Loud and clear the martial notes rang out. They spoke to our hearts; they called us to battle, to death if need be, in defence of our fatherland.
We hung upon them breathlessly. Our hands unconsciously gripped the hilts of our swords. The hot blood tore through our veins. We heard nothing, were conscious of nothing, but the glorious Magyar hymn whose notes throbbed in every fibre of our bodies.
The first verse was finished, and as Rakoczy began the second every voice joined in. The restrained excitement had burst its bonds like the Danube in flood. It could no longer be held back; it was bound to find a vent, and it found it in song.
I know little of music, but grander music was never heard than that in the banqueting-hall of Count Szondi when the year 1849 was born.
As the last notes died away, the cheering was frantically renewed. Women sobbed openly, and there were few men iron-nerved enough to hide their emotion.
Then, with a ringing "Elijen Szondi!" in honour of our host, we broke up and passed singly or in groups into the street.
The night was dark and dreary, snow lay thick on the ground, a storm of frozen sleet hurled itself into our faces, and the bitter cold made us shiver beneath our fur-lined mantles.
"A wonderful contrast this," I exclaimed, setting off with "The Joyous" and several other officers for the barracks.
"As great as that between Hungary united and Hungary divided against itself," replied one of them.
"Or as that between Batthiany and Kossuth," suggested Rakoczy, after which we lapsed into silence.