Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a swifter pace. A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to their view, its blackened walls still burning, while red smoke rose high against the side of the hill.
The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly down the declivity. In less than a quarter of an hour he stood before the ruined walls.
"Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?" he shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of a half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined portico.
The latter fell to his knees, imploring mercy, and declaring that it was not he who killed them.
"Then they are dead!" exclaimed the unhappy youth, as, half-choked by his sobs, he fell forward on his horse's neck.
Meanwhile his companions had ridden up, and immediately sounded the Wallachian, whom, but for Imre's interference, they would have cut down.
"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he continued; "have you not left one alive? Accursed be the sun that rises after such a night!"
The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of fresh-raised mould.
"They are all there!" he said.
Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down.
His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass was least red.