Thus the border on the south and west was open to the enemy; and to augment the peril which threatened Hungary, Poland menaced her from the north, from the Carpathians; and Russia at the same time sent out declarations of war.

The countries which had been on friendly terms with one another suddenly became enemies—­Poland against Hungary, Russia against Austria.  Prussia waited.  England hastened to seize an island from Holland.  The patriotic calls of Gentz and Schlegel failed to inspire Germany.  The heroic attempts of Kalt, Doernberg, Schill, and Luetzow fell resultless on the indifference of the people.  Only Turkey remained a faithful ally, and the assurance that the Mussulman would protect Hungary in the rear against an invasion on the part of Moldavia was the only ray of light amid the darkness of those days.

Then came a fresh Job’s messenger.

General Jelachich, with his five thousand men, had laid down his arms in the open field before the enemy.  Now, indeed, it might be said:  “The time is come to be up and doing, Hungary!”

He who had neglected to celebrate his nuptials yesterday would have no time for marriage feasts to-morrow.  Hannibal was at the gates!  The noble militia host was set in motion.  The Veszprime and Pest regiments moved toward the Marczal to join Archduke John’s forces.  The primatial troops joined the main body of the army on the banks of the March, and what there was of soldiery on the farther side of the Danube hastened to concentrate in the neighborhood of the Raab—­only half equipped, muskets without flints, without cartridges, without saddles, with halters in lieu of bridles!

Under such circumstances a fully equipped troop like that commanded by “Count Fertoeszeg,” with sabers, pistols, carbines, and a leader trained in the battle-field, was of some value.

The days which followed the flag presentation were certainly not calculated to whispers of happy love, while the nights were illumined only by the light of watch-fires, and the glare over against the horizon of cannonading.  Count Ludwig had so many demands on his time that he rarely found a few minutes free to visit his dear ones at the manor.  Sometimes he came unexpectedly early in the morning, and sometimes late in the evening.  And always, when he came, like the insurgent who dashes unceremoniously into your door, there was a confusion and a bustling to conceal what he was not yet to see—­Marie’s first attempts at drawing, her piano practices, or the miniature portrait Katharina was painting of her.  Sometimes, too, he came when they were at a meal; and then, despite his protests that he had already dined or supped in camp, he would be compelled to take his seat between the two ladies at the table.  Hardly would he have taken up his fork, however, when a messenger would arrive in great haste to summon him for something or other—­some question he alone could decide; then all attempts to detain him would prove futile.