Chapter Seventy Four.
A Sham Insurrection.
It was Count Roseveldt who caused the change of programme, of which an explanation is needed.
Shortly before, the Count, forming one of the circle around Kossuth, had slipped quietly away from it—sent forth by Kossuth himself to reconnoitre the ground.
His knowledge of London life—for he had long lived there—caused him to be thus chosen.
The object was to discover how the spies were placed.
The dark night favoured him; and knowing that the spies themselves loved darkness, he sauntered toward a spot where he supposed they might be found.
He had not been long in it, when voices in conversation admonished him that men were near. He saw two of them.
They were approaching the place where he stood.
A garden gate, flanked by a pair of massive piers, formed a niche, dark as the portals of Pluto.
Into this the Count retreated; drawing himself into the smallest dimensions of which his carcase was capable.
A fog, almost palpable to the feel, assisted in screening him.
The two men came along; and, as good luck would have it, stopped nearly in front of the gate.
They were still talking, and continued to talk, loud enough for Roseveldt to hear them.
He did not know who they were; but their conversation soon told him. They were the spies who occupied the house opposite Kossuth—the very individuals he had sallied forth in search of.
The obscurity of the night hindered him from having a view of their faces. He could only make out two figures, indistinctly traceable through the filmy envelope of the fog.
But it mattered not. He had never seen these spies, and was, therefore, unacquainted with their personal appearance. Enough to hear what they were saying.
And he heard sufficient for his purpose—sufficient to keep him silent till they were gone; and then bring him back with an excited air into the circle from which he had late parted.
He burst into the room with a speech that caused astonishment—almost consternation!
“You must not go, Governor?” were the words that proceeded from his lips.
“Why?” asked Kossuth, in surprise, the question echoed by all.
“Mein Gott!” responded the Austrian. “I’ve learnt a strange tale since I left you.”
“What tale?”
“A tale about this rising in Milan. Is there on the earth a man so infamous as to believe it?”
“Explain yourself, Count!”
It was the appeal of all present.
“Have patience, gentlemen! You’ll need it all, after hearing me.”
“Go on!”
“I found there forbans, as we expected. Two of them were in the street, talking. I had concealed myself in the shadow of a gateway; opposite which the scoundrels shortly after came to a stand. They did not see me; but I saw them, and, what’s better, heard them. And what do you suppose I heard? Peste! you won’t one of you believe it!”
“Tell us, and try!”
“That the rising in Milan is a sham—a decoy to entrap the noble Governor here, and others of us into the toils of Austria. It has been got up for no other purpose—so said one of these spies to the other, giving the source whence he had his information.”
“Who?”
“His employer, Lord —.”
Kossuth started. So did his companions; for the information, though strange to them, was not by any means incredible.
“Yes?” continued Roseveldt; “there can be no doubt of what I tell you. The spy who communicated it to his fellow gave facts and dates, which he must have derived from a certain source; and for my own part I was already under the belief that the thing looked like it. I know the strength of those Bohemian regiments. Besides there are the Tyrolese sharpshooters—true body-guards of a tyrant. There could have been no chance for us, whatever Guiseppe Mazzini may think of it. It’s certainly intended for a trap; and we must not fall into it. You will not go, Governor?”
Kossuth looked around the circle, and then more particularly at Maynard.
“Do not consult me,” said the soldier-author. “I am still ready to take you.”
“And you are quite sure you heard this?” asked the ex-Governor, once more turning to Roseveldt.
“Sure, your Excellency. I’ve heard it plain as words could speak. They are yet buzzing in my ears, as if they would burn them?”
“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Kossuth, scrutinising the countenances of those around him. “Are we to believe in an infamy so atrocious?”
Before reply could be made, a ring at the gate-bell interrupted their deliberations.
The door opened, admitting a man who came directly into the room where the revolutionists were assembled.
All knew him as Colonel Ihasz, the friend and adjutant of Kossuth.
Without saying a word, he placed a slip of paper in the ex-Governor’s hands.
All could see it was the transcript of a telegraphic message.
It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.
In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:
“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.
“Turr.”
Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!
“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism?—Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr—the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”
No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.
The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.
The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned—too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon—in one of his prisons!