“You are tired,” said Julius, as the music suddenly ceased.

“Rather so,” she replied.

He led her, faint, pale, and trembling, to a seat.  Some colour returned to her cheek as she sat down; and, with an open and cheerful air, she put out her hand to him, and said, “Farewell, Captain Alvinzi; all honour, and all happiness go with you.”

As he took her hand, he observed, for the first time, that pale-changing of the cheek which is so eloquent of love; and, looking into her eyes, he felt his heart sink with a sweeter emotion than he had ever known before.

Thus silently they parted; and Julius went out from her presence sad, but happy.  “Il est si doux aimer, et d’etre aime.”  He felt that he was beloved.  In half an hour, the noble gateway at Salzburgh, cut through the solid rock, rang to the loud echo of trampling hoofs; and Julius was riding under it with an advanced guard, and a few troop-sergeants, to prepare the quarters of the regiment, then mustering for their march.

In all the camps of Europe, a finer youth, or a nobler spirit, could no where have been found than Julius Alvinzi.  Five years of military service—­three of which had been spent in the toils, the watchings, and the combats of warfare—­had accomplished and perfected him in all points, as the zealous and enterprising leader of a squadron.  Glory was his idol—­war his passion.  His day-dreams over-leaped the long interval of years which, of necessity, separated him from high command; and, as he built up the castle of his future fame, many were the victories which he won “in the name of God, and the Kaiser!” With this, the gallant war-cry of Austria, he had already, in some few charges, led on his bold and bitter Hungarians; and two or three dashing affairs of outposts—­a, daring and important reconnoissance, most skilfully conducted—­and the surprise and capture of a French picquet—­had already given him an established name for intelligence and enterprise.  There was a manliness about him superior to low, sensual enjoyment; and the imagery and language of vulgar voluptuousness found no cell in a well-stored, well-principled, and masculine mind, to receive or retain them.  He was a happy, handsome, hardy soldier; knowing his duly, loving it, and always performing it with honour.  Such was the man whom Beatrice Adony, with a quick perception of true nobility of character, had silently observed during the stay of the Hungarians at Salzburgh, and her love for him was a secret—­

  The only jewel of her speechless thoughts.

It was thus in the full lustihood of life, and in all the bloom of high hope and promise, that in one of those severe actions, which took place in the summer of 1796 on the plains of Mantua, Julius Alvinzi led his brave squadron into battle.  The brigade to which he belonged was brought forward by the veteran Wurmser at a very anxious moment, and, by their devoted courage, saved a column of Austrian infantry from being enveloped and cut off by the French.  The Hungarians charged with such vigour and success, that they not only overthrew the body of horse opposed to them, but they possessed themselves of a battery of field-pieces which endeavoured to cover their retreat, and which continued to vomit forth grape with a deadly fury till the horses’ heads of the leading squadron, under Alvinzi, reached the very muzzles of the cannon.