They halted near its centre, in front of the marquee occupied by its commander-in-chief. They had arrived just in time to witness a remarkable scene—none more so on military record.
Around them were officers of all ranks, and of every conceivable arm of service. They were standing in groups talking excitedly, now and then an individual crossing hastily from one to the other.
There was all the evidence of warlike preparation, but as if under some mysterious restraint. This could be read in scowling looks and mutinous mutterings.
In the distance was heard the continuous roaring of artillery.
They knew whence it came, and what was causing it. They knew it was from Temesvar, where Nagy Sandor, with his attenuated corps of heroes, was holding the large army of Rüdiger in check.
Yes, their brilliant and beloved comrade; Nagy Sandor, that splendid cavalry officer—before whom even the beau sabreur of France sinks into a second place—was fighting an unequal fight!
It was the thought of this that was causing the dark looks and angry mutterings.
Going up to a group of officers, the Count asked for an explanation. They were in hussar uniforms, and appeared to be more excited than the others.
One of them sprang forward, and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming:
“Roseveldt!”