"Oh! I shall rejoice in it! I shall no longer be a cripple--no longer unhappy; I shall die like a hero! and when the flames are bursting around me, I shall sing with the prophet, 'Cry out, ye gates, cry out, O city, for the terrible day of the Lord is come!'"
And the cripple trembled violently with agitation, and his withered arm was raised to heaven.
Judith gazed at him in silence, as he still knelt, with his hands and eyes upraised, as if inspired.
"Come with me!" she exclaimed, after a few moments' pause, raising him from the ground.
David took up his crutches and followed her, with such joyful alacrity that his feet scarcely seemed to touch the earth; he appeared already to possess wings instead of crutches.
As they passed the chamber of the dead, he approached his grandfather's coffin, and, kissing the cold face and hands, murmured, with an expression of unwonted joy, "We shall meet soon!"
The women looked at him with surprise; they had never seen him smile thus before, and thought that grief had estranged his mind. Judith left the room, telling them she would soon return, and herself conducted the cripple to the tower, while he followed with a vigour he had hitherto never displayed;--the spirit seemed actually bearing up the fragile body.
When they reached the top, Judith kissed the cripple's brow, and pressed his hand in silence.
David locked the door after her, and threw the key out of the window along with his crutches.
"I shall want them no more," he cried, as Judith passed below the tower. "I wish to be certain that I shall not fail in the hour of temptation."
He then placed himself at the window, and looked out towards the mountains.
Judith returned to the house of mourning, and found the women still weeping round the bier.
She motioned to them to dry their tears--her majestic form, calm features, and commanding eye, seemed formed to be obeyed. The women were silent, and Judith addressed them in a clear, steady voice:
"Sisters!--widows and orphans of Kezdi-Vasarhely!--Heaven has visited us with great and severe trials; we have outlived all that was good--all that we loved on earth; there is not a house in which some beloved one was not expected who will never now return! However long we may live, no happiness awaits us in this world! we may grow old and gray in our deserted homes, but the best part of our lives lies beneath the sod; and this is not the heaviest stroke which awaits us. Instead of the beloved, those who have shed their heart's-blood will come--we shall see them take possession of the places which our beloved ones have left; instead of the familiar voices, we shall hear the harsh tones, and meet the unfeeling gaze of strangers--of our bitter enemies! Shall we await that time? Death gives back all that life has taken away--and death can take nothing but life! If I did not know that I am among Szekely women, I would take leave of you, and say, I go alone to die! but I know you all--where I am you will be also; you will act as I do, and be worthy of your dead. Go home to your houses, conceal everything you value; make fires in every stove, and boil water and oil in every vessel. At the first sound of the bell, let every one of you assemble here; we will then carry out the dead to the gate of the town, and dig his grave across the road before it, and with this moat the town shall be closed--none shall pass from within alive! Haste! put your houses in order, and return here at the first sound of the bell!"