It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.
In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:
“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.
“Turr.”
Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!
“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism?—Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr—the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”
No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.
The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.
The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned—too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon—in one of his prisons!