the corners to enable us to guard against another
surprise. While this was being done, my
attention was directed to a house presenting a
different appearance from any of the rest; large
and high, built of stone, with the doors fast
closed and windows dark, it seemed at first as
if deserted. No answer being given to our
summons, an attempt was made to force the
door, but its massive character defied violence,
and I was on the point of calling off the
men from wasting valuable time upon what,
after all, was probably unimportant, when one
of the serjeants came to tell me that the house
belonged to Gregor Szelády, the syndic of the
town, who was believed to be on his death-bed.
The name being that of the missing sentry,
made me send for the prisoner who had given
the information, and learning further that the
syndic had a son, Michael, in the Austrian
cavalry—although the man did not know in
what regiment—I naturally presumed that the
deserter had taken refuge with his family.

A bag of gunpowder was fastened to the door,
and being exploded by a short train, speedily
blew it inward. Headed by an officer, a strong
party rushed into the house, and began their
search. They had not long to seek. In a back
room on the ground-floor, the whole family
was assembled—the syndic lying dead upon a
bed in the corner, having apparently just
expired; some females and Michael Szelády,
grouped in speechless sorrow around the corpse.
The entrance of our party aroused them from
their stupor; the women threw themselves
before the deserter, and called loudly to him to
make his escape. Michael rushed to the window,
and before our men could push the women
aside, had thrown it open and jumped out. He
was instantly followed, and after a long chase
among the out-buildings in the rear of the
premises, was captured and brought back into
the room.

"Bring him out to the major, men," said the
officer. "His case will soon be settled. Ten
paces and a firing party for the deserter."

"Oh! spare him, my lord!" exclaimed one
of the females, an elderly woman, throwing
herself with clasped hands at the officer's feet.
"Spare the poor boy! He never meant to
desert. It was to ask his dying father's last
blessing that he left his post, and we persuaded
him. Oh, spare the boy!"

The two other women—a couple of handsome
dark-eyed girls—one of whom was Michael's
sister, the other his cousin and betrothed,
followed the mother's example, and joined loudly
in her supplications. Michael himself never
uttered a word.

"A likely story," returned the officer, " but
no matter. The facts are clear enough. Even
if what you say were true, I have no power to
save the man. Out of the way, there! Now,
men—forward—march!"

As he spoke he pushed Michael's cousin, who
was nearest to him, aside, more roughly perhaps
than he needed to have done. She was thrown
off her balance, and falling forward cut her
mouth against his heavy riding-boot. The blood
gushed over her face and stained her light-
coloured dress. The sight roused Michael to
fury. With a vehement curse he swung himself
loose from the men who held him, rushed
upon the officer, tore the sabre from his hand,
and cut him down before the others of the party
had time to interfere. He was disarmed and
pinioned in a moment, however, and brought out
just as the noise of the scuffle and the shrieks of
the women had induced me to order in more
men.

When Szelády appeared outside, followed by
two men supporting the wounded officer, it was
with difficulty I could keep the Lichtensteiners
from rushing upon their former comrade, and
killing him. I should have been justified under the
circumstances, in ordering out a party and shooting
him without delay, but preferring to give the
man a hearing, I assembled the officers for a
drumhead court-martial, and proceeded to try
Michael Szelády for the grave military crimes of
desertion and wounding his superior.

The facts were clear and unmistakable. I
was particularly anxious to learn how it had
happened that Szelády had been placed on
outpost duty, contrary to especial orders; the
inquiry showed how curiously accident
sometimes frustrates our most carefully-laid plans.
Although the sergeants were prohibited from
placing certain men on sentry, it was yet politic
to prevent the men themselves from perceiving
they were objects of suspicion, and they were
therefore placed in regular order upon the rota
with the rest, but it was so contrived that
something always occurred to prevent their taking
their turn of duty. In the present instance,
Szelády stood third on the list, but when the
sentries were posted in the wood, it was found
that No. 1 was missing, having been drowned
in passing the Theiss; No. 2 was disabled by a
kick from the charger of one of his comrades
while riding in the dark among the trees; and
the sergeant called forward No. 3, because he
had literally no better man available. It was
indispensable that a smart soldier should occupy
the post; it was only to be held for a short
time; and the good character of Szelády in the
regiment, with his apparent want of sympathy
with the rebels, added to the reasons prevalent
with the sergeant for infringing the order. It
should be added that no one had the slightest
suspicion of Michael's having relatives in
Szentes.

The case against the prisoner was apparently
unanswerable. He had left his post in presence
of the enemy, occasioning by negligence, if not
by treachery, heavy loss to the regiment; he had
tried to escape when discovered, and had severely
wounded his officer when captured. The
unanimous sentence of the court was, Guilty upon
all the charges; the judgment—Death.

Before passing sentence, I, as president of the
court, addressed the prisoner, and told him we
were willing to hear any explanation he might
have to offer. Szelády had listened to the
proceedings thus far in apparent stupor. It