But there he stuck.

On parting with his wife, he had consoled her with the confident assurance that in a year, at most, she would see him return; but the year lengthened into five.

Little Bela no longer sent meaningless scrawls to his father, but wrote short letters in a round, clear hand, and even added verses on his father's birthday.

But not a single furlough could that father obtain to go home and see his dear ones.

Nor did he gain his long-expected promotion to a lieutenancy.