"How singular!" exclaimed one of the party; "we are thirteen at table to-day."
"One of us will surely die," said the old lady; and there was a mournful conviction in the faint trembling tones.
"O no, grandmother! we are only twelve and a half," exclaimed the young mother, taking the little one on her knee. "This little fellow only counts half on the railroad."
All the party laughed at this remark; even the little cripple's pale countenance relaxed into a sickly smile.
"Ay, ay," continued the old lady, "the trees are now putting forth their verdure; but at the fall of the leaf, who knows if all, or any of us, may still be sitting here?"
Several months had passed since this slight incident.
In one of the apartments of the castle, the eldest Bardy and his son were engaged in earnest conversation.
The father paced hastily up and down the apartment, now and then stopping short to address his son, who stood in the embrasure of one of the windows. The latter wore the dress of the Matyas Hussars[18]—a gray dolmany, with crimson cord; he held a crimson csako, with a tricoloured cockade in his hand.