"I will hunt up the boy and take him under my care," promised the other.
"Among my papers," continued the other, "you will find a formal authorisation, entitling the child to bear my name. Yet he is never to know who I was. Tell him his father was a poor soldier, and have him learn an honest trade, Richard."
"You may rely on me, comrade Otto; I promise you to take care of the boy as if he were my own brother's child."
A smile of satisfaction and relief lighted up the dying man's face.
"And comrade," he added, "this secret that I am confiding to you is a woman's secret. Promise me, on your honour, that you will never betray that woman. Not even to my son are you to tell the mother's name. She is not a good woman, but let her shame be buried in my grave."
Richard gave his promise in a voice that testified how deeply he was moved. The pale face before him grew yet paler, and ere many minutes had passed the eyes that looked into his became glazed and fixed; the wounded soldier had ceased to breathe.
CHAPTER XXI.
SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT.
The poplar trees on Körös Island are clothing themselves with green, while yellow and blue flowers dot the turf. The whole island is a veritable little paradise. It forms the summer residence of a family of wealth and taste. On the broad veranda, which is shaded from the morning sun by a damask awning, stands a cradle hung with dainty white curtains; and in the cradle sleeps a little baby. In a willow chair at the foot of the cradle sits the mother, in a white, lace-trimmed wrapper, her hair falling in natural curls over her shoulders and bosom. A young man sits before an easel opposite the lady, and paints her miniature, while at the other end of the veranda a three-year-old boy is engaged in coaxing a big Newfoundland dog to serve as pony to his little master.
This young mother and these children are Ödön Baradlay's wife and children, and the young man is his brother Jenő. Without Jenő to bear her company, the young wife might lose her reason, thinking of her absent husband, imagining his perils, and waiting weeks for any news from him. Jenő knows how to dispel her fears: for every anxiety he has an antidote, and when all else fails he rides to the next town and brings back cheering tidings—in which, alas, there may be but few words of truth.