And forward he sprang into the river, the two hussars by his side; the cloven waters plashing in pearls around their heads.
Forward, forward to the blue mountains!
In lengthening column, the hussars followed across the stream—the horses bravely breasting the flood, the bold riders singing their wild Magyar ditty. But dark and gloomy was their leader's brow, for each step led him farther from happiness and his bride.
In the midst of the troop rode George of St Thomas, in his hand the banner of Hungary. His cheek glowed, his eye flashed: each step brought him nearer to revenge.
The troubled stream is once more stilled, the fir-wood receives the fugitives, their horses' tramp dies away in the darkness. Here and there, from the distant mountains, the herdsman's horn resounds; on their flanks the shepherd's fire gleams like a blood-red star.
Forward, forward!
Back to thy lair, bloodthirsty monster, back and sleep!
Let the forest-grass grow over the ensanguined plain.
How much is destroyed, how much has passed away.