"Not for myself do I ask anything," she went on; "our fate will soon overtake us, and if it lingered we should, I assure you, hasten to meet it. Your brother Richard is unmarried and so leaves no family; but Ödön has a wife and two children,—two dear, pretty children, the younger only a month old. You are sure to be richly rewarded for your great services. Your brothers' property will be confiscated and handed over to you."
Jenő started up in horrified protest.
"And when you are a rich and powerful man," his mother continued, "in possession of all that we now hold in common, and when you are crowned with honours and happiness, then, my son, remember this hour and your mother's petition: let your brother's children never suffer want."
"Mother!" cried Jenő, beside himself with grief and pain. Hastening to his desk, he drew forth his certificate of appointment from one of its drawers, tore it into a hundred pieces, and then sank weeping on his mother's breast. "Mother, I am not going to Russia."
The mother's joy at these words was too great for utterance. She clasped her youngest, her dearest son in a warm embrace. "And you will come with me, my boy?" she asked.
"Yes, I will go with you."
"I shall not let you follow your brothers to the battle-field. You must stay at home and be our comforter; your life must be spared. I wish you to lead a happy life. May I not hope for many years of happiness for you?"
Jenő sighed deeply, his thoughts turning to what was now a thing of the past,—his bright dream of happiness. He kissed his mother, but left her question unanswered.
"Let us hurry away from here at once," said she, rising from the sofa.
Then for the first time Jenő remembered the passport. "This passport," said he, producing it, "was all in readiness for you had you come yesterday; and you can still make use of it."