Even in those dark dreary hours of his exile, when his cause seemed hopeless, and the cold world frowned scornfully upon him, he might be seen surrounded, not by a circle of needy sycophants, but the noblest blood of Hungary, all deferent, all with hats in hand, honouring him as in that hour when the destinies of their beloved country, as their own, were swayed by his will!
The writer of this tale has witnessed such a scene, and regards it as the grandest triumph of mind over matter, of truth over charlatanism, that ever came under his eyes.
The men now assembled around him were all in the secret of Kossuth’s design. They had heard of the insurrectionary rising at Milan. It was the subject of their conversation; and most of them, like Kossuth himself, were making ready to take part in the movement.
Most, too, like him, believed it to be an imprudent step on the part of Mazzini—for it was Mazzini who was citing it. Some of them pronounced it madness!
The night was a dark one, and favourable for taking departure. It needed this; for they knew of the spies that were upon them.
But Maynard had taken precautions to elude the vigilance of these cur dogs of despotism.
He had designed a ruse that could not be otherwise than successful. There were two sets of portmanteaus—one empty, to leave Kossuth’s house in the cab that carried the captain and his servant. This was to draw up at the north entrance of the Burlington Arcade, and remain there until its hirers should return from some errand to the shops of that fashionable promenade.
At the Piccadilly entrance another hansom would be found, holding the real luggage of the travellers, which had been transported the night before to the residence of the soldier-author.
They would be sharp detectives whom this scheme would not outwit.
Cunning as it was, it was never carried out. Thank God it was not!