Then, before dawn, he himself was surprised by a fresh force of Turks. He was shot, standing by his friend's grave... in which he too eventually was buried. Their monument is there to-day, with the story on it, beginning: "To The Unforgettable Memory of Z... Lorand, and Z... Egon", after the customary Magyar name-inversion.
The public was not admitted to this old bit of the Szent-Istvánhely suburbs. But persons known to the caretakers were welcome. Lieutenant Imre and I had been out there once before, with the more freedom because a certain family-connection existed between the Z—s and the N—s. So was it that about a week after the little incident closing the preceding portion of this narrative, we planned to go out to Z... for the end of the afternoon. A sub-urban electric tramway passed near the gates.
For two days, I had been superstitiously.... absurdly... irresistibly oppressed with the idea that some disagreeable thing was coming iny way. We all have such fits; sometimes justifiably, if often, thank Heaven! proving them
