refrain from laughing.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," I said, slapping him on the shoulder. "I'm not going to eat you. What have the rebels done with Count Latour?"

The man's eyes opened wider than before. He bowed his head and mumbled some words which I could not understand.

"Speak up!" I cried sharply, "or, by the honour of a Botskay, I'll throw you over the balustrade."

The threat reduced him to a state bordering on imbecility. He made no attempt to speak, but, plucking at my cloak like a chidden dog, led me into a small chamber having a window which overlooked the courtyard.

What I saw there held me spellbound; and the man, seeing he was no longer noticed, quietly slipped off.

Outside, Count Latour, the minister of war, the veteran general who had carried the black and yellow flag to victory a score of times, who over and over again had risked his life to uphold the honour of his country, hung, battered and dead, suspended from a lamp-post.

The mob still lingered about, but in smaller numbers; the most violent had departed to pursue their work of butchery elsewhere.

Many of the disloyal National Guards, who found it easier work to insult a dead man than to combat a living one, swaggered about, looking fierce and truculent. Some decently-dressed citizens regarded the murdered count, it appeared to me, with pity and sorrow; even to some of the insurgents remorse had come with terrible swiftness.

The students and men of the slums had gone--the former to fight, the latter most likely to plunder. More peaceable people helped to fill up the gap thus caused.

I left the room and descended the stairs slowly, thinking of Stephen. Where was he? Had he been killed by that terrible crush in the narrow street? Perhaps he was still there, hurt and unable to move. I must go and find out.

On the lower part of the staircase I met numbers of citizens coming to view the scene of the struggle.

I stood aside to let them pass, and they, recognizing my nationality, saluted me with the cry of "Long live Hungary!" I thought of the dead man outside, and the blood surged to my face.

In the courtyard there was room to move freely, and, anxious on my brother's account, I was hurrying away, when the sound of a girl's voice coming from the left caused me to stop.

A low, angry growl from a section of the onlookers told me something was wrong, and I ran to the spot.

A young girl, evidently of high birth, stood facing a group of Nationals. Her head was uncovered, and her hair hung down her back in a thick, wavy, chestnut-coloured mass. She had a beautiful face, sweet and fresh as the morning; her features were regular and refined; her dark-blue eyes were of wonderful depth and expression.

She was slightly, almost delicately framed, and little more than a child in years; but the inherited pride of centuries burned in her face, and she confronted the citizen soldiers fearlessly.

Standing erect, with her head thrown back defiantly, she pointed to the body of the murdered man, and, with a superb gesture of scorn, exclaimed in a ringing voice, "You pitiful cowards!"

The crowd murmured, some in sympathy, others in anger. Several of the Nationals moved as if to chastise the speaker, but she did not quail.

One, a bigger poltroon than his fellows, placed his hand on her arm; but at that instant I sprang to the girl's side and sent the aggressor sprawling.

"It is true!" I cried recklessly. "You are a pack of cowards to murder an aged and unarmed man!"

"A Hungarian and a traitor!" shouted a voice from the crowd.

"No traitor," I replied, "as I hope my sword may prove; but no assassin either."

"Don't be a fool," said the unseen speaker, but using now the Hungarian tongue. "What is the daughter of an Austrian noble to you? These others are our friends, and they have done no worse than we did in Pesth."

"Knock him on the head, and the girl too!" cried one of the soldiers; but he kept clear of the sword which I had brought from the council chamber.

"Leave me, sir," implored the high-spirited girl. "The butchers will kill you. I do not fear them."

I looked at her in smiling admiration, and said, "A Magyar does not leave a lady in distress. Permit me to take you away from this crowd."

Thinking perhaps of my danger, she shuddered slightly, and passed her arm within mine, while I prepared to guard her with my life.

We might have escaped without further trouble, but for the action of one of the Nationals, who, angered by the girl's taunts, threw himself across our path.

I requested him to stand back, but he refused insolently, and endeavoured to run me through with his bayonet.

At this several of his comrades came to his assistance, and there was nothing for it but to cut my way out.

Some of the citizens now interfered, crying "Shame" on the soldiers for attacking a girl; and, while our opponents stood undecided, I received a welcome though unexpected reinforcement.

There was a movement in the crowd as of a person pushing his way through; and all at once I beheld my brother, who, crying, "A Botskay to the rescue!" sprang between us and the soldiers.

In either hand he held a loaded pistol, and there was an air of determination in his handsome face which showed he would not hesitate to fire.

I had just told the girl who the newcomer was, when a second man broke through the crowd and joined us.

A giant of a fellow he was, wearing a round hat and furred coat, and carrying in his hand a ponderous club which would have crushed the skull of an ox.

My fair companion cried delightedly, "Franz! Franz!" and the man bowed to her with an air of respectful deference.

His countenance was of a ruddy colour, his hair sandy; he had pleasant blue eyes, a cheerful face, and the massive limbs of an athlete.

"Make way there!" he cried, twirling his tremendous club as if it had been a soldier's cane; "make way there for the Fräulein von Arnstein!"

A portion of the spectators, crying, "Room for the Fräulein von Arnstein!" hustled the soldiers, who, being pressed by Franz and Stephen, sullenly began to give ground.

The movement was very slow, and we had not made much progress when a young man rode into the courtyard, and was received with round after round of cheering.

He was dressed in civilian costume, but wore in addition a broad red sash and a red cockade in his hat.

Who or what he was I did not know, but he was plainly a person of importance amongst the rebels.

At sight of our companion his face