The Trail of the White Knight

I

"Say again you love me," she pleaded.

"Silly one! Have I not already told you more times than I can count?" he chided.

She pouted slightly. "Yes, dear one; but a woman can never hear too often the words which mean so much to her."

"A woman!" The man laughed softly. "You are not a woman, Zita. Why, you have yet to see your nineteenth birthday. You are still nothing but a child—yet—I love you, Zita."

"Are you then a grandfather, big Mr Englishman?" she mocked.

"No, but it is more than a month ago now since I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday."

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they walked along the shady paths of Margaret Island. Romance infused the soft, warm air of the July night with its subtle infection; the surroundings in which these two walked were reminiscent of Paradise.

On their right the darkness of the night was emphasized by the many beautiful trees, the shadows of which, cast by the silvery light of the moon above, were delicately traced upon the soft sward beneath, and the simple majesty of the woods was disturbed only by the bright lights of an electric tramcar, as it flashed past, raucously, clangingly making its way from one end of the island to the other.

On their left the scene was still more beautiful, for past them swiftly flowed the broad Danube, silently racing toward its outlet in the Black Sea, carrying on its bosom the broad-bottomed boats of commerce.

Just now these barges seemed like quaint, black shadows, moving with an eerie silence. There were, however, other craft, steamboats, which shimmered and twinkled, their reflected lights dancing merrily up and down upon the water. These were the vessels which conveyed the people across from either end of Margaret Island.

On the bank opposite was the old town of Ofen, better known as Buda. From where the couple stood, quiet in the thoughts which gripped them, they could see the lights of the royal palace scintillating in the darkness.

From the upper end of the island they could hear faintly the plashing of superfluous water as, from the bath-house, it falls in a pretty cascade into the pond beneath.

Geoffrey Templeton wondered if there could possibly be any other place in the world so wonderful as this, while Zita looked up at his strong profile, thrown into relief by the ethereal light above, and smiled slightly to herself, for she too was idealizing, contemplating whether there could be another man in this world so splendid as he.

She looked at the moon, and even as she gazed upward a small black cloud passed beneath, quite obscuring its silvery sheen. Coincidently she remembered that on the morrow Geoffrey was to return to England, his holiday at an end.

"Oh, Geoffrey, dear heart," she murmured softly, "must you indeed depart to-morrow for your cold, cheerless England?"

He turned toward her, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, seized her dainty hands within his and pressed them passionately.

"I wish I could say otherwise," he muttered hoarsely, "for I would ask nothing better than to stop here with you always; but I have no option. We must part, darling, for six months. It shall not be longer, I swear it. After all," he continued, "six months is but a short time, and then, when I return, we can be married. Cheer up, little one, only twenty-four weeks, and then.... Smile, Zita, for this night is our last one together, and it hurts me to see you sad."

Gently releasing her fingers, and catching her chin with his right hand, he lifted her face gently so that they gazed into one another's eyes. Pluckily she attempted to smile, but instead a tiny tear, escaping, rolled down her cheek, and seeing this Geoffrey drew nearer to her, kissing it away before it found time to drop.

Quickly the hours sped by while they talked of the past.... Once again he made her laugh as he reminded her of the time when he could talk no Hungarian, when she, taking pity on his plight, instructed him, until now he was proficient in the Magyar language.

They spoke of the future, the far-off time when he should return to Budapest and claim her for his own, and together they planned the time-to-be, discussed how long they would spend in England with his people, and how long in Budapest with hers.

From not far away there was a discreet cough from Zita's chaperon, and Geoffrey looked, dismayed, at his watch.

"Come, darling, this must be good night ... and au revoir."

Quickly the ferry conveyed them from the island back to Buda again, where he hired a fiacre.

Back at her home, the wise and kindly chaperon discreetly disappeared; once again Geoffrey clasped his future wife in his arms, and, kissing the brimming tears away, made his adieux.

"In six months I shall return," were his last words, and the next moment he was gone.

Early the next morning Geoffrey left for Paris; before him England, behind him Budapest, the city of smiles, gaiety, and happiness.

"In six months I shall return."

The words echoed in his ears, and the hum of the wheels of the wagon-lit repeated after him: "Six months, six months!"

Once he looked out of the window, but he saw only an ominous haze away in the east, heavy banks of thunder-laden clouds, obscuring his last view of Budapest.

Even as the looming storm rolled up from the east that morning so did other clouds spring up, this time political, born of a tiny puff of blue smoke which was slowly emitted from the barrel of a revolver, held in the hands of a fanatic; and less than a month later followed the whirlwind, and the upheaval of Europe. Geoffrey's dream was past, buried in the heart of the bloody battlefield.

II

The War was over! Peace had come again to Germany, France, England, Italy, and the United States. Over these countries there was once more contentment, the happiness of a quickly reviving industry. The echoing boom of guns was no longer heard, air-raids were already but a memory, telegraph boys ceased to be of heartrending significance.

Already war-scarred warriors were being demobilized; ex-soldiers were returning to more peaceful employment; food, diverted from its destination—headquarters—was becoming plentiful, of a better quality.

War was over! Now only time was needed, and these countries would be their old selves again. In Paris the statesmen were collecting to discuss peace terms and reparations.

This was the position in March 1919 of the victors, and even of some of the vanquished. Germany, beaten and cowed, was now putting its house in order. Turkey, philosophically shrugging its shoulders, was merely resuming life where it had been left off.

So busy were the victors celebrating victory, so engaged were the vanquished making the best of their defeat, that the world overlooked one country where peace had failed to find a harbour, where post-War conditions were worse than during that awful period of war itself, the country in which human jackals and vultures were already gathered to disrupt and dissect an already breaking empire—Hungary.

Upon Hungary Lenin, from the fastnesses of Moscow, had already cast his eyes, and so he sent out his lieutenants, schooled in fiendish cruelty, inculcated with inhuman conceptions of government.

To Hungary came Bela Kun, the chief apostle of Lenin and Trotsky, where, in an incredibly short time, he enrolled under his banner of Communism criminals of all types, and elected leaders: Bohm, Pogany, Agoston, Harcoq, and Szamuelly.

"Down with the bourgeoisie, long live the proletariat!" became the cry, and to the echo of these hysterical screams poor Hungary commenced the worst year throughout the pages of its history, during which it was to live under a reign of terror worse even than the French Revolution.

To Budapest, a seething hotbed of Communism, came Geoffrey Templeton in search of the girl of whom he had dreamed during the long years of war, the woman he had never forgotten.

Arriving at the East station, he was amazed by the dark, dismal gloominess of the once glorious terminus. Where before had wandered well-dressed travellers, rubbing shoulders with gaily uniformed officers of the Hungarian army, now slouched slovenly men and starving women, while deeper in the gloom lurked ominous shadows.

On all sides suspicious glances were levelled at him from wolf-like faces. Here and there he espied men in leather uniforms, their caps blazoning Red cockades, their belts an armoury in themselves. They were the dreaded Lenin Boys, a troop of murderers and criminals, under the command of Josef Cserni, ex-sailor and late prisoner of war in Russia.

These Lenin Boys were guaranteed immunity from all punishment for murder or any other crime so long as their activities were confined to the hated bourgeoisie and did not involve the death of notable Bolsheviks.

Their very appearance was terrifying, for they were chosen for their height and fiery appearance. As Geoffrey walked toward the entrance one of these Boys pushed against him.

"Bourgeois," he hiccuped, and spat on the ground.

With blazing eyes Geoffrey turned round, and the soldier slunk away. There was a hoarse laugh from one of the onlookers, but otherwise no one took any notice of this incident.

It was in vain that Geoffrey searched for a vehicle to convey him to an hotel. No public conveyances of any kind were to be seen, only here and there a charging motor-car, occupied, so far as he could see, by groups of soldiers, or Communists, distinguishable by their criminal countenances, their scarlet decorations.

He realized that to get anywhere he would have to walk, and so, picking up his bag, he began to traverse the darkened streets. Here and there street-lights reflected upon advertisement hoardings, blazing with Red posters, huge placards printed in red and black, portraying immense and ghastly figures.

Geoffrey heard a sound of pattering footsteps behind him. Out of the dim shadows came the running figure of a man, breathing hoarsely. He passed in a flash, and then the Englishman heard other following steps, and hoarse shouting.

"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!" some one cried, then suddenly there roared the sound of a shot, and a street-light just ahead flicked out as its encasing glass tinkled to the ground.

"Death to the bourgeois! Death!"

Geoffrey halted suddenly, startled. What had happened? Was this Hungary, the Budapest he knew so well? From a distance he heard more shouts, further shots, and then silence once again.

"Good Gad!" he muttered to himself. "I thought this was peace."

He had never dreamed, never imagined, when he had set out for Budapest to go to his beloved, that he was to meet with this sort of thing. An icy chill seemed to settle round his heart. What of Zita?

For the first time since his demobilization his spirits fell to zero. For two weeks now he had been living in a Paradise of his own, eagerly anticipating the moment when he should clasp the girl he loved—woman, she would be now—once more in his arms.

He had had no reason to believe that this—this ghastly business was taking place in Budapest. "Death to the bourgeoisie!" What did it mean? Revolution! No, not even that, but worse.

With a white, set face he picked up his bag once more and commenced to walk. Now and again the silence was disturbed by hurrying motor-cars, shouts, or sometimes shots. The streets were practically empty, and at this Geoffrey did not wonder any longer.

Later, he arrived at the Continental Hotel, a memory of its palatial splendour still existing in his mind, but now it resembled nothing more than a filthy building, its exterior no cleaner than its interior, which was littered with dirt, and smelled evilly.

There were still guests—unkempt, unwashed men and women who lounged about, spitting and smoking. He stared with amazement at the scene before him, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes.

He was accosted presently by a clerk, who slouched up to him.

"What do you want?" the man growled.

Geoffrey eyed him silently. "A room," he said presently, and the clerk, under the Englishman's fixed glance, stirred uneasily.

"Supposing we have not got one?" he said.

"Supposing you look," replied Geoffrey quietly.

The clerk gave ground. Entering his counter he banged a bell, and a pinczer approached.

"Take this man up to room 61," he ordered.

Without a word the waiter picked up Geoffrey's bag and led the way, working the lift himself.

Room 61 was no cleaner than the vestibule. As the electric light threw its white glare over the room Geoffrey saw dozens of blackbeetles swarming into hidden crannies.

The waiter hesitated. Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Come inside and shut the door," he ordered, then presently, when the other had complied, and received a tip which made his eyes glisten, asked: "Now, what does all this mean? The War——"

"The War!" The man laughed bitterly. "Not the War, sir, but revolution, Communism, Bolshevism." His face became suspicious, and his lips closed tightly. "Why do you ask me? You know as well as I do."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I do not. I have only just arrived from England."

The waiter looked up eagerly. "You are English, sir?"

Geoffrey nodded.

"I was frightened. There are spies, detectives, and agents provocateurs everywhere."

"Spies, detectives—I don't understand!"

"No, sir, you wouldn't. You have won the War, and we have lost. It makes all the difference. Hungary is now a republic—worse, in fact, for we have a Soviet Government."

"Good God!" Geoffrey was astounded, but recollections of Zita made him urge the older man on with his story. "Tell me more," he suggested.

"It all began with Count Michael Karolyi. He formed a republic, with himself at the helm. Not for long, sir. The Communists took the lead under Bela Kun, two days ago, and now we have the Commune, another word for murder and pillage.

"I have heard it said that Szamuelly wants a three days' loot, three days during which the comrades, the Communists, can steal and sack to their hearts' content. It may happen at any minute. Sir, I cannot tell you how bad it is!" Two tears forced themselves out of the man's eyes and slowly rolled down his puckered cheeks.

"You see," he continued presently, "myself, I am too old for these ideas. You grand folks, you treat the likes of us well. I used to make good money before the War came and spoilt it all."

"But what of the rich people, I mean the people who used to stay here? What of them?"

The waiter shook his head slowly. "All penniless, sir, penniless. Their money confiscated, their property stolen." He dropped his voice. "Many of them are ... dead, murdered."

Geoffrey seemed only to hear his voice from a distance as the man continued. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his head was reeling. What of Zita? What of her? Supposing that she were ... dead!

"Oh, God!" he moaned, and with an imperious motion he stopped the waiter, and strode up and down. Presently he turned again to the other. "Tell me," he asked anxiously, "has anything happened to the people in the Erzebet-Korut?"

It was in the Erzebet-Korut that Zita lived with her father and mother, the Count and Countess Rakoczy.

The man scratched his head. "I have heard tell of—and yet—no, sir, I am not sure."

Geoffrey could have shaken him by the shoulders. "Go, now!" he cried, and the old man passed out.

It was too late that night to do anything. Geoffrey undressed and threw himself into bed, yet scarcely slept. He tossed and turned from side to side, but all the time he could picture only Zita, who appeared to be vaguely holding out her arms to him, just as she had done when he had left her, over four years ago.

Sick with apprehension, he heard the hours gradually strike one after another, and never was dawn more welcome. He hastily dressed.

Not waiting for breakfast, he hurried to the Erzebet-Korut, and was relieved to find that, if outside appearances could be taken as any criterion, nothing had happened to the Rakoczy residence, since, except for its dirty condition, it seemed untouched.

With a trembling heart he approached the entrance, and was presently admitted.

Ten minutes later a white-faced man reeled out, stunned by the news he heard, the story he had been told by the dying Countess, the tale of how the Count, for his patriotic resistance to Communism, had been proscribed an outlaw by Bela Kun, and had fled, accompanied by Zita, for his life.

Zita and her kindly white-haired father outlaws in their own country, liable to be shot at any moment! Geoffrey groaned. It seemed unbelievable! Only by an effort of will did he become his normal self again as he walked back to the hotel.

Fortunately the Countess had been able to give him the address to which her tiny family had fled, a small peasant cottage in Szugy on the Ipoly.

Thither went Geoffrey, his vague haunting fear growing stronger as the train advanced sluggishly through the quiet countryside. The hours passed slowly, but at length the train steamed into Balassagyarmat. Later Geoffrey arrived at Szugy.

Everything seemed quiet and peaceful—ominously so. There was a sense of brooding hurt, a solemn hush. Yard by yard Geoffrey advanced nearer to his destination, and all the time his heart beat a wild tattoo, though now it was because of his nearness to Zita. At last he was really to see her, to feel her within his arms.

At last! A small cottage was before him. In front of it bloomed early spring flowers, and the grass sprouted greenly. A narrow flagged path led up to the door, and along this Geoffrey stepped. Another few moments, a second only...

The door was slightly open, and there was no answer to his knocks. There was a slight smell, a tang which he could not define.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The tang was that of blood, freshly spilled blood, that of the old Count, whose gentle heart had brought him unwavering popularity wherever he went.

He had been playing chess at the time. Even now the chessboard and the pieces still remained on the table: red versus white, red winning, the white king in check to them.

On the floor lay the Count—dead. Opposite sat Zita, still and motionless, her staring, horrified eyes fixed with a peculiar intensity in front of her.

Calmly Geoffrey inspected the scene in front of him, quietly viewing the tragedy. Only his eyes flickered strangely. He moved more into the room, and bent over the corpse. As he had thought. Bayonet wounds, here, there, and everywhere. The helpless old man had been literally stabbed to death by brutal, bestial murderers, pawns of Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat.

Zita was untouched. She had died as she watched her father's death, her heart giving way under the strain, her hand clutching a chess-piece, a piece which, had she finished her move, would have released the white king from check by taking a red pawn.

The piece was—a white knight.

The surging crowds, swaying, shuffling, grumbling, waited impatiently in the grim Parliament Square, as yet lit but faintly by the dawning from the east.

