In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that there were only eleven bodies in the grave.
"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of hope passing over his pale features; "which is it?—speak! Is there not a young girl with golden locks among them?"
"I know not," stammered his comrade, in great embarrassment.
"You do not know?—go and look again." His friend hesitated.
"Let me go—I must know," said Imre impatiently, as the young man endeavored to detain him.
"O stay, Imre, you cannot look on them; they are all headless!"
"My God!" exclaimed the young man, covering his face with both hands, and, bursting into tears he threw himself down with his face upon the earth.
His comrades questioned the Wallachian closely as to what he knew about the young girl. First he returned no answer, pretending to be drunk and not to understand:
But on their promising to spare his life, on the sole condition that he would speak the truth, he confessed that she had been carried away to the mountains, where the band were to cast lots for her.
"I must go!" said Imre, starting as if in a trance.