An inner voice seemed to whisper to him that he was fighting his last battle. What if he slew ten opponents in succession? The eleventh would surely get the better of him and he must fall. At this thought, and in the thousandth part of a second, he took leave of all that was dear to him,—of the faithful girl awaiting him in Vienna, of the dear mother praying for him at home, of the slain foe to whom he had given a promise that he could not now fulfil. He saw only too well the fearful odds against him, and prepared to die.
His first adversary he sent headlong down the embankment; the second he drove back wounded into his comrades' arms; the third stopped suddenly as he was rushing to the encounter and pointed with his bayonet to the terrace above them. A dense array of flashing bayonets was seen advancing, and it was at once evident that the side which they should join would win the day. To which side, then, did they belong?
The rising sun answered the question. Shooting its beams from behind a cloud at that moment, it lighted up a banner fluttering in the advancing bayonet-hedge. The flag bore the national colours of Hungary.
"Éljen a haza!" resounded from the third terrace, and the relief party plunged down the scarp like an avalanche. The Austrians, thus overwhelmed by their opponents, were forced to surrender.
Yonder blue-coated figure which had come with this succour like a rescuing angel, just at the moment when aid was most sorely needed, was Ödön Baradlay. The two brothers fell into each other's arms.
"I am very angry with you," cried Richard, as he folded his brother in a warm embrace.
It was six o'clock in the morning. From every turret and pinnacle in Buda the tricolour waved in the breeze, and all the streets of Pest rang with loud huzzas. Turning his back, however, on these scenes of rejoicing, Richard Baradlay, refreshed by a cold bath and a soldier's breakfast, made his way to a neighbouring village, to fulfil the promise so solemnly pledged to poor Otto Palvicz.