A motley crew, a corrupt community; the scene was but a typical picture of Budapest and all Hungary in the grip of revolution, a revolt of the proletariat for government by the proletariat, the shadow of Lenin falling upon an unhappy country, already torn by years of recent strife and earlier suppression.

A country, monarchist to the core, now ground down by Soldiers' Councils and Workers' Councils, headed by the Russian-taught Bela Kun, and the bloodthirsty tyrant Tibor Szamuelly, his Terror Boys, and the merciless Korvin-Klein. Unhappy Hungary!

Down through the ages have trickled histories of the French Revolution, the people versus the 'aristos.' Too well is known the toll of Madame Guillotine, and the cruel justice of Robespierre. There have been written histories of the Revolution, of the howling mobs, the vampire women; readers have felt a saddened pain at the thought of fleeing émigrés, driven from their own country, the land of their birth.

Yet how many are aware that in less than a year more horrible deeds, more bloodthirsty deaths occurred during the dictatorship of Bela Kun than during all the years of the French Revolution?

Even in the crowd which waited this morning there were whispers of horrible tortures: of men, whose only crime was that of belonging to the hated bourgeoisie, who were strung up by the hands and gagged with the lighted ends of cigars and cigarettes; of others who were bayoneted by the Terror Boys, and flung into a newly dug grave and buried, even while the breath still remained in their bodies.

Other tales there were also, all too true unfortunately, of prisoners of Szamuelly, of the proletariat, who were, incredible as it may sound, flayed alive by their own countrymen.

Murder, theft, blackmail! These were not crimes—merely the prerogative of the proletariat. To be a bourgeois! There was no worse sin in the calendar of Dante; and so the towns and villages of Hungary ran red with the blood of the Hungarians, and all because the shadow of Lenin fell upon the unhappy land.

"Well done, Bela Kun! Well done, Szamuelly!" applauded Lenin, and, thus encouraged, these two flung the war-battered country into the maelstrom of bloody revolution, unheeded by the outside world, for all Europe was itself only just free of the throes of a ghastly war.

Not a soul to aid the unhappy victims, not a man to stretch out a helping hand—save one.

* * * * * *

"They keep us waiting. See the rope swinging. It is waiting too; it has good work to do these days. A good piece of hemp, comrade. It must love the blasted bourgeoisie, it embraces them so closely. Maybe, though, it's bullets to-day. A little piece of lead makes a nice hole, eh! a nice hole!"

The speaker grinned evilly, and his companion chuckled likewise. They were two of the many who waited, two Red-cockaded workmen who were there to see men hanged to satisfy the sated appetite of Korvin-Klein.

"They are a long time. Perhaps they are holding a trial."

The one who answered was a contrast to his companion, for the first speaker was as tall as Comrade George Garami was short, and as scarred as the other was unpleasant. They might have been a source of humour, these two, to the hundreds who surrounded them, but people did not laugh much these days.

"Pah!" The tall man spat. "Korvin-Klein knows how to treat the pigs. Trials! What do they want trials for? That is what I ask you, comrade. What do they want with trials? Hang them, I say, and quickly."

"Me too," agreed Garami, "but Bela Kun says the Allies may interfere."

The other man scowled. "Not they. The more we kill the better they will be pleased. It saves them the trouble."

Garami grinned. "You speak well, comrade. Only if it were the Allies it might be you who would hang instead of the bourgeois dogs. There were those fifty Italian prisoners you said you bayoneted——"

"Stop your mouth," muttered the scarred one. "You talk too much, you, George Garami. Your tongue wags freely, friend, and maybe it will lead you into trouble."

Garami grunted. "What have I to fear, eh! friend Wenzel? I am a good Communist, me."

"So well you may be; but even good Communists have talked too much lately. It is said that they gossip too freely and that the White Knight has long ears."

"The White Knight! What and who may he be, comrade?"

Wenzel turned his hideously scarred face toward the smaller man. "What, dolt, do you mean to say you have never heard of the White Knight?"

"Should I question you otherwise?" asked Garami testily.

Wenzel burst into a harsh roar of raucous laughter, and the unusual sound attracted the attention of others around him, and they turned his way. Wenzel, observing this, waved his arms wide, claiming their attention.

"Sisters, comrades," he announced, "my little friend here has never heard of the White Knight!"

There was no echoing smile of derision from his listeners; instead Wenzel saw nothing but blank faces.

He raised his eyebrows. "What!" he exclaimed, "have none of you yet heard of the White Knight?"

Several shook their heads, and a woman called out: "Tell us, comrade, of him. Does he belong to the counter-revolution?"

Wenzel grinned, and the effect was so repulsive that the woman shrank back in disgust.

"Tell you! Gladly, comrades. 'Tis not often my lot to be the town-crier. I feel as important as a local commissary.

"Know you, then, that this White Knight is a mysterious being of whom, so far, no one has yet any knowledge. Maybe he is a man, possibly a woman, or perhaps a bastard brat sent up from Hell to assist the Devil's spawn, the bourgeoisie.

"He was first heard of about a month ago, when the People's Commissary at Balassagyarmat arrested the outlaw Stephen Arpad. It was known to Bela Kun that this Stephen Arpad was indulging in treasonable correspondence with traitors here in Budapest with a view to establishing a White counter-revolution.

"Well, friends, Bela Kun awaited his time, but at last this dog Arpad was arrested and thrown into the Balassagyarmat jail, and there he was kept awaiting the time when Tibor Szamuelly should arrive to hang him.

"On the night before Szamuelly arrived, what do you think happened, friends? Arpad escaped."

There was a deep-throated growl from the crowd, and Wenzel, realizing that he was working them up, and appreciating the fact that he was at the moment the centre of interest, became more bombastically theatrical.

"Yes, comrades," he continued, his ugly face glowing malignantly, "Arpad escaped, and there was no one to offer any explanation. All that was found in his cell was a small chess-piece, a white knight.

"What did Szamuelly do? Why, he did what all good Communists should do. He hanged the commissary as a warning to others not to let good hanging meat escape in the same way."

Wenzel roared with laughter; but there was no one to join in with him. Steeped in bloody thoughts and deeds, familiar with ghastly sights, insane with revolutionary lust as they were, yet Wenzel appalled them.

At least a head higher than the tallest of his listeners, he was conspicuous, not only by his height, but likewise by his face, his head, and his general appearance.

In the first place, his greasy cap, gaudily illuminated by a brilliant Red cockade, the badge of the Communist and the proletariat, did not entirely conceal his closely cropped head of hair, naturally parted on the right-hand side by a vivid and extraordinarily straight scar—one of the many which disfigured his strange features.

Six scars there were, including the one described above. There was one which shaved his left eyebrow, one which scored his left cheek, one which stretched from his mouth, pulling it perpetually out of shape across to the lobe of his right ear, one small one just above, and finally one across his throat, creating the ghastly impression that the man had once endeavoured to commit suicide by inflicting there, with a razor, a self-made wound.

Two of the scars, though obviously healed up, were so deeply impressed into the skin that at times they betrayed traces of the warm blood which flowed beneath. His emotions aroused, these two wounds flushed redly, as if on the point of reopening.

The effect of these blemishes was to make the man so hideously ugly that it was disgusting to cast eyes upon him.

In himself he was of broad stature, and this, with his height, made him lumbering and ungainly. His hands were big and filthy, the nails scratched and cracked, and worn down to the quick.

His clothes were greasy, frayed at the sleeves and at the bottom of the trousers. His boots were laced with string.

Repulsive was the only word to describe him. Of the ravenous wolves, of the cruel, barbarous vultures, dragged up by the Revolution from the slums to which they belonged, this man, Istvan Wenzel, was, in appearance at least, the most vicious, the most terrifying.

To the student of physiognomy he was a man of vice, and to his lengthy list of undesirable traits might be added vanity. Surrounded by a city's scum, only a little better than himself, he was conscious that he was, for the moment, the centre of interest, that his words were creating attention: the fact that his fellow-Communists drew away at his ghoulish laughter did not seem to wound his sensibilities, even if he were possessed of any.

"Yes, comrades, he was the first prisoner to escape. Yet there were others, more of these bourgeois, who mysteriously vanished just in time to escape the hangman's rope or our soldiers' bullets. Each time there was left behind a chess-piece, always the white knight, and so the man who has been responsible for these escapes has become known as the White Knight."

There was a shout from the rear. "Ay, comrade, you say nothing but the truth. I have heard of this pig, the White Knight. It is said that he has sworn to rescue the Count Kalman Bakocz. Comrade Szamuelly is to take a hand in the game. This White Knight will soon be in Red Mourning, eh, friends?"

"Ay, ay," cried several, amidst a ripple of laughter.

There was a sudden stir, and the people swung round. At the far end of the square came into view a group of Red soldiers, laughing and joking. In their midst three prisoners walked unhappily, doomed to die, condemned to death by the inhuman Korvin-Klein, the uneducated, uncouth judge appointed by the Dictator to try all enemies of the proletariat.

Pushing through the crowd, the soldiers made their way toward that part of the square above which the stone lions proudly growled defiance to the world. Here the three victims were made to stand, calmly awaiting their fate.

There was silence, a muttered word of command: the sharp resonant clash of gun-fire echoed across the square, and three patriots slipped to the ground, killed by Hungarian bullets that were fired by Hungarian men at the command of a Hungarian.

Scarcely had the sound of the discharge died away when Wenzel laughed loudly and slapped his friend Garami on the shoulder.

"Three more traitors sent about their business, eh, comrade!" he cried.

Garami, rubbing his shoulder where Wenzel's hand had caught him, laughed too.

It was eleven o'clock in Balassagyarmat, and the streets were comparatively pitch dark.

The edict of the Dictator had gone forth—no lights after ten o'clock P.M.—so that even if the gas and electricity had not failed the result would have been the same, for were there not detectives, Terror Boys, and People's Commissaries to see that the word of the Workers' Council was obeyed?

Under the present régime the houses and effects of all were the common property of every one else: books, food, furniture; there was nothing, if the occasion arose, to which the comrades of the Commune could not help themselves.

Not many walked the streets. Here and there drunken Red soldiers staggered back to their billets, notwithstanding that prohibition was in force. Here and there a lurking shadow betokened a detective, or sometimes a daring bourgeois risking his life to visit friends.

Only People's Commissaries walked about openly, or members of the local Soviet.

In some houses there was peace; here lived Communists who ran with the hounds. In some there was a significant quiet—bourgeois who were still left in safety, but who might yet run with the hares.

In one home, the residence of Count Kalman Bakocz, there was only sorrow, a dull, hopeless, heart-gnawing despair.

A week ago Terror Boys had found their way into the house and arrested the Count. In vain his wife had pleaded for her husband's liberty, unsuccessfully had his daughter Cecile added her pleas. The Red officer merely flicked his fingers, gave marching orders, and the Count was torn from the bosom of his family and flung into jail, only to be transferred the following morning to Budapest to await the justice of Korvin-Klein.

Later his son, Francis, returned, and only with a great effort did Cecile and her mother keep him back from invoking his friends to assist him in what could only result in a futile attempt at rescue.

For one week the Countess lay prostrate, unable to eat for the fear which gripped her heart in a vice. Only the tender solicitude of Cecile and the brave optimism of Francis kept her alive.

This was the seventh night after Count Bakocz's arrest, and again no news other than that he was still alive. The news-bringer thought fit to withhold the fact that he was nigh on starving.

Despite the commands of the Dictator there was a tiny particle of candle throwing a flickering light upon the shrunken, careworn features of Countess Bakocz as she lay in bed, her daughter sitting on one side, her son on the other. Heavy curtains protected the windows, so that not a gleam of light could escape the room, yet nevertheless each one was quivering with tension which could not altogether be concealed, and every time footsteps echoed in the street outside Cecile held her breath in terror and Francis clenched his fists.

Countess Bakocz weakly turned her head toward her son. "What news, son, what news to-night?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turned his eyes away as he felt them filling with tears. "Still no further news. Father is still—alive." He swallowed hard.

"Nothing else, Francis?" Even despair did not dim her proud eyes so much that she missed the trembling of his lips.

"Nothing else."

His mother shook her head. "Poor boy, poor boy. You cannot lie, Francis." She stretched out her emaciated hand and placed it tenderly upon his, which lay idly on the coverlet. "Tell me, son, I can bear it."

Unconsciously Francis turned a questioning gaze upon Cecile, who nodded slightly.

"They say," he commenced chokingly, "that Father is—is to be tried on—Mon—Monday."

There was no sound from the Countess, not a movement, but Francis felt the hand clasping his jump convulsively, and her lower lip twitched unceasingly.

"Mother dear, Mother darling, do not give up hope." Cecile leaned forward and kissed her on her bloodless forehead. "Many things may happen. God will save him. God will save him."

"God must have many tears to shed on our unhappy country," she replied softly, and from this Cecile knew that her mother could not even have it in her heart to put her trust in Heaven.

Nor could she blame her mother, for she wondered what evil any of them could have done that they should be visited with this calamity. For twenty years the Count and his family had lived in this selfsame house, leading a God-fearing life.

To the house of his forefathers he had brought his wife twenty years back, and there his daughter Cecile had been born a year later, and two years afterward Francis.

During the War he had fought courageously for his country. Now, with the War scarcely at an end, he was seized by his countrymen and thrown into jail. His crime? Raising his voice on behalf of his unhappy people, beseeching the peasants to look into their hearts, where, he said, they would find they wanted nothing of revolution, wanted only peace to till the land and rear their children.

There was silence in the room; the candle burned smaller. When that was gone Cecile had another bit to put in its place, but after that ... In future they might not have even the welcoming flame of the candle to cheer them; nothing but the dismal dark of the night.

Suddenly Francis raised his head. He heard the hoot of an owl.

"'Tis Kirchhoff!" he cried, and running lightly across the room he disappeared downstairs.

Cecile shivered ominously. Kirchhoff brought only news, and "no news was good news." Was it that Francis had been misled? Perhaps the trial of her father had been that morning. A little cry arose to her throat, and her hand flew up to stop it, but too late. Her mother had heard; she looked at Cecile with the expression of a hunted deer.

"He is a long time," she said. Cecile knew her mother's thoughts had been following the trend of her own.

Was Francis never coming up again? She wanted to scream hysterically. Surely he must know that they would be anxious. The seconds ticked by. Not a movement from below, not a sound to be heard.

Another moment and Cecile would have called, but there was a cautious step, and almost as soon as she recognized the footsteps of Francis she was conscious that there was some one with him.

Hypnotically she watched the door until it swung open. So Francis was bringing Kirchhoff up. Why? Why? She trembled, but the man who entered was not Kirchhoff, but a stranger.

"Mother dear, do not be excited, but there is news, wonderful news. This gentleman has come from Buda. He is Mr Arnold Terhune, of London."

Countess Bakocz flashed a startled glance at her daughter. An Englishman! A late foe, countryman of an enemy land with whom peace had not yet been signed! How could he bring good news?

Cecile did not meet her look, for she was gazing upon the young man who entered, raptly assimilating the picture he presented. Her thoughts were that here was a man connected with good news. If he bore information which should hearten them all what matter his nationality?

The Countess inclined her head coldly as the Englishman bowed.

"You must forgive my intrusion, Countess, but there is a matter of great importance which I must discuss with you."

"I am at your service, monsieur." Try as she might she could not keep the chilling hauteur from her voice.

How different from Cecile, whose eyes were sparkling, and whose cheeks were flushing! He possessed a wonderful voice, this Englishman who spoke their language with scarcely a trace of foreign accent.

Arnold Terhune glanced around him.

"We are alone?"

A tear welled into the eyes of the Countess. "Absolutely," she replied, and the tinge of bitterness and hopelessness in her voice betrayed its story of tragedy, its tale of faithless servants, of forbidden friends.

