At this charge Jenő's face flushed with anger. "That is false!" he cried. "That is a shameless slander! No Baradlay would commit a crime!"
This outburst sealed his fate by removing any lingering doubt as to his identity. Such a passionate denial could have come only from him whom the charge actually concerned, that is, from Ödön Baradlay.
"What have you to say in your defence?" he was asked in closing.
"Our defence is in our deeds," was the proud rejoinder. "Posterity will judge us."
The jury was then sworn in the presence of the accused, and the latter was led into a side room to wait until summoned to hear the verdict and receive his sentence. In a quarter of an hour he was led back again. Omitting the charge which he had denied, he was found guilty on all the other counts, and they were amply sufficient to condemn him to death. He bowed as if well satisfied with his sentence. An early hour the next morning was assigned for his execution. He heaved a sigh. His purpose was accomplished. He had but one favour to ask,—the privilege of writing to his wife, his mother, and his brother, before he died. His request was granted, and he thanked the court with a smile so serene and an eye so clear that more than one heart was touched with compassion.
His judges were not to blame that the Eumenides thirsted for blood.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A POSTHUMOUS MESSAGE.
In the rainy autumn days the Baradlay family removed from Körös Island to Nemesdomb. The latter was no longer a hospital: the patients had been elsewhere provided for, and all traces of war and bloodshed had disappeared.
One evening, when the little family was gathered about the lamp, the door opened and a guest entered unannounced. It was a guest not wont to stand on ceremony, a guest whose right it was to enter any house at any time, whether its inmates were at table, at prayers, or whatever they might be doing. His uniform—that of the imperial police—was his passport. He raised his hand to his cap in military salute.