My loved brother stood there a few moments, his face white, save where the red blood trickled, his eyes bright and burning, his bearing proud and defiant.
But, alas! I saw that he held the staff with effort, and, climbing up, was just in time to catch his swaying body as it fell.
"Dear old George!" he murmured, "I meant to do it, and succeeded."
Then his eyes closed, his head sank, and I laid him gently on the ground in the shadow of the flag he had borne to victory.
The noise of the conflict ceased. The Croats, yielding their arms, were granted quarter, and marched off as prisoners. Buda was ours!
I heard later how fearful the struggle had been. Of the twenty-five guns near the breach but one remained of service, and near the spot where we forced an entrance lay a group of no less than thirty-six Austrian officers.
The foremost was Hentzi himself, who, in the very front of the fight, had gained imperishable renown, both for himself and the flag he had so stubbornly defended.
Many hard words had been said of him when, lying out on the hillside, we had watched our beautiful Pesth half ruined by his artillery; but he had fought and died like a brave soldier and loyal subject of his emperor.
These things were far enough from my mind on the morning of the storming; in fact, I forgot all else in tending my wounded brother.
Several men came and looked at him sorrowfully. Rakoczy was one, I know; and I believe, but am not sure, that one was Count Beula.