The Englishman inclined his head. "Then I may speak, for it is of vital importance that what I have to say goes no further. Countess, I bear a message to you from one who is known as the White Knight."

"The White Knight!" The exclamation was from Cecile. With those three words banished hope returned in full force. The White Knight! If the rumour of this mysterious person had not yet reached the proletariat, the same could not be said of the persecuted bourgeoisie and the hunted aristocracy. Like the spread of a forest fire, the name of the White Knight had passed from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity.

Stories of his wonderful rescues had penetrated into every house and home which sheltered one of the hated bourgeoisie, his saga was told in whispers and in snatches. To the gentle families of the forgotten people his name was a glimpse of blue breaking in between the heavy thunderclouds of revolution, a veritable star of hope, shining undimmed through an overpowering blackness.

Countess Bakocz raised herself slightly on her elbows, and the blood flowed into her face. "The White Knight!" she whispered. "God be praised! Then he knows of my husband's plight?"

"Too well, Countess. Moreover, he plans to rescue him—has sworn to do so."

"Sworn to rescue him!" The Countess faintly repeated the words, unable to credit the fact. Then joyfully she spoke again. "Cecile, Francis, listen! The White Knight is to return your father to us. Oh, children, children, tell me I am not dreaming! Make me believe what I hear is true!"

Cecile's lips trembled suspiciously as she flung her arms around the invalid. "Oh, Mother darling, of course it is true!" Across her mother's shoulder her glance met that of Arnold Terhune.

His eyes held hers, clearly and firmly. In that brief second there was a change in both of them, though neither was conscious of the fact. They only felt an inexplicable stirring somewhere deep down within them.

Arnold Terhune, though dressed in the dirty shapeless clothes of the Hungarian labourer, with a three or four days' growth of hair upon his chin, and a very close-cropped head, could not entirely conceal the lithe, athletic grace with which he carried himself, any more than his unshaven chin hid its firm strength.

Dressed more suitably, he would have been the personification of virile English manhood. He was inclined to be tall, just under six feet, yet his hands and feet were unusually small. His broad shoulders hinted at robust health and physical strength; his slimmer waist at a healthy life and arduous exercise.

Well might he have appealed to Cecile, who, herself, was remarkably beautiful, and of a dusky, gipsy type. Her dark, rippling hair admirably set off her almost black eyes and pure olive complexion, while her tiny lips curved seductively into a Cupid's bow.

Perhaps her only fault was a strained, pinched look, the result of four years' privation, so soon succeeded by the worse rigours of the revolution, and subsequent Commune.

Countess Bakocz turned eagerly to her visitor. "Tell us, monsieur, of this rescue. When and how? Oh, how I long to clasp my husband in my arms again! God be pleased to grant the White Knight success, monsieur. You will tell us his plans?"

Terhune smiled, then slowly shook his head. "The White Knight alone knows his plans, Countess. He alone plots his coups."

"But you, monsieur, you know this White Knight?"

Terhune's face broke into a smile again, but this time there was something of hero-worship, of reverence, in it.

"Yes, Countess, he is my friend, and leader."

"Your leader? You work for the White Knight?" Cecile it was who put the question, and she clasped her hands together in her eager excitement.

"Yes, m'selle. I am his lieutenant. I do what I can; it is so little. I wish I could do more, much more, for it makes my heart bleed to see the Hungary I have always loved plunged into the present chaos."

"You love Hungary, monsieur, yet you are an Englishman, an enemy!" There was a gentle reproof in her tones as the Countess spoke.

"We are not our masters in war-time, Countess. I fought for my country, not for myself."

"Forgive me, monsieur." The Countess was contrite. "I should not have said that, but I must plead my awful worry in excuse. I was surprised. To fight against us—and now——!"

"We are already forgetting. Deep in our hearts we English feel for your nation. We feel you have been the cat's-paw of German diplomacy. Now that humanity is being outraged by bestial tyranny, we wish only to aid and assist. Were circumstances different England might do more, but her people do not know of your plight, have no idea even of the revolution here. Russia, yes, but Hungary ... Our papers are full of peace and future prosperity."

"The White Knight, is he English too?"

Terhune nodded. "Yes, Countess, he is, but I beg you not to question me with regard to him. It is his wish, his policy too, that he remain merely a name, a myth. His mystery is his second lieutenant."

The Countess buried her face in her hands and quietly sobbed, while Terhune shuffled his feet uncomfortably, wondering what he had said to have this effect.

Presently she looked up and smiled faintly. "Forgive a woman's tears, monsieur, but it grieves me that our unhappy country must look to enemies for succour against our own people."

"Not entirely, Countess, for there are those in Vienna and in Budapest who seek to form a counter-revolution, a White Army instead of a red. I may not mention names, but——" His eloquent gesture was expressive, and the three Hungarians who listened to him felt a glow of warmth stealing through their bodies.

"But now, Countess, for the reason of my visit here. There is information I require, knowledge I must acquire. Listen...."

It was half an hour later when Terhune slipped away, leaving behind three people who in less than an hour had been pulled from the depths of misery into the heights of hope and confidence. While the Countess dreamed of the future, of the time when she should see her husband again, Francis pictured the adventure and the thrill of the rescue, and wished he could help. Cecile was quiet and thoughtful. Too full for words at the thought of having her father with her once again, she could not, nevertheless, banish the constantly recurring picture of Arnold Terhune, standing in the light of the flickering candle, his glance meeting hers across her mother's shoulder.

Consternation reigned at the meeting of the Workers' Council. Bela Kun had been sorting out his papers preparatory to suggesting fresh edicts for the suppression of the bourgeoisie.

"Comrades," he had begun, when suddenly his eyes caught sight of a paper on his table, on which his startled eyes read his own name, in handwriting which he did not recognize, signed by the name "White Knight."

Stopping short in his speech, he picked it up and hastily read its message:

To BELA KUN,

Do not hope to execute the Count Bakocz. I have sworn to rescue him, and I never fail.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

Bela Kun swore. "Listen, comrades," and he read the brief note out to the members of the Council.

"My God! how did you get that?" shouted Szamuelly.

Bela Kun shook his head. "I don't know. It wasn't with my papers when I left home." He looked round with suspicion.

"What does it mean?" asked one.

Bela Kun sneered. "What does it mean? It means that this White Knight is going to try to rescue Count Bakocz."

"Well, what does he want to warn you for?"

"I know why," interrupted Szamuelly. "Because this man, this bourgeois, having been successful once or twice in his ventures, now imagines he is omnipotent."

"Has he always been successful?" This from a man who sat farther away, a small unpleasant-looking member, Garami, who had just recently heard of the White Knight from Wenzel.

Bela Kun hesitated. "Well—er—he has certainly been fortunate up to the moment."

"I see," said Garami. "And may I ask you, comrade, by what means the dog has done this?"

"In many ways, Comrade Garami. From reports I have had he is as strong as an ape, as cunning as a monkey, as elusive as a cricket. He has money, for in one case he bribed the jailer with more than I have heard of for a long time. Did he not?" Bela Kun turned to Szamuelly.

Szamuelly laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, comrade. I found the jailer with the money in his pocket. I hung the man, and appropriated the crowns."

"As strong as an ape, I believe you said. Why do you say this?" Again Garami put a question.

Bela Kun frowned. "You are in a questioning mood to-day, Garami."

"For a reason, comrade, which you will learn if you will answer my question first."

"Well, if you must know, the reason we, Szamuelly and me, believe that this traitor is strong is because he once overcame two of our brave troops, put in charge of a prisoner, by cracking their heads together."

Garami grinned unpleasantly. "Supposing I can put you in touch with a good comrade who isn't afraid of this bourgeois, this White Knight, as he calls himself. Would he be of use to you, comrade?"

Bela Kun thought for a moment. "Would he act as jailer to Count Bakocz, think you?"

Garami laughed. "He would act as jailer to the Devil himself if it so be there was good money to be earned."

"Who is this man?"

"Istvan Wenzel."

"Istvan Wenzel!" repeated another member. "Ay, comrade, I know Istvan Wenzel. A good man, him. As strong as an ox and as ugly as sin. His face would be enough to frighten this White Knight away, if it is the man of whom I am thinking."

"You are thinking of the right man," Garami agreed. "Wenzel can pick up a man in each hand."

"Can you get in touch with him, Garami?" asked the Dictator.

"He lives but three flats below me."

"It is good. Bring him to me to-morrow. If he is all your praises sing him to be, he ought well to be a match for this dog who writes me these notes."

The next morning Wenzel accompanied Garami to Bela Kun.

The streets were full of cars in which sat members of the Workers' Council, Administrators of the Country, or even People's Commissaries. They, who preached Socialism, Communism, and Proletarianism, lived in ease and comfort, surrounded with goods, food, and furniture filched from the bourgeoisie.

Meanwhile the people starved, and rode in tramcars of which the glass was broken or missing. If they were ignorant, uncouth, and wore the Red cockade, they might be granted a food ticket and be allowed to pay high prices for the privilege of eating to live.

If they were intellectual, if they lived and worked by the fruit of their brains, if they were decent-living, moral, and religious, they were bourgeoisie and could starve. There were no food tickets for such as they.

So, though the city was gay with the red bunting which hung from every roof and every window, stretched from house to house, and with the music played by gipsy bands, beneath it all the people, the real Hungarian people, like the proud Magyar aristocracy, wept, and the tears were of blood.

Such thoughts as these did not worry the boisterous Wenzel or the sly Garami, as they strode along the streets.

"It's good to be alive this morning, with the sun shining, and the town all gay with flags and colour; what say you, Garami?"

"I am with you, comrade."

"What puzzles me is why the counter-revolution worry their heads about changing it all. Here we are, governed by ourselves, can help ourselves to everything we want. What more does anybody want? That's what I say. What more can one want? Give me a bellyful, and money in my pockets, and a woman now and again, and you can keep the rest. That's what I say. Keep the rest."

"Ho, ho!" chortled Garami. "You say that, you, Wenzel? Who took the best bed from the house at the corner of the Andrassy Ut? Who brought away the chairs and the sofa and the table from the home of Pazmany, the Professor? Who drinks his fill of wine, and forces his way into the theatre? That's what you say?"

Wenzel spat, as a passing automobile whizzed past. "Bah! You talk like a babbling brook. Come, the mention of wine and food makes me feel empty. Comrade Bela Kun must make haste. I must eat."

In due course they were shown in to Bela Kun, who eyed the big Wenzel up and down, and then smiled cunningly.

"You know why I wished to see you?" he questioned.

"Yes, comrade. It's some one you want to guard the Count Bakocz from being rescued." He stretched out his long arms and opened wide his huge hand, then slowly clenched his fingers together, and grinned evilly. "just let me get any of these bourgeois between my two hands and I'll wring their necks. Curse them!"

"Then you will take the job on?"

"Yes—at a price, comrade."

"You needn't worry about money, Wenzel. The Government pay well those who are faithful to it." He leaned forward and his eyes narrowed. "Only see you do not fail, my friend, for otherwise you will find your own neck in a noose."

Wenzel burst into a bellow of raucous laughter. "I shall not fail. Don't you worry, comrade. This White Knight has bitten off more than he can chew. I'm the man you want. That's what I say. It's me you want."

"So be it." Bela Kun waved them away. "Don't forget, Comrade Wenzel, don't let him escape. You will hang heavier than the Count Bakocz!"

* * * * * *

Sunday! The day before the trial of Count Kalman Bakocz for treason. Trial! It was mockery to call the proceedings which occurred by this name.

Counter-revolutionaries, enemies of the proletariat; all such who were caught were imprisoned, and in due course, usually within twenty-four hours, brought before Korvin-Klein. Trial—judgment should be the word! There was no opportunity for defence, no witnesses brought forward for the defendant. Only prosecution and execution.

In the prisons of Hungary were bourgeois hostages, held by the Communists against the possibility of hostile demonstrations from the people who groaned beneath the heel of the Soviet. Cast into prison, herded, many of them together, into small filthy cells, they barely subsisted.

Womenfolk were allowed to bring them what food they could obtain. Baskets, bags, packages of food were handed in at the prison gates by weeping women, for husbands, brothers, and sons.

The Red guards received the parcels and, when the women had gone, ate the food themselves and drank the wine. Occasionally, nay, more often than not, these hostages, these prisoners, died. That night there would be a stealthy procession to the waterside, and presently the waters of the Danube would part with a splash, and the body of the prisoner would float down, to disappear for evermore.

Food would still arrive, relations never hearing the tragedy of their loved ones, and the jeering Reds would gobble it up. What stories the grim walls of the Budapest prisons could tell of the Revolution of 1919, what tales of death and torture!

Count Bakocz was granted a cell to himself. The remorseless Soviet had determined he should die, and there was to be no mistake. So he was taken away from fellow-prisoners and thrown into solitary confinement, to see only the faces of his two jailers, one during the day, and one during the night.

Always the ghastly, repulsive features of Wenzel haunted him, asleep and awake. At times he could not sleep. Wenzel was for ever peeping through the grill, and every time the Communist gave his guttural laugh, and greeted him with rude, boisterous remarks.

"Well, my friend, still alive I see. Ho, ho! Too bad. Fancy, you have not been hanged or shot yet! Too bad. I must see what I can do for you.

"Wouldn't you like to escape, my little chicken? That wouldn't do at all, for little Wenzel would hang in your place." Then he would spit through the grill. "Pah! The more you bourgeois hang the better pleased shall I be, that's what I say."

Three days, or rather three nights, Wenzel had guarded his prisoner, and still no attempt had been made to rescue the Count. Only Wenzel laughed; the Workers' Council was becoming nervous, for regularly each morning Bela Kun received a message from the White Knight.

Whence came the slips of paper he knew not, and once it was not a message, but a tiny white piece of carved wood—a white knight. Another time there were two knights, the white one untouched, but the red carved in two.

This, with the knowledge that his Government was merely resting on the brink of a volcano, gave Bela Kun no rest. On all sides the country was likely to be attacked, by Rumanians, by Czecho-Slovakians, and by Serbs.

His life became harassed, and he in his turn tightened the thumb-screws on the unfortunate bourgeoisie. New laws were made each day and flashed to every part of the country, there to be put into force by the local People's Commissaries and the local councils.

"More than two people never to meet together in the street." This, amazing as it may seem, was actually put into force, and innocent citizens were unable to stop and chat to friends for fear of counter-revolution, of plot, and counter-plot. Only Red soldiers could jest together, or those who wore the Red emblem, or those who met in Parliament Square to witness the execution of enemies of the proletariat.

When Wenzel went on duty Garami was there to meet him.

"Ho, Wenzel!" he said, "to-night's the last opportunity to rescue Count Bakocz. You must keep your eye open—that is, if this bourgeois really intends to attempt a rescue."

Wenzel struck his chest. "Why worry, you? Do you believe that I shall let pass anyone? Bah! This is the last night our friend inside will ever live to see. I must see him fall to-morrow. Ha! Old skin and bones won't dent the ground overmuch, comrade. That's what I say."

Garami looked pleased. "Ay, comrade, it was a good thing I did for every one, was it not, to have you put as jailer here. You will not forget, eh?"

Wenzel grinned. "I shall not forget, friend. One tenth of what I make goes to you for the recommendation. Easy money, comrade. And what if I am offered a bribe?"

"Hush!" Garami looked round, startled, and reaching up he placed his hand over the other man's mouth. "Canst not keep a still tongue, chatterer?" He lowered his voice. "A tenth to me, Wenzel, a tenth to me."

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" Wenzel opened his huge throat and roared with laughter. "And will you share a tenth of the rope, Jew? Give me less money and less rope, that's what I say. Less money. My neck needs no gentle bandage, thank you, comrade."

Garami shrugged his shoulders. "I meant nothing," he muttered between his teeth. "Well, good night, Wenzel. There are soldiers within call, good Red comrades, who will not hesitate to run a bourgeois through with bayonets. If there is anything wrong, shout."

