He shut himself up obstinately in his isolation, like Marsa in her solitude; and he did not consider himself ridiculously absurd or foolishly romantic, when he remembered that his countrymen, the Hungarians, were the only people, perhaps, who, in the abasement of all Europe before the brutality of triumph and omnipotent pessimism, had preserved their traditions of idealism, chivalry, and faith in the old honor; the Hungarian nationality was also the only one which had conquered its conquerors by its virtues, its persistence in its hopes, its courage, its contempt of all baseness, its extraordinary heroism, and had finally imposed its law upon Austria, bearing away the old empire as on the croup of its horse toward the vast plains of liberty.  The ideal would, therefore, have its moments of victory:  an entire people proved it in history.

“Let this world boast,” said Andras, “of the delights of its villainy, and grovel in all that is low and base.  Life is not worth living unless the air one breathes is pure and free!  Man is not the brother of swine!”

And these same ideas, this same faith, this same dreamy nature and longing for all that is generous and brave, he suddenly found again in the heart of Marsa.  She represented to him a new and happy existence.  Yes, he thought, she would render him happy; she would understand him, aid him, surround him with the fondest love that man could desire.  And she, also, thinking of him, felt herself capable of any sacrifice.  Who could tell?  Perhaps the day would come when it would be necessary to fight again; then she would follow him, and interpose her breast between him and the balls.  What happiness to die in saving him!  But, no, no!  To live loving him, making him happy, was her duty now; and was it necessary to renounce this delight because hated kisses had once soiled her lips?  No, she could not!  And yet—­and yet, strict honor whispered to Marsa, that she should say No to the Prince; she had no right to his love.

But, if she should reject Andras, he would die, Varhely had said it.  She would then slay two beings, Andras and herself, with a single word.  She!  She did not count!  But he!  And yet she must speak.  But why speak?  Was it really true that she had ever loved another?  Who was it?  The one whom she worshipped with all her heart, with all the fibres of her being, was Andras!  Oh, to be free to love him!  Marsa’s sole hope and thought were now to win, some day, forgiveness for having said nothing by the most absolute devotion that man had ever encountered.  Thinking continually these same thoughts, always putting off taking a decision till the morrow, fearing to break both his heart and hers, the Tzigana let the time slip by until the day came when the fete in celebration of her betrothal was to take place.  And on that very day Michel Menko appeared before her, not abashed, but threatening.  Her dream of happiness ended in this reality—­Menko saying:  “You have been mine; you shall be mine again, or you are lost!”