The priest spoke in a tongue strange to the little boy, who consequently understood not a word of what was said, but went on with his innocent prattle and laughter.
"Comrades," resumed Diurbanu, addressing the group before him, "all this is wide of the mark. We are in the midst of war, and in war-times the soldier must go whither he is sent."
"Very well, Diurbanu," was the reply, "our soldiers will go whither they are sent. The wind can direct the storm-cloud whither it shall go, but cannot compel it to flash lightning and hurl thunderbolts at command."
"But I know one storm-cloud," rejoined Diurbanu, "that has not withheld its thunderbolts."
"You mean Ciprianu and his men?"
"Yes."
"But Ciprianu and both his sons are now fallen."
"So much the better. He left a daughter who thirsts for revenge."
"She is my sweetheart."