"Yah! Anything wrong! What can be wrong? If anyone comes I will spit on them and they will run. Good night, comrade. Let no uneasy dreams disturb you. To-morrow Count Bakocz will—die." His eyes flashed joyfully, as if he were already watching the life blood draining away from the victim's body, and his gloating expression caused Garami to hurry the quicker away.

Ample preparations had been made to guard the prison well. Posted in different parts of the building were groups of Red soldiers. No one could enter without the knowledge of the guards, and even if intruders were successful in this there was still the huge Wenzel to overcome.

Garami breathed a little easier as he left the prison. He had been responsible for the appointment of Wenzel, and if anything should go wrong he was not too sure of his comrades' affability, that he would not hang side by side with his protégé.

That, therefore, was the position at ten o'clock on Sunday night, the night before the prisoner was to be tried, which was, of course, synonymous with death. If the White Knight failed the Count would die.

The hours wore on. The soldiers sang and ate, drank and joked, and Wenzel sat on his chair, outside the Count's cell, singing too, his huge voice echoing through the dim corridors so that prisoners in distant cells could not sleep.

At intervals he would open the grill to shout insults at the hapless prisoner, picturing the death that would overtake him in the morning, by all of which the Count remained unmoved.

He knew, just as every one else knew, that on the morrow he would die, and so he gave his last thoughts to the family left behind at Balassagyarmat. If a tear rolled down his cheek it was not because he was afraid of death. His poor Elizabeth, his poor Cecile! Only the seventeen-year-old Francis to guard and protect them, and such friends as could creep to them unseen.

What of his family at Balassagyarmat? Since the night Arnold Terhune had brought the news of the White Knight's oath they had heard nothing. When Sunday night arrived they did not attempt sleep. Cecile and Francis joined their mother, and in the darkness they held hands and comforted one another through the lonely hours.

With anxious hearts, with fear that the White Knight would fail counter-balancing their hope that he would succeed, could they, by some miracle, have seen the prison then, at two o'clock in the morning, they might have flinched with horror, for still nothing had happened.

The guards still talked and sang, Wenzel still sat on his stool. The only movement was that of a Red soldier who staggered about with bottles of wine, liberally dosing the guards with liquor.

From somewhere or other he produced yet more bottles. "Come along, comrades, some more," he cried, and the guards grinned and held out their mugs.

The soldier served them all. "Let us—let—let us drink a toast," he called out, "l-let us drink to the Revolution."

"Ay, ay," answered the men, and they drank deeply.

"Must take some to the others," muttered the proposer, and he staggered away.

The noisy rowdyism gradually died away as the potent wine took effect. The drink must have been stronger than usual, for the Reds found their heads nodding—nodding.... Ten minutes later every man was sound asleep, and when the soldier returned who had, in his generosity, visited the other guards all through the prison, and served out drink to toast the Revolution, he chuckled, and straightened up.

"Drunken swine," he muttered. It was Arnold Terhune.

The first part of his task completed, there was now the hardest part to perform.

With noiseless steps he traversed the corridors going in the direction of Count Bakocz's cell. At the actual corridor he came to a halt and listened. Round the corner he could hear the heavy breathing of Wenzel, who now seemed quieter.

With scarcely a movement Terhune leaned forward till he could see what was happening, and his heart leaped with joy as he noticed that Wenzel, though seated with his back to the cell, was just slightly turned away from him.

If he could but creep along without being seen or heard he hoped to succeed in getting near enough to use a chloroform pad which he had ready. He determined to try.

Squeezing his back against the wall, and moving with the utmost caution, he turned the corner. If Wenzel should glance only just slightly round now, he would be seen. Breathing a prayer that Wenzel would not move he advanced slowly forward.

Four feet, three feet, two feet. Another few paces and he could jump and catch the unconscious Wenzel unprepared, but at that moment Wenzel turned.

For a second or two Terhune seemed paralysed with astonishment, until Wenzel gave a roar, and would have jumped for him, but the Englishman was infinitesimally quicker, and even as Wenzel commenced to move he had quickly advanced the extra pace and with a dull thud brought a revolver butt down upon Wenzel's defenceless head, and the jailer collapsed with a groan.

Terhune worked with nightmare haste. From his pocket he produced a key, a duplicate of the original, and before Count Bakocz was even aware of what was happening, had opened the cell-door and was pulling the bewildered aristocrat away.

Terhune had not bargained on Wenzel's strength. No sooner had the echoing footsteps of the two men faded away in the distance than Wenzel raised his ponderous frame from the floor and stumblingly commenced the pursuit, blood pouring down his face and blinding his eyes.

Whatever drug it was with which Terhune had doctored the guards' wine, it could not have been a very powerful one, for even as the two men rushed past several of the guards sat up, rubbing their eyes in bewilderment, and by the time Wenzel was on the scene they were all sitting up from the positions into which they had fallen.

The sight of Wenzel, his face and clothes covered in blood, rushing into their midst, was their first intimation that anything was wrong.

"Dogs! Beasts!" furiously shouted Wenzel. "The prisoner has escaped!"

There was a dramatic silence while the stupefied guards gazed at one another, and observing this, Wenzel gabbled with rage. "Fools, dolts, idiots! follow them! follow me!" and rushing past them, kicking them as he went, he led the pursuit, and the guards, realizing at last what had happened, rushed pell-mell after him.

Wenzel was outside, staring up and down the street.

"Which way?" the guards cried, but Wenzel shook his head helplessly.

Some distance away two shadows darted across the dark street, but one of the guards saw. "That way, look!" he called; and the guards set off in a ragged group, Wenzel leading them.

Here and there against an occasional light they saw twin shadows fleeing from them, one stumbling and falling, the other pulling.

Gradually Wenzel and the guards caught up. Another moment and the two who were pursued would have been caught, but seeing this, they parted company, one to fall helplessly to the ground, where he lay without moving, and the other to speed still quicker away, till he was lost from sight.

Wenzel struck a match. The fallen one, his face smothered in the mud of the road, was the Count.

"Ho, ho, comrades!" hoarsely cried out Wenzel in triumph, "back to the jail with him. Get up!" he ordered, and kicked the man at his feet, but the Count did not move. "Fainted. Pah! the chicken. Come, friends, carry him back. I hope they will lash him for this."

The guards dragged the helpless man along the streets, till inside the prison they let him fall, and there he lay, cold and stiff.

Suddenly Wenzel gave a cry, and with his already filthy handkerchief wiped away the mud from the face of the prisoner, and having done so gazed with stupefaction at what he saw.

It was not Count Bakocz who lay there, but a two or three days' old corpse of another man, dressed in the Count's clothes.

The White Knight had won again.

Because of the rigid censorship not one of the Budapest newspapers hinted at the escape of Count Bakocz; yet the news was passed on from mouth to mouth, was repeated and commented upon, until it finally percolated into the uttermost environs of the city. Disclaimed by the risen scum, in their requisitioned mansions, acclaimed in the sanctuaries of the refugees; by the first it was furtively believed but outwardly denied, and by the second inwardly discredited but optimistically confirmed.

At the Supreme Soviet Council, in permanent session at the Hapsburg Palace, questions and answers were flung to and fro across the table. Comrade blamed comrade, and easily aroused suspicions disfigured the already brutal faces.

Their prey, like a plucked goose, hot and sizzling from the spit, had been snatched from their watering mouths, and the anger of the rulers of the nation was unbounded. Their pride was insulted, their prestige threatened.

They turned their knit and scowling brows toward Szamuelly, who smiled banefully.

"Peace, comrades! What matters the loss of one chicken from such a well-filled run? Who misses a single grain of wheat from a bushel?"

"Ho," said Pogany, "but do hens only inhabit the roost? There are also cocks which crow."

"Yes, and from one grain of wheat may spring many other grains, remember, Comrade Szamuelly," cried another.

"Quite so, quite so, friends. I agree with you, and that is why I say—give me my way. Three days' loot and pillage and I swear there would be no cocks left to crow. Death to the bourgeoisie! Hang the magnates! Let them join the traitor Tisza. What say you, comrades?"

From several directions came affirmative cries. "Well said, Szamuelly! three days' sack." "Well said! 'Tis what I say too."

Pleased with the reception of his words Szamuelly continued, his voice rising higher as the prospect of the sanguinary feast for which he had long been working seemed appreciably nearer.

"Remember, friends, the world looks upon us as disciples of Russia to-day, to-morrow we may be leading other countries along the road to freedom. A glorious millennium is before us, yet there is still work to be done and done well. We have enemies working against us. Any moment may see a counter-revolution commencing. We must strike now, kill these pestilent rebels, and plant fear into the hearts of the waverers. As, in the past, we have been ruled by the whip, so now must we govern with a rod of iron. Kill, kill! Let the red blood spurting from the corpses of the bourgeoisie carry its own message." He laughed. "There will be many who will be pleased to join our ranks afterwards."

He sat down, the big hall resounding with feverish applause, and only the chosen of Lenin, Bela Kun, President of the Council, remained silent. His hate for his superiors, his lust for power, were not one whit less than that of his bloodthirsty lieutenant, yet he feared to say the word which would permit the execution of a measure which might prove to be the blackest blot in the history of Hungary.

What streak of caution, what strange emotion restrained him, none can say. Perhaps he feared ghosts of the past, perhaps shadows of the Hapsburgs, aghast at the sacrilege of this invasion of their sacred domain, strung together his lips with spiritual threads. Whatever it may have been bleeding Budapest was spared; the ravenous wolves contented themselves with spasmodic raids and petty pilfery.

"Not yet, Comrade Szamuelly. The time is not yet. You must wait. Perhaps one day in the future——"

Szamuelly laughed scornfully. "Wait! Have we not waited all our lives for the emancipation of the workmen? Have we not planned and plotted to gather the reins of government into our own hands, to rid the country of the accursed gentry, the proud aristocracy? Are we all afraid?" He spread his arms dramatically.

From one came a growl. It was the sullen Pogany, the Minister for War. "Hold hard, Szamuelly! be careful whom you accuse of cowardice. Yet I agree with Bela Kun. 'Tis better to wait. We must be recognized as a government by the Entente that the world may know Communism is come to stay. Besides, it is possible that we may go too far——"

Szamuelly jumped up from his chair with a gesture of disgust. "Bah! A paltry excuse! It is not going far enough which we should fear. We must crush the dogs under our heels, grind them into the dust, till their backbones are broken and their brains jellied. It is a dead man who does not strike one in the back."

It was Kunfi, the ex-journalist, who next interrupted. "Very good, Szamuelly, but in the meantime—what of the White Knight? Can you crush his bones so that he rescues no more of the bourgeoisie? Can you hang him in Parliament Square?"

There was a brief silence, and Szamuelly became, once again, the centre of interest.

"If the rope does not break, comrades," he boasted.

Bela Kun smiled softly. "Not so quickly, friend Szamuelly. I have now sent for one Wenzel who claimed to be a better man than the White Knight, and yet—I am afraid Comrade Wenzel must hang. At any moment now he may arrive, and you shall hear, before he dies, how he fared."

"In the meantime——?"

"We will discuss affairs of State. For instance, I am informed by Comrade Agoston that there are treasures still untouched in the Castle Gisella. We ought to teach its occupants the meaning of the word Communism. What say you, friends?"

"Ay, ay." The confirmation was unanimous.

Before anyone could speak again there was an interruption. The doors of the council chamber swung open and an officer of the Red Army entered.

"Well!" Annoyed by the intrusion, Bela Kun turned to the man, who stood there, unshaven, dirty, and utterly disreputable. Once he had been a refractory private; but on the strength of a long record of disciplinary breaches and subsequent punishment he was considered worthy of a better rank in the proletarian army.

"Comrade Wenzel has disappeared."

Kunfi laughed gutturally. "He took your threat to heart, comrade."

Bela Kun ignored his fellow-councillor and frowned at the officer.

"Friend, I gave you orders to arrest Comrade Wenzel. How mean you he has disappeared?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Merely that when I arrived Comrade Wenzel was not there. Neither had he been at his room for several days. One cannot arrest an absent man." He laughed slightly, as if memory of the past tickled his sense of humour.

"Did you search his room?"

"Yes, and found——"

"What?" Impatiently Bela Kim leaned forward.

The soldier stretched out his right hand, which was clenched. Slowly he opened his fingers, exposing on his palm something which made the Communist sit upright with a slight start. That at which he looked was a white knight.

* * * * * *

The Great Hungarian Plain, awe-inspiring in its rugged splendour, rises here and there to rocky peaks and granite eminences, upon many of which stately castles and impregnable fortresses proudly rear their turrets, for the Great Plain has been, for past centuries, the Armageddon of Europe. Here the fierce Magyars have stemmed the invasion of the Turkish hordes, have battled and died for the Cross. Here, too, at different times have the Roman Empire, Byzantium, Friuli, and Saxony all paid tribute to the unconquerable fighters of Hungary.

Now once again, not yet recovered from the ravages of the Great War, it was to be the scene of a tussle, perhaps not so bloody in its action, yet none the less significant in its outcome. As Hungary, in the past, had withstood the onslaught of the fanatics of the Crescent, saved Europe from Mahomet, now in 1919 it was to fight for Europe once again, for here, on the Plain, the encroaching Bolsheviks were encountering the indomitable peasants, the tillers of the soil, the defenders of the country.

The battle was not of swords, of guns, or of cannon, but of insidious propaganda undermining common sense, of bombastic promises, impossible innovations, promiscuous hangings, against all of which only tradition and unswerving loyalty to the Fatherland made stand.

The saga of the Great Plain is unsung, the epic of its peasantry unwritten, but the time will come when the world will awaken to its obligations, and in all gratitude repay the debt it owes in story, song, and history. As yet, however, stunned by the years of travail, bewildered by defeat, hypnotized by the imported emissaries of Lenin and Trotsky, the peasants listened to the rantings of the Communists, and slowly absorbed their teachings. Twenty-five acres of land free for each man—the prospect was enticing—to those who had worked the day long for the big magnates, the autocratic landowners of Hungary, as had their fathers, even their grandfathers, before them. They listened, and in the end their brows frowned, their faces creased into ugly lines, and they looked toward the castles and the fortresses and growled....

The Gisella Castle stood alone in its grandeur, the nearest town three miles away. Built many hundred years ago, its solid sides seemed untouched by the passage of time. If the outer walls were green with moss they were nevertheless as formidable and unapproachable as ever, prepared to yield only to modern high-powered explosives.

Here lived Imre Kiss and his daughter Elizabeth, all unconscious that away in Budapest Bela Kun and Company had cast envious eyes upon its splendours; and so, on a sparkling spring morning, when all nature seemed to sing with joy, they peacefully broke the fast.

Even Imre, conquering his fading sight only with the aid of pince-nez, could not fail to notice an air of elation in Elizabeth's manner as she joyfully partook of her meal.

"Why, daughter, what witchery are you up to this morning? It is a long time since I have seen you so happy."

Elizabeth glanced at him lovingly and smiled. "Father dear, you have not forgotten?"

"Forgotten!" The old man wrinkled his forehead and peered at her with a puzzled expression upon his face. "Have I forgotten something? Does Francis, your cousin, visit us this day?"

She laughed crooningly, so that its music rippled and echoed round the panelled hall. "Father dear, it is the fifteenth to-day. Does that date mean nothing to you?"

He looked at her, dismayed. "Bless my heart, child, it is your birthday! Dear, dear! Then to-day you are twenty-three years of age—and—and—" across the table his glance rested steadily upon her, longer than it had done for many years, "—why, dearest child, you are more beautiful than ever."

He gazed entranced upon the picture she presented. Through the leaded windows the sun was throwing a golden gleam, in the path of which she sat, so that she was bathed in its brilliancy.

