"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he continued; "have you not left one alive? Accursed be the sun that rises after such a night!"
The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of freshly-raised mould. "They are all there!" he said.
Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down.
His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass was least red.
They then began to dig twelve graves with their swords.
Imre watched them in silence. He seemed unconscious what they were about.
When they had finished the graves they proceeded to open the large pit, but the sight was too horrible, and they carried Imre away by force. He could not have looked on what was there and still retained his senses.
In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that there were only eleven bodies in the grave.
"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of hope passing over his pale features; "which is it?—speak! Is there not a young girl with golden locks among them?"
"I know not," stammered his comrade, in great embarrassment.