I had purposely avoided Von Arnstein, who was to the right of me; but, like a true leader, he soon scented where the danger was greatest, and cut a way to that part of his stronghold where the red, white, and green proudly waved.
Twice we went back to the very edge of the barrier, and once the colours were snatched from our grasp by a grizzled veteran, who laughed defiantly as a Magyar cut him down.
To right and left of us the flames of the burning buildings threw a lurid glare on the scene, and some one excitedly shouted that the barricade was on fire.
We heard the shout, but it had no effect on the fighting. It did not prevent a blow being struck, nor cause the foot of Magyar or Austrian to move an inch backward.
We had gripped one another, as it were, by the throat, and hung there like bulldogs.
When I look back at that terrible fight, I find the picture for the most part blurred and indistinct; but there is just one tiny part of it whose colour is vivid and its drawing bold.
It will always be so, I suppose, though I do not care to see it.
Over and over again I had gone out of my way to avoid the gallant leader, had plunged with foolhardy recklessness into the greatest dangers, and he had followed my steps with strange persistence.
I do not think he had a moment's suspicion who I was until at last the chances of the fight brought us face to face.
That is the one corner of the picture where the colours have not faded. All around is a blur; but two figures stand out lifelike.