"My child—twenty-three to-day." Murmuringly the words escaped; they were but thoughts which passed through his mind. "Just twenty years ago—she—died, and now—yet did she die? Is not my daughter Elizabeth she, the other Elizabeth? Are not those big, dark eyes, so full of pride and sympathy too, her eyes? It was when I first looked into them that I worshipped her. It is her chin you lift so proudly, dear; there is no doubt that you are born and bred a Magyar. You love Hungary too, don't you, daughter?"

At the mention of the word Elizabeth's face changed yet again, just as her expressions had altered following the trend of his reverie. From joy and happiness to naïve pleasure at his praise, then sadness, and a vague, indefinable longing. Then once more her features mirrored her thoughts. Pride of birth, of race, of country! Imre needed no affirmation to his question.

He shook his head from side to side. "But now, your birthday has arrived and I have no present for you. Tut, tut! My memory is becoming execrable. Perhaps it is my work—I devote too much time to it."

He looked away, out of the window, dreaming of his lifelong work, his chosen task. Once he had been a soldier, but that was many years ago. He married late, and when his beloved wife died he became a scholar. He dipped and delved into the past, until slowly there was born within him a passion to write of the lives of the kings of Hungary. So he began when Elizabeth was but a child of ten.

Soon now, perhaps in two or three years, he would write "Finis," but at times he feared, frightened that the Reaper would forestall him in his cherished ambition.

Of late the apprehension had become deeper; it seemed to him that there were moments when his heart fluttered strangely, and so he flung himself into his work, studying from morning till night. Thus he had forgotten an important anniversary, and he chided himself.

He need not have done so. Elizabeth understood and sympathized. She left her chair and knelt by his side, laying her head on his knees.

"Father darling, you must not say that. Your work means as much to me. I long for the time when your name will ring throughout Hungary, echo from town to town, and later trumpet to the world the glories of our saintly kings, and all they have done for mighty Europe."

Bending forward so that his thick, snow-white locks swept over his forehead, he placed his lips upon the masses of her black hair, after which he ran his fingers through its tresses, lovingly caressing the silky texture, admiring the healthy sheen.

"Well, well, child, let us hope that the time will come very soon. But now, what news to-day from Budapest? How proceeds the Peace Conference in Paris? Assuredly the Entente will be merciful to broken Hungary. England and America will not forget us."

Elizabeth frowned. "Again there are no papers, Father. I do not understand their absence and I am nervous."

"Nervous! God bless my soul! What nonsense are you talking? Why should you be nervous?"

She sighed. "I do not know. It may be merely a vague impression, yet since King Charles was dethroned——"

"Tut, tut, child! Do you not believe that it was diplomacy on the part of Count Michael Karolyi? The Government is in his hands. He is inclined to the Left. His Radical tendencies, we admit, are pronounced, but he could not stab his friends in the back. He is one of our class, one of our own people. Is not his wife the daughter of our greatest statesman? Fear not, child; rest your faith on Count Karolyi."

For his sake she smiled suddenly and gaily jumped to her feet. Yet the worry was not altogether driven from Elizabeth's mind by her father's optimism.

"Come, Father, to work."

"To work! Ah!" Imre's lined face softly wreathed into smiles, and his eyes brightened. Once more he would pick up his beloved pen, to write in words of gold of past glories, all unaware of the ghastly present.

Carefully, with the aid of a stick which now never left his side, he rose to his feet, and made his way to the window. Throwing it open he gazed at the glorious vista before him, breathing in the pure air of the Great Plain.

"What a morning! Come, child, stand by me and tell me what you see. Does the town still stand enshrouded by the filthy smoke of industrialism?"

Elizabeth did not reply, and Imre became conscious that her grip upon his arm was tightening.

"What is the matter, Elizabeth?" he asked, surprised.

"Father, there is a man riding towards us as if he were pursued by a demon."

"Pshaw! Do not all our horsemen ride thus? Perhaps he brings us the newspapers."

Elizabeth endeavoured to believe in this supposition, but receptive to occult influence, a heritage of gipsy blood, she had a premonition that the rapidly approaching rider bore news of ill-omen, and her heart beat quicker with anxiety.

At last, after an apparently interminable period, he reached the massive iron gates of the castle, and a moment later the clang of a deep-toned bell resounded throughout the purlieus of the walls.

A brief interval, hurrying footsteps, and then Peczkai, from the village, was shown in.

His face was covered with sweat and streaked with dirt, his clothes were white with dust. Gasping for breath he turned to the old man.

"Excellency!" He could say no more, and Imre motioned him to be quiet. His hoarse breathing became easier.

"Excellency, the Communists are on their way here!"

"Communists!" Imre gazed at the peasant in bewilderment. "What mean you? I do not understand."

"The Communists, Excellency, are coming here, by order of the Soviet."

"Soviet!" The old man choked and a hastily aroused temper began to display itself. Seeing him thus Elizabeth spoke to the man.

"You must tell us more, Peczkai. What you have said to us is a mystery. We have had no news for some time now, our newspapers have not arrived."

"God help you, then, when you hear the news. The Karolyi Government has resigned, and the country has been taken over by a group of Jews who call themselves the Dictatorship of the Proletariat. Hungary is Bolshevik, Red. The bourgeoisie and the aristocracy are fleeing for their lives. Everything is nationalized, the property of the country, and anyone may take what they please. It is bloody revolution, Excellency!"

They looked at the man incredulously, hesitating to believe a word he said. Yet Elizabeth was the first to realize the truth.

"Oh, Mother in Heaven!" she whispered to herself, yet the sound pierced the stillness of the room with a sharp echo.

Imre, after a moment's hesitation, remained unmoved. "Impossible!" he announced, and his eyes flashed. "Hungary turned Bolshevik! Impossible!" Proudly he lifted his head and met the peasant's steady gaze.

Peczkai groaned. "Excellency, I could not believe until I saw, with my own eyes. Red guards are everywhere, pillaging and looting in the name of the Soviet. Rumours have reached us from Budapest of death, of mysterious disappearances. Our late Prime Minister and many others have been thrown into prison. Excellency, you must believe! The Communists are on the way here now! Any moment they may arrive. You must flee; it will be better so."

Hesitation to believe battled with a hopeless recognition of the truth in Imre's heart. He did not move or speak; just stood still while the blood receded from his face and his eyes became shadowed with an overwhelming horror.

While he wrote of Hungary's greatness, this, this unspeakable sacrilege was taking place. Hungary Red! The country of St Stephen, the birthplace of a long list of valiant warriors—Bolshevik!

"A chair, Elizabeth," he gasped weakly as, unable to bear the sudden weight of sorrow, he felt his knees tottering. Quicker than Elizabeth Peczkai was beside him, holding the older man up in his strong arms.

"Excellency, a short rest only. Then you must go. See, I will take you, guide you to a safe place."

"Go! Go!" Slowly the bowed shoulders straightened, the head lifted, and Peczkai saw Imre's eyes blazing with a kindled fire. "Go! Never! Who are these Communists that I should leave my home, the home of my father, and his father before him? Who are these dogs that I should forsake my castle? Never! Let them come. I will horsewhip them. Not yet is my arm too weak to defend myself and my daughter. Go you, Peczkai, and dare these Bolsheviks to come near."

Despairingly the peasant glanced at Elizabeth, but vainly. As she stood there she smiled slightly, haughtily, disdainfully. The spirit of the fighting Magyars revealed itself in her womanly grace; daughter of a generation of warriors, she feared neither friend nor foe. Once again Peczkai groaned.

"Excellency..." He spread out an arm appealingly.

Imre smiled softly. "God bless you, Peczkai." There was much in his voice which even the uncultured peasant recognized—gratitude, tenderness, scorn, but above all, inflexible decision.

Peczkai, with a bowed head, helped Imre to a chair, and left the room. Bowed, for in the corner of each eye trickled a tear. When the awakening came... He felt an infinite pity for them.

It was soon to come. Even as Elizabeth went to the window to watch the return of Peczkai to the village she saw in the distance the approaching Communists. Her lips curled scornfully. There were many of them, perhaps two dozen, or three—as they came nearer she realized that even this estimate was too low.

"They come, Father."

She looked round. He sat as if he had not heard.

So she waited at the windows, and the Communists came nearer till she was able to see their faces, and for the first time feared. Most of them were villagers, led by a sprinkling of strangers, but the vanguard was packed with cruel faces and criminal countenances. Even many of these men she knew, recognized them as incorrigibles, vagabonds, ne'er-do-wells, every one of them an habitué of prison.

Where were the police that these convicts were let loose? She experienced a thrill of horror: there, side by side with the misdemeanants, walked the renegade police, no longer spick-and-span in their uniforms, but dirty and dissolute, wearing conspicuously their ensign of shame, the Red cockade.

"Oh, Mother in Heaven!" she breathed.

The awakening at last! "Father, the gates! we must close them! Then we can defy them, snap our fingers at them."

Before he had time to reply she hurried from the room and called the servants as she ran.

In the courtyard Joseph and Eugene the coachmen were watching the Communists, whispering to each other in an undertone. Then Elizabeth was before them.

"Joseph, Eugene, the Bolsheviks are coming to occupy the castle. Shut to the gates."

Neither man moved, just glanced uneasily at one another.

"Eugene, do you hear?" The other servants were joining them, all but the women.

The man looked up and scowled. "Yes, mistress, I hear," but he made no attempt to move. Fear tugged at Elizabeth's heart, but the servants did not suspect it, as before her burning looks their own gaze gave way and fell.

"Then obey. Shut to the gates and keep that rabble at a distance."

From the back a voice shouted: "Hold hard, mistress! Don't you call our friends names." Elizabeth endeavoured to locate the voice, but the man had hidden himself behind another servant.

"Friends!" Her voice rang with contempt. "Do you call those men your friends? Do you, Eugene, and you, George, or you, Bela?"

Only Eugene had the pluck to answer. "I choose my own friends, mistress. Times are different now. We are all alike, you and me and Joseph." He laughed coarsely. "You are not our mistress now. You and me are comrades. This castle belongs to the country, and me and Joseph and all of us are going to share it."

Elizabeth did not waste time in words. She stepped forward and flung her hand across his face, and the force of it first whitened the skin then left a livid weal.

There was a deadly silence. One or two of the more timid servants shrank back, still amenable to authority, but Eugene the coachman, his face diffused with evil, stepped forward. "You——" He raised his arm, but Joseph caught hold of it.

"Wait, Eugene, wait for the others. In a few minutes our pretty mistress will soon realize who governs the country now. Comrade Grocz knows how to deal with the bourgeoisie. Besides..." he whispered in the other's ear, and afterward they both grinned evilly.

For Elizabeth the end of the world might have come. The servants to revolt, the men who had been in their employ for years, whom she could have sworn would be faithful to death! She looked at the gates. Too late now to close them, for the villagers were on the threshold. She felt a sob rising in her throat at the treachery of the men, but repressed it, and running to the gates stood in the entrance, her arms spread.

Obedient to impulses not yet entirely driven from them the villagers stopped. Only the Communists from Budapest had the courage to advance, and headed by Comrade Grocz they moved forward till they stood in front of her.

"Well, my pretty miss, what do you want?" Grocz laughed and spat on the ground.

Elizabeth looked at him, a fierce anger blazing from her eyes. "Dog!" she cried. "Get back to your kennel."

Some one laughed, otherwise the silence was intense. Elizabeth appreciated the moment, took advantage of it. Coolly ignoring the strangers, she spoke to the villagers, among whom she had been brought up since childhood, and her young voice clearly rang through the air, reaching every man in the crowd.

"Men, what do you want? Why come you here to-day? Are you to be turned into a crowd of barbarians at the command of a handful of Jews from Budapest? Are you so forgetful of your own independence that you must blindly follow on the heels of a few mischief-makers who seek only their own advancement? Have you forgotten the four long years of war? Did you sacrifice yourselves for this?"

Perhaps her words might have had effect, but unconsciously she touched upon the wrong topic.

"Bah! Who started the War, who plunged us peasants into the hell of battle? You magnates, you landowners and blood-suckers. You, who fatten on the work we do for you at starvation pay; you, all of you, started the War to grind us down more than ever!"

The words were greeted by a chorus of affirmative growls. The tide had turned and none knew it better than Comrade Grocz.

"Out of the way! We cannot stand arguing here all day long. Three cheers for the Dictatorship of the Proletariat! Long live Bela Kun! Come along, comrades, worthy Bela Kun has given us Castle Gisella. Shall we let a little chit of a girl stand in our way?"

There was a restless movement. "No, no, move on!"

Out of the corner of her eyes Elizabeth saw Imre approaching, and it seemed to her that he leaned more heavily than usual upon his supporting stick. At all costs she felt she must keep the mob away.

"Back, back!" She faced them desperately, and her dauntless bearing impressed the villagers, so that once again they stopped. It did more: wavering servants, already ashamed of their deviation from loyalty, lined up behind her, heedless of Eugene's cajoleries and threats.

Unseen, unnoticed, Lenin's shadow fell across the tableau; the ghastly influence of Bela Kun, the example of Tibor Szamuelly, reached even here. Sneering slightly, an ex-policeman, now a Red guard, sighted his rifle and pulled the trigger.

The shot went wide, but only just, so that its flight whistled past Elizabeth's ear. The blood drained from her face, but she did not move, and at this first sign of open hostility her courage deepened. Nor was it without effect on the invaders. Like a bone thrown into the midst of a pack of starving wolves the shot released a flood of pent-up passion. Gone in a moment were memories of the past; tradition, gratitude, and common sense, all were forgotten.

Jostling, pushing, and shouting out insulting epithets, the mob advanced, led by Comrade Grocz. Some one, she never knew whom, caught her roughly by the shoulders, and she was flung aside like a sack of coal, her dress tearing down to the waist and revealing her underclothing. Even then she might have stood up to them, but a pair of arms weakly encircled her and held her back.

"My daughter, my child! Elizabeth, you are not hurt? The beasts, the cowards! Would that I were twenty, even ten years younger and I would flog them out of the castle on their knees. May I be cursed that my limbs fail me, may I——"

She put her lingers to his lips, and mutely they stood still, helplessly watching the Communists brush past, and the castle which had withstood Mongols, Frenchmen, Germans, Turks, and Austrians fall to the disciples of Karl Marx and Lenin.

* * * * * *

An hour later they ventured in again. In the meantime they had hidden in an outhouse, where one of the female servants found them. To Elizabeth she brought another dress, though, when she looked, Elizabeth did not recognize it.

"This is one of your own?" she said.

"Yes, mistress."

"But why did you not bring me one of mine?"

Looking everywhere but at her mistress the maid stammered an answer: "I—I was afraid of the—the men, mistress."

Decently dressed again Elizabeth decided that her father and she ought to return to the castle, and leaving the shelter of the outhouse they crossed the courtyard. No one was to be seen.

They entered, only to stop, aghast. No wonder the maid had not looked Elizabeth in the eye. On every hand were damage and destruction, from every corner ascended a stench of vile, unwashed humanity. The Communists were everywhere, lounging about, smoking Imre's cigars and cigarettes, spitting on the floor, exchanging obscene jokes.

Elizabeth closed her eyes to shut out the ghastly scene, and Imre sobbed aloud. His grand old castle, full of heirlooms, priceless antiques, and less valuable pieces of furniture which had become dear to the heart from long familiarity, ruined and desecrated by the filthy hands of the vandals!

Mechanically they moved on. Everywhere it was the same. Destruction abounded. Tiny objets d'art thrown into the grate, exquisite tapestry pulled off the walls to clean the boots of the proletariat.

In due course Comrade Grocz saw them.

