A.D. 1389.

The city of Cassovia, in Lower Hungary, was often the theatre of the exploits of the Germans and the Turks, after the entrance of the latter into Europe. In 1389, Amurath I. conquered in these plains the Hungarians, the Wallachians, the Dalmatians, and the Triballian confederates. After a long and sanguinary battle, the sultan went to survey the dead, and walked over the field of carnage. When he had for some time contemplated these sad trophies of his success—“I am astonished,” said he to his grand vizier, who accompanied him, “to see only young beardless men among these dead, and not one old man.”

“It is that that has given us the victory,” replied the vizier; “youth only listens to the wild fire which animates it, and comes to perish at your feet; old age is more tranquil and prudent.”

“But that which still more surprises me,” said the grand seignor, “is, that I have triumphed. I dreamt last night that an unknown enemy’s hand pierced my side. Nevertheless, thanks to God! thanks to His Prophet! I triumph, and I live!”

He had scarcely pronounced these words when a Triballian soldier, concealed among the dead, sprang up in a rage and plunged his dagger into the sultan’s bowels. The murderer was instantly cut to pieces. The proud sultan saw his dream accomplished: a conqueror in thirty battles. He expired two hours after, from the stroke of this assassin.