CHAPTER FORTY-SEVENSpring had come to the western mountains. The snows had melted, the trees were budding into new, green life, and the wild hill flowers were beginning to scatter their bright colours all around the slopes.
As Lajos and I walked hand in hand in the hills around the town of Abrud, I could imagine that the war had never been, that he and I were just two lovers enjoying the peace and incomparable beauty of the mountains — except, of course, that the whole area was ringed by Hungarian soldiers whom we had been able to pass only with Kossuth’s written authority, while in his high mountain fastness, Avram Iancu led his men in the most stubborn resistance of the Transylvanian war.
In those early April days, Transylvania was quiet. Bem was trying to win lasting peace through cle