"Hullo, comrade! hullo, sister!" He greeted them familiarly. "Jolly little place you have had here in the past. So nice in fact that it is a pity you have not had an opportunity of sharing it before. By order of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat your jewellery is confiscated, together with all other objects of value. Your castle will be shared by good Communists. I have allotted you two rooms to yourselves, out of my generosity. The rest will be common rooms. Pass on, comrades; remember the Dictatorship of the Proletariat has come to stay." He moved, laughing harshly.

Dismayed, bewildered, Elizabeth and her father falteringly stumbled along the passage. Communists passed, bearing in their arms bundles of clothes, pieces of furniture, cushions, pillows, but not one appeared to notice them. Were they not all equal now?

At last they found their rooms, traced them in that they were unoccupied, and that on the floor were tossed their clothes, a paltry few, transferred from their proper wardrobes by order of Comrade Grocz. Just two rooms; a bedroom each to the father and daughter who, but a few hours ago, had owned the whole castle.

"I—I will go in—for a rest." Keeping his face sedulously hidden from his daughter, Imre mumbled the words beneath his breath and tottered into his new bedroom. She followed and caught hold of his arm in support, but he waved her away. "Go, my child—I want—want to be alone." There was a break in his voice, and hearing it Elizabeth choked, conscious that there was a suspicious lump in her own throat.

Imre sank into a chair, his head bowed. Elizabeth tiptoed from the room and quietly shut the door.

Not far away was a bathroom. She would have washed, but she found the bolt wrenched off. Under the Bolshevik régime there was to be no privacy. It was part of their policy, a Communistic theory, that the sexes be thrown promiscuously together. Even modesty was to be State-owned.

Hardly conscious of her actions she returned to her room. It seemed hot, stuffy, and smelly from contact with the Communists. She crossed to the window and flung it open, breathing in the spring air with deep gasps. That at least was pure, perhaps the only pure thing left in unhappy Hungary.

Somehow it surprised Elizabeth that Nature still smiled. It did not seem possible for anyone or anything to smile now. Yet it was so. The gentle breeze whispered its lullaby, the sun shone gaily, and the fleecy clouds, leisurely wafting along, served to emphasize the sparkling sapphire hue of the sky.

Below her, a sheer drop of fifty feet, the broad Danube flowed, undisturbed in its course by human outrage. Elizabeth was fascinated by its tranquillity, its absolute disinterestedness. It did not dash more fiercely against its rock-bound walls, nor sing its song the louder. What meant war or revolution, massacre or murder to it? Inexorably its waters flowed onward, unheeding mankind's plight. Cruel Nature, heartless Danube!

In the meantime Imre, in the next room, suffered. Though of late years he had remained away from the wide world, given up the last years of his life to scholarly pursuits, there had been a time when he was young, when he had sipped of its pleasures, tasted lightly of its vices. As then he had known the world, and mankind in particular, so now he trembled for his daughter.

What would happen when the wine cellar was opened, when the mellow Tokay stirred up the passions of the men? God! he dared not think. Yet he knew he must think, and plan escape for Elizabeth. What were his castle, his lands, his money, compared to her?

He must be polite to the Communists; escape would be easier if they did not suspect him. He must think—carefully. He gazed around, and the scene—the clothes on the floor, the missing ornaments, the disturbed bed—angered him, and he felt his temper bubbling over, blinding his clarity of vision.

There was only one place to which he could go—his beloved study. So he made his way there, keeping guard on himself, and ignoring the jeering Communists. Once there he knew its atmosphere would assist him to think more coherently, to plan a way to get the better of the scum.

The study door was closed and no one about. With a quick movement, which twisted his lips with pain, he entered, and shut the door behind him, breathing with relief.

So the tableau was set, Imre Kiss by the door, leaning on his stick, and Comrade Grocz by a massive desk, a bundle of manuscript in one hand, a lighted match in the other.

And Imre—for the moment he did not fully comprehend the significance of what he saw. His brain was blank, chilled by the disappointment at finding even here the sacrilegious presence of Communists.

Then the devouring flame of realization fired his blood. His papers, his sacred manuscripts, the work of years about to be destroyed! Another few seconds and the match would have been applied. There was no fear within him at that moment, only a consuming rage, a murderous hate, and a flaming, unquenchable spirit which oiled his limbs, swept aside for the moment the ravages of time. With a bellow of rage he raised aloft his heavy walking-stick, and, rushing forward, crashed it down upon the skull of the Communist.

Without a sound Comrade Grocz dropped to the ground.

By the time he came round again the papers were hidden where no Communist's hands would ever find them, but the black soul of Grocz shrieked for revenge.

It was nothing to him that, the precious manuscripts saved, gentle-hearted Imre was bathing the Communist's head. He only saw the man who had stunned him. He rose quickly to his feet, leaving Imre on his knees. Now was his chance. He swung his foot forward. His heavy-soled boot crashed into the old man's face, and Imre, racked with pain, gently slid backward to the floor with a groan.

Budapest, and Comrade Grocz pleading to Bela Kun for satisfaction.

Bela Kun was sympathetic. "Of course, comrade. An insult to you is an insult to the Soviet. Go back to Castle Gisella and hang the old man. Do just as you like, but do not let him escape." His eyes flashed. "Remember, Grocz, I shall hold you responsible. The bourgeoisie must be exterminated."

Grocz smiled savagely. "Thank you, comrade. Do not fear. I know of a very good method of hanging. It does it gradually. But, comrade, there is another matter. There is a daughter."

"Ha! A daughter. Is she young?"

"Deliciously so."

"And pretty?"

"None more so."

Bela Kun grinned all over his misshapen face. "Comrade Grocz, if I were you——"

Grocz nodded his head. "And afterwards?"

Bela Kun frowned. "Let her join her pig of a father in Hell."

Grocz was confident. "Leave that to me, comrade."

The train back was not due to leave for another hour, so Grocz sat at the station buffet, surrounded by friends, whiling away the time. It was good that his old chum Brody came along. There was a tale to tell, so he told it, and in its recital it lost nothing of the drama. As the cluster around him grew larger so his voice boomed louder. It was pleasing to be thus a centre of interest.

All the same he kept his eye on the clock. There was work to be done. He wanted to see the old man at the end of a rope, his legs kicking—better still there was Elizabeth....

At last the train puffed out, crowded to double its capacity, as were all trains in those days, but Grocz saw to it that he had plenty of room. There was one window seat occupied by an old woman. He thrust her out of it, and then took her place, stretching his long legs across to the opposite side. Having settled himself comfortably he pulled from his pocket a large cigar which had once belonged to Imre Kiss, and read The People's Voice.

Little did he know that in the same train travelled Nemesis, that among the group of Reds to whom he had boasted of what was to happen later that night were Arnold Terhune and his mysterious leader, the White Knight.

They did not speak to one another, the two Englishmen; each had thoughts of his own. But then it was not safe to talk of anything but trivialities: for instance, the man in the opposite corner, with his hawk nose, his cunning eyes, and close-cropped head might have been a detective.

Dressed in the filthiest of rags, gathered from a garbage heap, wearing the inevitable Red cockade, behaving like a bully and a brute, Terhune was not conspicuous in any respect; but the same could not be said of the White Knight. Towering above many of the tallest men, Geoffrey Templeton, alias Istvan Wenzel, could not disguise his height, his rugged strength, nor even his hideous ugliness, from which even the bestial Reds glanced away in disgust.

With his livid wounds Wenzel was a veritable ogre, an inhuman monstrosity, terrifying in appearance. There were times when Terhune turned away his own eyes, retching at the sight of his leader.

The train rumbled on through the environs of the city until it reached the country, and Terhune, comparing its impressive simplicity with its tillers and its reapers who composed the occupants of the carriage, could not arrive at any reconciliation of the situation. Crowded slum-dwellers, living in filth and grime, rubbing shoulders with the rich, imbibing the seeds of dissatisfaction, he could well understand rising in revolution; but where there was beauty and natural art, fresh air and immense open spaces—there, he felt, the spread of revolution could only be a disease, a fostered and malignant growth.

From reason for the creation of internal strife, Arnold's thoughts passed on to its victims. As always, his memory reverted to the night when he had first seen Cecile, sitting in the flickering candlelight by her mother's bedside. He realized that he wanted to see her again and again after that. Perhaps, one day, when the Bolshevik Government was overturned, when the country was released from the grip of the octopus—but that time could only be in the distant future. He sighed, and, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the White Knight.

As usual, Wenzel's face was set in hard lines, his eyes staring ahead, unblinkingly emotionless. Of what was he thinking? And Arnold, aware of the tragedy in the life of Geoffrey Templeton, could well guess.

The train steamed into a local station and the carriage cleared, so that only Arnold and Wenzel were left, even the cunning-eyed man taking his departure. Arnold, somewhat suspicious of him, watched his back disappearing into the exit of the station, and presently noticed him walking along an adjacent street. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that to all intents and purposes he had been mistaken in his assumption of the character of the man.

After a wearisome wait the train continued its journey, and looking toward the east Arnold saw that the sky was beginning to deepen into a sombre grey. Farther along the train some one was playing the Internationale on a violin, and the strains echoed along the corridor.

Wenzel did not move, but continued to sit mutely awaiting the journey's end, passively oblivious of anything other than what was passing through his mind. Arnold chafed at the silence, for now that, to a certain extent, the necessity for caution was past, his leader's attitude was uncanny.

"Geoffrey, old man, we are nearly there."

"Well?" Not a muscle of his face moved. Arnold moved across the carriage so that he sat opposite, hoping that he might read the expression of Wenzel's eyes, but he was disappointed. Nothing was to be glimpsed but an impenetrable blank, an expressionless stare.

Arnold wanted to talk. "You have made your plans?" he asked.

Wenzel nodded. "As far as possible."

"And those?"

"We will follow Grocz at a distance. Soon after he has entered the castle we will arrive with a message from Bela Kun, probably something to do with the hanging of this old man. Once inside our wits must do the rest."

There was a silence, broken eventually by Arnold.

"Geoffrey, why did you not warn me it was you who were the guard that night when we rescued the Count Bakocz? When I felt my pistol butt sink into your flesh I could have gasped with horror. God! It must have hurt you."

"Not as much as it did you. You scarcely bruised the skin."

"Even so, was there anyone else near by, save the Count, that we had to act so realistically?"

"No."

"Then—why?" he asked desperately.

"Two men only have seen the White Knight, Arnold. You are one, Apor is the other. My very plans centre on the secrecy which surrounds me. I fear even the gratitude of those I rescue. I trust no one—but you."

"And I—I am a poor help to you, Geoffrey. Yours is the brain, I am but the muscle. Still, I am more than satisfied. All my life I shall thank God that I came across you that—that day. If I never prove of further use to the world I shall rest satisfied that I have, even in such a small way, helped to alleviate the lot of an unhappy nation, to counteract the ghastly ravages of the handful of murderers who govern the country.

"When we were at school together, you and I, Geoffrey, when we used to outvie one another to see who could be the most daring, I am sure neither of us ever dreamed that ten years later we should be here, in Hungary, doing what we are. You were always the leader, though, even in those days. I could never equal you, for strength, for daring—for anything."

"Yet, Arnold, if I was the leader, I had more than an able lieutenant, even as I have to-day. Schooldays! They were long ago! They were happy days, those. I have changed. You haven't, Arnold. You are older, a trifle more solemn, but you have still that rugged, unbendable spirit of loyalty. The Spanish Inquisition would not have persuaded you to betray a friend, Arnold."

Arnold flushed. He was not used to praise of this kind from his leader, and, embarrassed, he changed the subject.

"Once inside the castle, Geoffrey—are you not afraid of being trapped?"

"Trapped!" Scornfully Wenzel derided the suggestion. "Am I so brainless that I cannot hope to blind the eyes of the unintelligent spawn? Are my arms too weak to throttle a few of the accursed swine? No, Arnold, I have no fear on that score."

"What of a rifle bullet? Neither brains nor brawn, Geoffrey, can successfully withstand the flight of a cartridge."

For the first time that day Wenzel smiled. "Then shall I be glad, Arnold. Don't you realize that death is all I seek? What is life to me now? Hell! Hell, from morning till night. My thoughts torture me when I—I think of—Zita, poor little Zita dying from the shock of seeing her father bayoneted to death by—by the muckrake of the earth, the spewed-out refuse of the lowest type of humanity. God! All I wish is to kill, kill; murder the brutes as they murdered Zita."

So redly did his scars throb with the intensity of his passion that it seemed to Arnold they might burst with the pressure. Wenzel may have guessed his thoughts, for he laughed harshly, hideously.

"God was still not satisfied with all He had done to me. No, there was more to come, Arnold, more to come. First He took away my Zita, killed my heart, chilled my soul, and then, when I wanted to die that I might join her, when I murdered six bloody Bolsheviks and gave myself up that I might perish by their bullets, what queer prank did He play then?

"Let me be put up against the wall, let the Communists fire, let every bullet strike me here and here—here—here—so that I fell, and was left for dead, and yet—what then? Let me live, live that I might gaze in the mirror at myself and hate my own face as I hate the Bolsheviks, detest myself as I would the Devil.

"Do you think I am blind that I cannot see the hellish scars which score my face and head from side to side? God! I wish I couldn't. It hurts so, it hurts so."

No longer were his eyes expressionless. Once Arnold had looked into the eyes of a dog, his body flattened beneath the tyres of a motor-car, and what he saw then remained with him as a memory for years. Once again he saw the pictured story of unbearable pain, and this time it was in Geoffrey's eyes.

If his body were on earth, his soul was in the deepest depths of Hell. If he lived it was only to look for death, the death which was preferable to life.

The train rumbled on, and Comrade Grocz impatiently waited for the journey to finish.

* * * * * *

By the time Grocz reached the castle it was practically pitch dark. Eugene, the ex-coachman, met him at the gate.

"Back again, comrade?"

"Yes, back again, my friend, with good news."

Eugene grunted. "He is to die?"

"Ay, my friend, at the end of a rope, over the battlements. Then when it is all over we will cut the rope and he will fall 'plop' into the Danube. What more could you want?"

"Nothing more. Your scheme is excellent, yet I would give you advice, comrade." He paused.

"Well, say on," urged Grocz impatiently.

"Firstly I would, were I you, dispatch the old man to-night."

Grocz grinned in the darkness. "Worry not, comrade. I have already decided to do that—and other things. Only why do you say this?"

"Because I have heard rumours. There are certain pig-headed villagers who regard our friend as they would a god. There are hints of a rescue."

"What!" Grocz's face blackened. "Who would dare to dispute the judgment of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat? Show me them, give me their names, and I warrant good Comrade Tibor Szamuelly will soon persuade them to change their minds."

"Quietly, comrade, quietly! I know no names. I have merely overheard a conversation, and I say—to-night shut fast the gates, post sentries, and give orders that no one may pass in, not even Bela Kun himself."

Grocz thought for a moment or two, and then smacked his knee. "Good advice, my friend! We will see that this is done."

Inside the castle he rapidly issued orders and the gates rolled to; then Red guards, with loaded rifles, and a bottle of wine by their side, were set to keep watch.

Having done this Grocz made his way into the depths of the castle. Here were cells, built by Hungary's defenders, for Hungary's foes. Here in one of them lay a Hungarian defender, placed there by a Hungarian foe.

To Imre Kiss came Grocz, gloatingly. "Well, old man, you can say your prayers. At midnight sharp, to-night, you die."

"And my daughter?" Imre's voice quavered. All day long, since he had been dragged from above and thrown inside, he had neither heard nor seen Elizabeth, and, sick with anxiety, he had lain on a rough, mouldy heap of straw, hour after hour, praying to his Creator for his daughter's safety, no thought of self, of his own fate, content to die if his daughter be saved, unharmed. In the light of the lantern Imre saw the Communist nod his head. "Don't you worry! She is quite all right."

