In truth, my heart was exceedingly sad both for the dying man and for his dear ones in Vienna, who would await his return in vain.
The manner of his death also sorely grieved me. Certainly my hand had not struck him down, but Sándor had slain him to save my life.
It was foolish, perhaps, to dwell on the thought, but I could not thrust it out. I felt that but for me the baron would still have been at the head of his regiment.
The house was very still, and even the noises from the captured town failed to reach me.
The fires in the street had been extinguished, but now the glowing crimson of the setting sun flooded the room, and as its light fell athwart the bed the dying man moved restlessly.
"Let it burn!" he muttered. "All the better for us. Ready? Mind your aim! Fire!"
His eyes were wide open, gazing with intense keenness across the room.
"Ach!" he continued. "They have it now! Who? The colonel? That will stop them! Sorry--knew him--Vienna. What? Again? Steady now! Here they come!"
His brow was wet with perspiration, and, as I bent over to wipe it off, the dying glory of the sun shone full into my face.
At this the baron's excitement increased, and he muttered to himself at a great rate, while I, dipping a rag in water, bathed his forehead continually.