“You were in the late revolution, perhaps?” asked the major, giving the unhappy outbreak the most respectful name he could use.
“From beginning to end.”
“Oh, tell us about it; we felt much sympathy for you, and longed to have you win,” cried Amy, with such genuine interest and pity in her tone, it was impossible to resist.
Pressing both hands upon his breast, the young man bent low, with a flush of feeling on his pale cheek, and answered eagerly,—
“Ah, you are kind; it is balm to my sore heart to hear words like these. I thank you, and tell you what you will. It is but little that I do, yet I give my life, and die a long death, instead of a quick, brave one with my comrades.”
“You are young to have borne a part in a revolution, sir,” said the major, who pricked up his ears like an old war-horse at the sound of battle.
“My friends and myself left the University at Varsovie, as volunteers; we did our part, and now all lie in their graves but three.”
“You were wounded, it seems?”
“Many times. Exposure, privation, and sorrow will finish what the Russian bullets began. But it is well. I have no wish to see my country enslaved, and I can no longer help her.”
“Let us hope that a happier future waits for you both. Poland loves liberty too well, and has suffered too much for it, to be kept long in captivity.”