"You—you are not going to kill her? For God's sake let her remain safe and sound! Kill me, but leave her."

"Don't you worry, we will do that all right," replied Grocz brutally.

"You swear you will look after her?"

"Yes, I will look after her."

"God bless you," Imre murmured. Then as he left the cell Grocz laughed slightly. Once again Imre saw his face clearly betrayed in the light, and at that moment realized the fate in store for Elizabeth.

The horror was too much for his heart. With a tiny sigh he slipped back, unconscious, to the straw-strewn floor.

In the meantime Elizabeth knew naught of what had happened to her father. So far as she was aware, the only occurrence was that some time after she shut herself in her room the key clicked in its socket. When she tried the door it was locked. From this she assumed that her father had been treated in a like manner.

At midday one of her own servants, with downcast eyes, brought her up a simple meal, set out upon a tray, and putting it down upon a small table quickly made her exit without a word.

The afternoon dragged on interminably till it merged into the evening. Once again a meal was brought to her. This time she questioned the maid.

"Why do you not speak to me, Lenke?"

The woman glanced fearfully at her. "Mistress, I have been forbidden to speak to you or to answer any questions."

Elizabeth gazed with scorn at the trembling servant. "Are you afraid of the—the—animals?"

Lenke whimpered slightly. "Mistress, they—they threaten to—to kill me unless I obey their commands."

Elizabeth laughed. "And you believe they would dare to do so?"

"Mistress, they would dare. They—they are beasts!" Her voice sank to a whisper. "Mistress, I heard a cry just before noon like a man who—who had been mortally injured. The voice was like that of Ernest, the butler. Mistress, mistress—" Lenke fell on her knees, and catching hold of Elizabeth's dress buried her face in its folds, and sobbed—"Ernest—has—disappeared. In his room were only—bloodstains."

"Oh, Lenke!" Elizabeth whispered to herself, and her face went suddenly white. It did not seem possible; Ernest to disappear so! She tried to convince herself that the maid was lying, but if Elizabeth needed any confirmation of the truth it was in Lenke's attitude.

If that had happened, without any knowledge of it having reached her until now, what other awful deeds might already have taken place? Her father...

Frantically she bent down and clutched Lenke by the shoulders till the servant moaned with pain. "Lenke—Lenke—my father—your master, is he safe?"

Lenke gazed with horror at her mistress, then she broke free from Elizabeth's grasp, ran across the room to the door, and disappeared outside. The key turned. Elizabeth was once again alone.

The terror depicted in the maid's face—her significant dismay at the question—her orders to answer no questions—seized with consternation Elizabeth sank into a chair as she felt her limbs trembling.

Question after question raced through her mind, queries which could not be answered. As though an icy blast were blowing through her room she shivered with a cold fear. The unconquerable spirit which did not wilt beneath the horror of the day was stricken down at the thought of her father. Where was he now, what had happened to him? Feverishly she crossed to the door and hammered upon it till her hands turned red. For a long time there was no movement, but presently she heard a shuffle along the passage outside.

The door opened, a Red guard stood there.

"My father, where is he? Quick, for the love of mercy tell me!" she pleaded.

The Red guard scowled at her. "Is that all you want?"

"Yes, yes. Tell me, please, I cannot bear the anxiety."

He did not reply. Instead he seized his rifle, and placing the butt to her waist pushed with all his might. Elizabeth went hurtling across the room, to fall with a crash against the wall.

The man laughed brutally and slammed the door.

More hours passed. Elizabeth never knew how many, but it seemed a score or so. The room was in pitch darkness. Racked with physical pain from her bruised body, mentally a prey to an overwhelming fear, she sat in a chair, sick and dazed. So Grocz found her when, bearing aloft a flickering candle, which he set down, he visited her to make her acquainted with the orders of the Dictator of the Proletariat.

"I have brought you a light."

She looked up at him dully. "My father—won't you tell me, please? Where is he? What are you going to do with him?"

Grocz frowned. "Swing the old man to perdition."

The shock paralysed her muscles. She could only look up at him dumbly, trying to pull together her scattered thoughts, to make some coherency of his words.

"So shall suffer all enemies of the Commune," he boasted. "So should you too, my pretty lady, and yet—" he moistened his thick, sensuous lips—"it would be a pity if the world lost such a charming young person. My efforts with the Soviet have served you, sweet Elizabeth, and they have put your life in my hands.

"Fear not, you shall not die, though your father hangs at midnight. I shall myself see that the work is faithfully carried out." He paused, and unconsciously his fingers touched his head, still bruised and tender where Imre's stick had caught it. "Afterwards—" he bowed—"afterwards, pretty lady, you may expect me here. Your life is mine, I shall make good use of it. See, I will leave you this candle till then. It shall not be said that I was unkind to the little lady whose life I have saved." With which he withdrew from the room, his eyes flickering as he shut the door.

"Ho, there!"

Two men stood outside the castle gates, cursing beneath their breath.

On the other side a Communist laughed noisily.

"Hullo, comrades! What want you at this time of night?"

"We come with a message to Comrade Grocz from Bela Kun."

The Communist laughed again, and turned to his companion, whose besotted face grinned vacantly. "A good joke, eh, my friend! A message from Bela Kun. What was it good Comrade Grocz told us? 'Open not the gates even to Bela Kun himself.' Ha, ha! You will have to come again to-morrow, friends." He swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"Open! Our message is important." Wenzel's voice hardened. "Unless Bela Kun's orders are obeyed your necks may stretch."

Imre's potent wine had done its work well. "Who cares for Bela Kun? To-morrow I may be the Dictator, or at least a commissary. Or else my friend here. Good night, brothers. Come again to-morrow." Arm in arm the two guards turned their backs and reeled into the interior of the castle, carrying with them the flask of wine.

The darkness, unrelieved by even the light of moon or stars, hid everything within a cloak of invisibility, so that even the castle itself was but a blur, revealed only by flickering gleams of illumination from a few windows. That, and one other thing. On top of the castle itself three men, working by the light of four or five lanterns, moved busily about to the accompaniment of hammering. They were erecting the gallows from which Imre was shortly to hang.

Wenzel cursed at the sudden, unforeseen obstacle in the fulfilment of his plans. "Hell! May the Devil seize him! Do you think Comrade Grocz suspected he was being followed, Arnold?"

"No, I think not," Terhune replied slowly.

"Then why the order not to let in even Bela Kun himself?"

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. "A sense of authority in the first place, but there is a worse aspect. After the hanging Grocz wishes no interruption in his filthy schemes."

Wenzel's muscles tightened. "God grant me the chance to grip his soft throat between my thumbs," he muttered between his teeth. "But now, is there another way in? Let us explore, Arnold."

Stumbling along the uneven rocky surface, Wenzel and his lieutenant proceeded to examine, as far as possible, the geography of the castle. Keeping well beneath the shadow of the outer battlements they knew they were safe from the observation of those within the castle. It would be only Communists or sentries actually above them on the battlements who would be likely to hear or see them—an unlikely contingency.

Presently they came to one corner; here the wall turned off at right angles to make a second side of the square in which the castle was built. Continuing, the two Englishmen turned also. For perhaps two hundred feet they crept along without discovering any sign of another door.

Suddenly Wenzel stopped, restraining Arnold by a touch on his arm, his keen ears having become aware of a strange, sighing echo, a noise hollowly flung at them from out of the darkness. He felt the influence of a cold wind, a sensation of space.

He looked ahead, then beneath him, and gasped slightly. Deep down below, an inestimable distance, were lights eerily waving to and fro. Another few steps and they might have hurtled into the depths before them.

The lights puzzled him; he could make nothing definite of their fantastic action. What, too, was the soughing below? All at once the solution occurred to him. The lights below were reflections of others above.

"The Danube!" he breathed softly.

"Good Lord!" Arnold was horrified. "Another few steps and——"

"Perhaps."

That was all! Coolly indifferent to the possibility of having just escaped death, the White Knight passed again to the front of Arnold and they retraced their steps. They reached the gates again, and with the utmost caution passed by in front of them, then explored the other side of the castle.

There it was just the same. After the turn, a couple of hundred yards' walk, and then the blowing wind, the sensation of space. The castle needed battlements on three sides only, for the fourth was impregnable; Nature in the shape of a precipitous drop to the river provided protection enough.

"Well?"

Arnold detected a grim note of interrogation in Wenzel's voice. "There seems no hope of admittance," he answered.

"There has got to be. Do you think I am content to let the old man hang, and his daughter be violated?"

"What can you do? If Grocz meant all he said at the station buffet, Imre Kiss will hang at twelve."

"He was deadly serious, Arnold, else why the gallows?" He pointed to the castle roof where the men had been working, to notice that there was now no sign of them. The work was finished, the deadly instrument ready for its victim.

"The swine!" In the intensity of his emotion Arnold hissed the word between set teeth. "And yet——?"

There was no need for him to complete his unspoken question. The White Knight answered it after a slight pause. "Arnold, there is one way. I am going to scale the battlements."

"Geoffrey—you can't! They must be twenty feet high or more and probably smooth as glass."

"Yet I am going to try," and there was a finality in his voice which permitted of no opposition. Arnold, knowing that his leader would make the attempt, failed to see any prospect of success. If there had been but a modicum of light, a single gleam of illumination by which to see footholds, find weaknesses in the solid structure of which advantage might be taken, then, however hazardous and foolhardy the task might have seemed, there was at least a possibility of triumph. But in the present circumstances...

The White Knight laughed slightly, and the next moment he was by the wall, his hands and feet feeling for the slightest crack, the smallest protuberance which would afford him a hold.

The moss was thick in parts, and deceiving. It felt firm and secure, yet it needed little pressure to tear its roots from the stonework, and was a hindrance rather than a help, for pieces fell into Wenzel's face, and into his eyes.

At last his groping fingers found a tiny indent where the mortar had crumbled away. Not deep enough for him to insert his finger-tips even as far as the first joint, yet he deemed it sufficient. He took a firm grip, and by sheer force lifted his tall body a few inches and pressed his toes against the wall, until one foot felt resistance beneath it. So he advanced the first step upward.

Carefully he released his left hand. His weight pulled at the fingers of the other, but he tightened his muscles, and somehow he clung, supported by the toes of one foot.

With his free hand he felt for another hold, and presently found one, scarcely better than the first, but good enough. He took hold, swung away, and, as before, pulled himself up till he could use both hands.

He moved upward, inch by inch, somehow finding fingerholds where the fierce weather had, through the centuries, crumbled the stone; but mainly it was sheer strength, fortified by force of will, which helped him up, for he held on tenaciously, even when his position was precarious, when the slightest weakening would have sent him slipping down.

Up and up! Presently, for all he knew, he might have been nearly to the top, or yet not above the height of Terhune's head, for soon he lost count of time and sense of distance.

Presently it became an effort to think; his brain reiterated monotonously: "Hold on, hold on." He must hold on; that much he knew; so he held on, step by step, inch by inch.

Something wet trickled on his face; he thought it was moisture from the squeezed moss, till it rolled upon his dry lips, and tasted warm and salty to his tongue. He knew then that it was blood from his fingers where the skin was wearing through.

Up and up! His muscles were tearing and aching from the strain; his body suffered as if it had been tortured on the rack. He felt that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the superhuman effort, but he was aware that he must continue, knowing if he fell it would mean death, and though he would have welcomed oblivion, there was work to be done first.

More important than the rescue of Imre Kiss was that of his daughter Elizabeth. A man can die but once, and hanging is short and sweet, but the girl—she would die a thousand deaths if once the foul beast Grocz laid hands upon her, and yet remain alive, and live thereafter suffering the tortures of the damned.

Up and up! Suddenly he laughed aloud. God! he had nearly gone that time. The blood streamed down his arm, spurted over his clothes, even dripped on Terhune who waited below, pressed close against the wall with outstretched arms just in case he could catch the White Knight should he fall. Terhune heard the laughter and, never dreaming that it was an escape of pent-up relief from his leader, trembled for the White Knight, believing he had heard a Communist somewhere on the battlements.

Wenzel wondered at himself. Why had he laughed? For what in Hades was he climbing the wall? Why not drop and go to sleep? Sleep, that was it! He was tired; he could move no more.

Perhaps for thirty seconds he remained still, while his brain, dazed by the tremendous strain his body had suffered, whirled and twisted in mental gymnastics. For a brief period he could not collect his thoughts; then out of the fog of uncertainty something in his heart repeated once again: "Up—up."

Up and up! Somehow he held on, even when it seemed to him that to continue was impossible, until at last the top. One final clamber and he was on the broad, level wall. Weakly he slithered down and lay stretched out, while he gasped loudly for breath.

The strain over, his brain renewed its functions, and he was able to think intelligently, so he allowed himself five minutes for recovery. This period of time he estimated, then he rose to his feet, ready for the next part of the programme.

Somewhere or other he believed there were bound to be stairs leading down into the castle courtyard. These he knew he could only find by feeling for them, so he set out along the wall, step by step.

He was not long in his search. Having traversed some fifteen yards or so he came to a small tower. Suspecting that the stairs might be inside he entered, to find his surmise correct. The tower was a shield for a circular staircase leading from below.

Treading with the utmost caution he ventured down, and at length arrived at the courtyard. Even there not a single man was to be seen, though he could hear them, for inside the castle there was a noise of music and singing. Deprive the Hungarian of his music, and part of his life is erased.

The tune was dimly reminiscent; and a grim smile creased the features of the White Knight. Well might it strike a chord in his memory! It was the Marseillaise! Altered and transposed almost out of recognition so that even Rouget de Lisle might not have identified it, the song howled by the drunken villagers was basically the same as that which had fired the blood of other revolutionaries in other times, in another land.

The tune was Hungarianized, the words modernized by a local poet; but the spirit of the singers was not altered one iota. So had the people of France sung their hymn, drinking from their bottles under the frowning fortifications of Paris, and their thoughts had been the same, their aspirations similar. The uprooting of law and order, the disruption of the country—what mattered so long as they had government for the mass by the mass? That the rule of the mass proved even more despotic, still more unjust than before, was a matter of no account at all.

The large iron-bound doors of the castle proper stood wide open, and for this Wenzel breathed a sigh of thankfulness. His entrance should be comparatively easy.

From the shadows outside he looked into the large hall. Not yet had the invaders managed to destroy all semblance of its beauty. The stately walls still rose grandly up to the raftered roof; its upper panels, beyond the reach of the peasants, were still adorned with the trophies of centuries of war and sport.

It was the floor which had suffered most; its polish was irretrievably ruined, damaged by the contact of heavy boots, and the mess and filth which littered it. There, too, sprawled the filthy bodies of the Communists, drunkenly sleeping off the effects of a day's carousal.

Those who were still able to remain awake were piled around a platform which occupied part of the left side of the hall. Here were the musicians, babbling in their cups, and yet still musical.

As Wenzel glanced around he noticed one significant fact. There was not one person looking in the direction of the door. Now was his chance to gain admittance inside without becoming a centre of interest! Once within he believed he might not have to fear discovery; for one thing, they all looked too drunk to notice the presence of a stranger, and, again, even if he were seen, he trusted that the villagers would take him to be one of the Budapest contingent, while the Communists from the city might assume him to belong to the peasants' party.

Pulling his cap well over his head, swathing his chin and neck in his dirty scarf, and slouching his shoulders to lessen his height, Wenzel unsteadily crossed the threshold into the midst of the unpleasant company, and sank into a chair while he looked around. Most of them had not yet troubled to take off hats or coats, so he did not remove his either.

In front of him he saw a magnificent staircase, wide enough to take twelve men abreast, which led to the upper floor. By the platform was another door through which men staggered in, now and again, food or drink in their hands, so Wenzel assumed that it led to the kitchens.

