“Slight service! A sword like yours, and mine! Pardonnes moi! Who knows, cher capitaine, that I may not yet sheathe it in the black heart of a Hapsburg? Let us on to Hungary! It is the same cause as ours.”
“I agree, Roseveldt. I only hesitated, thinking of your danger if taken upon Austrian soil.”
“Let them hang me if they will. But they won’t, if we can only reach Kossuth and his brave companions, Aulich, Perezel, Dembinsky, Nagy, Sandor, and Damjanich. Maynard, I know them all. Once among these, there is no danger of the rope. If we die, it will be sword in hand, and among heroes. Let us on, then, to Kossuth!”
“To Kossuth!” echoed Maynard, and the golden-haired girl was forgotten!
Chapter Twenty Five.
The Fifth Avenue House.
The Newport season was over. Mrs Girdwood had returned to her splendid mansion in the Fifth Avenue, soon to receive a visitor, such as even Fifth Avenue houses do not often entertain—an English lord—Mr Swinton, the nobleman incog., had accepted her invitation to dinner.
It was to be a quiet family affair. Mrs Girdwood could not well have it otherwise, as the circle of her acquaintance fit to meet such a distinguished guest was limited. She had not been long in the Fifth Avenue house—only since a little before the death of her late husband, the deceased storekeeper, who had taken the place at her earnest solicitations.