One is that of a youth with torn uniform, his smoke-begrimed features working with excitement, his sword held in the most awkward manner either for attack or defence.
The other is the figure of an old man, his breast covered with medals and decorations, of commanding carriage, and with a proud look in his keen blue eyes.
Close by, my fancy paints the face of a beautiful girl gazing mournfully at the youth and the old man--the Magyar and the Austrian.
I know it is not really there, yet I see it as plainly as I did on that terrible day in the years gone by.
The tide had at last turned in our favour; the Austrians were yielding slowly, when their leader made his final effort. Cheered by his voice, they rallied once more, and then it was we met.
The look which flashed from his eyes to mine occupied the merest fraction of a second, yet I shall never forget it.
I read there astonishment and sorrow, then a certain hardness, as if the brave old warrior were calling duty to his aid.
With him the struggle ended, and the soldier, not the friend, gained the victory.
I saw his determination quite plainly, and yet could not bring myself to parry the blow. Who could tell what might happen if once our swords crossed?
Theresa was looking into my eyes, and, as I lowered my weapon, she smiled upon me approvingly and vanished.