Otherwise, barring the front entrance, through which he himself had entered, he could see no other door. He frowned slightly. He felt that there should be another exit—one by which the servants could make their way into other parts of the house without using either the kitchen or the main staircase.

If there was one he did not see it, so he made up his mind to use the stairs, for even as he looked, a Communist stumbled down, holding on to the carved banisters for support. If one could use them, why not another?

The Marseillaise finished, the Internationale rang out. There was a burst of enthusiasm, and the noise of the chorus boisterously rolled round the hall with a deafening din.

Wenzel rose from his chair, deeming the time a good one to move. He crossed the hall to the staircase. With his foot on the first stair he stopped. Some one was entering the hall by a door just two or three yards to the side of him, a panelled door which swung on its hinges, and had been invisible to him before because it merged into the pattern of the wall.

It was decidedly a less conspicuous entrance to the other part of the house. In case he should be observed he slipped and rolled to the floor. When he arose the door was in front of him, so the next second he was on the other side, and at once was conscious of a welcome silence after the noise of the hall.

The passage ahead of him was lit only in one place, by a faint light escaping from a room on the right; from a slightly discernible flicker and the soft yellowness of its gleam Wenzel guessed it to be that of an oil lamp.

There was, apparently, no one about; Wenzel wondered if it were too much to hope that all the Bolsheviks were congregated together. If so, and if he could but find where Imre and his daughter were, to escape would be a matter of extreme simplicity.

There was no object in moving secretively; he shuffled along the passage until he was level with the lighted room. With a quick sideward glance he looked within, but it was empty.

He moved on, and the passage turned sharply to the left.

Having turned the corner Wenzel found the darkness more accentuated, for there were no other lights to be seen, and the illumination from the lamp in the room he had just passed had no effect.

Feeling his way along by the wall he penetrated further into the heart of the castle. He came to another corner, and as he turned he became conscious of approaching footsteps.

The castle seemed all corners. The next moment a man walked suddenly into view from the left, carrying a candle in his hand. Wenzel darted back into the shelter of the passage from which he had just emerged, a plan of action already forming in his brain.

The other man came nearer. Wenzel crouched for a spring. Then as the Communist turned into his passage Wenzel moved. With his left arm he grasped the man round the body in an unavoidable embrace, while he used his right hand to seize the man's throat, and gently squeeze the windpipe between thumb and first finger.

The candle dropped and sizzled out; the comrade tried convulsively to free himself, but he was helpless. Wenzel increased the pressure of his arms and felt his victim sag limply. Then he released his hold on the man's throat, but quickly transferred his hand to the mouth, pressing it fiercely so that no sound could escape.

"Quick, you dog," he said in a low voice, "tell me, where is Imre Kiss?"

He released his hand from the man's mouth so that the other might speak. The man breathed hoarsely, his body panting as he pulled the air into his lungs with deep gulps.

"Down in the cells," he croaked.

"You know the way?"

The Communist hesitated. Wenzel tightened the arm which encircled the man's waist till the unfortunate prisoner felt the air leaving his body again with a rush.

"Yes, yes," he muttered hoarsely. "I have just come from there."

"For what reason?"

"Comrade Grocz sent me with this message: 'Tell the old man to say his prayers; it is nearly time for him to die.'"

In his fury Wenzel unconsciously increased the pressure of his arm, and the Communist whimpered in agony.

"Mercy, mercy," he gasped, "you are killing me!"

Wenzel grunted, but eased up. The man might yet prove to be of use, otherwise...

"Pick up that candle, light it, and lead me to Imre Kiss. If you fail, or if you raise the slightest alarm—the Devil has a special reception for such as you, my friend, so if you do not want to see him yet awhile——"

Without a word the Communist pulled some matches from his pocket, and, striking one, looked for the dropped candle. This he picked up and relit. Holding it with fingers which shook and trembled in fear he began to retrace his steps.

Presently they came to stairs which led downward; cold, stone stairs which, in the past, many a prisoner had trodden but once—going down. The air was fetid from the moss-covered walls and lack of ventilation, the atmosphere chilly and gruesome.

The Communist pointed to the dark depths: "Imre Kiss is in the second cell on the left."

Wenzel did not waste time in words. He roughly caught the man by his arms, and with a jerk swung him forward, and the unwilling guide crept down.

There was a murmuring cry from one of the cells.

"Hear my prayers, O Lord! Guard Elizabeth from the foul hands of the beast; take my life but save hers. In Thy infinite justice destroy the man who would dare lay hands upon her. In Thy Omnipotency, protect her this night; show mercy to her who hath ever revered Thy Name."

Conscious, suddenly, of intruders, Imre ceased his invocation. He saw the light of the candle, the two Communists—his call had come.

He threw himself on his knees, his arms outstretched toward them. "Save my daughter! for God's sake rescue her from the arms of that brute! You shall be well rewarded. But tell the truth to my friends, and on my sacred oath you will receive a thousand crowns, ten thousand crowns, the whole of my fortune, my castle! I will give you a note of hand; it will be honoured I swear."

His voice broke; he could say no more, and, believing his appeal futile, he collapsed to the floor with a sob.

The door of the cell was locked. Wenzel turned to the guide with a growl. "The key."

"Comrade Grocz has it."

Wenzel swore. The door was an unexpected obstacle. Unsuspecting the cells he had not worried about keys. There was no door made to withstand the force of his shoulders, but the iron-barred gate...

He seized the candle from the hand of the other. If there were one single flaw, a weakness... But he found no sign of such, only that the rust of ages had eaten into the metal. Wenzel passed the candle back to the Communist.

If only his arms had not suffered from the strain of that gruelling climb, if only his hands were not still raw and hard with dried blood; but Wenzel knew he would have to make the attempt even if his back broke. There was still echoing in his memory Imre's prayer....

He stood with his back to the door, which was composed solely of iron bars. His arms hung down by his side, his hands gripping a cross bar. Carefully he placed his feet into position. He was ready.

With a slowly increasing force he pushed, with his feet, his hands, his back, pushed until his limbs were as taut as the iron bars themselves. Nothing happened, so he increased the pressure, and the sweat burst from his forehead and trickled down his face.

A little more and he would be finished, his strength exhausted. Despairingly he thrust again—the rusted iron lock moved, bent beneath the strain, and then burst; the door swung in, and Wenzel, lurching forward with it, tumbled to the floor, while the Communist felt his knees weaken at the joints, wondering whether it were the Devil himself he watched. For twenty seconds no one moved, then Wenzel rose to his feet and turned to Imre Kiss: "Come, there is no time to waste."

Heavily the old man followed Wenzel out, his legs scarcely bearing him. Not yet did Imre realize that he was being rescued. "I am ready," he whispered.

In the meantime Wenzel stood before the trembling Communist, his lips twisted in an ugly grin. "The candle," he ordered, and hypnotized by the fierce eyes the agitator from Budapest passed the guttering tallow over.

There was no mercy in Wenzel's soul then. Somehow he must dispose of the Communist, otherwise there would soon be a warning shout. He could not lock him up. His arm leaped upward as he clenched his fist. There was a dull thud as it came into contact with the man's chin. The Communist's head jerked back, and he slithered to the ground. There would be no fear of disturbance from him.

Imre felt sick. "Why did you do that?" he murmured.

"It was the only way," Wenzel replied harshly. "Otherwise he might have raised an alarm."

"An alarm!" Imre's trembling fingers waveringly flew to his mouth, and slowly his eyes brightened in hope. "You—you are here to rescue me?"

"You and your daughter, Elizabeth."

Imre tried to speak, his lips quivered; but his brain was overwhelmed by a rushing flood of relief, and the words refused to come. He could only stare at Wenzel; yet all his unspoken gratitude was in that look, in the curving smile, in the fading lines, and in the eyes which streamed with tears of joy and happiness.

"Come, we must not stop here." Wenzel's voice was gentle; more so than it had been for many months. "First you must show me the way to the roof."

"The roof? ... But ... but ... why?"

Wenzel's face hardened. "Question me not, but lead." And Imre Kiss, who, because of the way in which his rescuer had wrapped his face, could see nothing but his eyes, led the way without another word.

There was an incident on the way up to the roof. They heard approaching voices: Imre turned round helplessly to the White Knight. Wenzel picked the other man up and flung him across his shoulders like a sack of flour.

Two Communists staggered into them. "Ho, ho!" leered one. "Our friend carries a man to his room. Why is it a man you choose to take to your room, comrade?" and he dug Wenzel in the ribs. "What is the matter with him?"

"He is fuller with wine than a barrel."

"Oh, ho! Have they found some more?"

"It flows like the Danube in the hall. I am just going down to have my fill."

The two Communists exchanged glances. "It will be a big one," said one, "we had better get there first."

When Wenzel set Imre upon his feet again, the old man turned to him. "That was clever," he said simply.

At last they reached the roof, and crossed to where the gallows stood awaiting its victim. Imre shuddered.

The long length of rope with its running noose, the noose which was never to tighten, was there, prepared. Wenzel observed the fact grimly. It was for this that he had come. He stepped forward and pulled the rope from the supports, and having untied the noose estimated the length.

"Seventeen feet," he surmised, "a drop of from four or five feet, allowing for tying." Turning to Imre he asked: "Is there a direct way from here to the battlements on the right, or must we descend to the courtyard and cross?"

"No; there is an exterior staircase—a modern innovation. My own, as a matter of fact."

"Huh! It may save your life." Wenzel laughed shortly. "You scarcely foresaw this when you had it built?"

"God forbid!"

A few seconds later they were on the battlements at the spot where Wenzel had climbed scarcely an hour ago. He formed his lips into a circle, and a hoot of an owl rang through the quiet night, to be echoed from below.

Wenzel turned to Imre: "Listen carefully to my instructions. I shall drop you by means of this rope to where my friend stands below. It is five feet short. When it reaches its capacity I shall tug it twice. Then you must untie yourself and drop. When you meet my friend you and he must go at once to the nearest village. Afterwards Terhune—my lieutenant—will know what to do. You understand? You must set off at once."

"But—but my daughter?"

There was a rasp in Wenzel's voice when he answered: "You must obey me."

It did not take a moment to fix the rope round Imre's waist. Afterward the old man climbed over the parapet, and Wenzel commenced to lower him. Foot by foot the hemp passed through his hands till it came to the end. He lifted it slightly and lowered it. Then he raised it again for the second tug, and a calamity occurred.

The rasping fibre bit into his tender hand, where it suddenly scraped a nerve. Involuntarily his hand unclasped—and Imre dropped, the rope with him.

The loss of it was a blow: Wenzel had been relying on it to let down Elizabeth and himself. But there was no time to waste in vain regrets. It was more than possible Grocz might send down further insulting messages to his prisoner, and once the escape was discovered it would be awkward for both the girl and himself unless they were away by then.

Awaiting only Arnold's signal that Imre was safe, Wenzel commenced cautiously to feel his way to the roof and back again to the stairs which led into the castle. He had learned from Imre the position of Elizabeth's room and now he made his way toward it.

There was no one about. Still more fortunate proved the fact that the key was in the door. He unlocked it and entered.

The room was in pitch darkness; the candle which Grocz had left had already burned down to nothing. Hearing him, Elizabeth gave a muffled shriek.

"Fear not, mademoiselle."

Three simple words, but to Elizabeth they represented a suggestion of unexpected comradeship. The deep, resonant tone of his voice echoed round the room.

"Fear not!" A cultured voice at last, when all she had heard that day had been the slurring accents of the uncouth, the uneducated.

"Fear not!" Whatever words that voice might have conveyed to her hearing none could have been more superfluous, for the deep notes inspired trust, revealed the voice of a gentleman.

Just as her father had done, Elizabeth sobbed slightly at the unexpected possibility of succour which was so suddenly held out before her, dazzling in its promise. Once again the strain of the occult within warned her that the man whose voice had floated to her through the darkness was a friend, even though he had not told her so.

"Mademoiselle, I have come to rescue you." If she had needed proof his words supplied it.

"Oh, thank God!" she murmured. "For if—if that man had come to me I would have died.... But—my father——"

"Is already safe and sound."

Wenzel heard a soft, cooing laugh. "Oh, monsieur, how can I thank you? Whatever can I say or do to show my gratitude? My father safe! It sounds—wonderful. You have done this?"

"I have." Impatiently he replied, but if his manner was brusque she did not notice it.

In a low, vibrant voice, which grew softer as she approached him, she poured out her gratitude in full measure: "Monsieur, what you have done this night will for ever live within my memory. On every anniversary of this date I shall bless your name, remember every word you speak, picture to myself every line of your face——"

"Stop!" Fiercely, passionately he hurled the word at her, for the pain of her gentle thoughts seared into his heart with a rending, tearing gash. "Every line of his face." God! Why had she said that? How well he knew that once she saw his face each line of it would indeed be for ever depicted in her memory—but not in the way she believed. Its forbidding distortion would haunt her, its satyr-like grimness would represent a horror from which she would turn away in fear and loathing.

"I want neither your thanks nor your remembrance. Do you not realize that at any moment your father's escape may be discovered? Get ready!" he ordered, and his words cut through the intervening space with the sharpness of a rapier.

Bewildered and confused by his attitude she could only answer in a low undertone: "I am ready." What type of man was it who had so suddenly slipped into her life? Intuition, her sense of hearing, everything suggested that her unseen rescuer was a gentleman, yet his last words were those of a blustering bully, a coarse and domineering adventurer.

"Then come." He stretched out his arm, and his hand came into contact with her wrist. He seized it firmly, and pulled her roughly to the door.

With the other hand upon the door-handle he stopped dead, as suddenly from below there was a reverberating shout, a rumbling yell of rage. Wenzel's lips compressed, and unconsciously he tightened his grip upon her arm, till she could stand it no longer, and she screamed slightly with the agony.

He thought it was fear: "Keep quiet; there is still time to escape."

She writhed at the scorn in his voice, but she knew that in spite of his optimism escape was rapidly becoming impossible. Once the rabble downstairs took it into their heads to make sure she was still safe——

The noise swelled louder, as a drunken fury seized the crowd. "Where's the girl? Hang her! ... Death to the bourgeoise! Where's her room?"

Clearly the shouts echoed along the passages; and then there was a noise of pounding steps, a clamorous yelling. Worked into a frenzy the mob was on its way up.

Wenzel would have pulled her out in an attempt to avoid the Communists, but her knowledge of the castle warned her that they were hemmed in, that they were being approached from both ways.

"Too late. We are cut off." Quite calmly she informed him of the fact, so that even he could not fail to appreciate the lack of fear in her voice.

"You are not afraid?" he asked quickly.

"If my father is safe—no," she replied quietly.

He secured the key, and turned it in the lock, breathing a sigh of thankfulness that the door was strongly built, the lock more so. For a short while it would resist the onslaught of the attackers, and in that time he might yet find a means of escape.

"Tell me quickly, is there no other way out, no other door?"

"But one door and one window."

"The window——"

She did not hear the finish of his sentence for the deafening din outside. Like a pack of wolves the crowd was gathered to batten on the flesh of the innocent girl, and like the animals whose human prototypes they were they raised their voices at the scent of prey.

When they found the door locked their anger knew no bounds. With fists and feet they beat upon the stout door till it shivered beneath the assault. "Kill her! Hang her!" they shouted, and only one expostulated with them.

Mad with rage at the thought of his victim escaping his clutches, even at the end of the hangman's rope, Comrade Grocz tried in vain to stem the flood. Above the roar of other voices his stridently rose: "Comrades, comrades, the girl is mine. She was given to me by Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat. You shall not kill her! Stop, stop, I say!"

He might have attempted to prevent a raincloud bursting. "Get away, Grocz. She must die."

"But she was given to me!" he shrieked.

"Yah! Yah!" Two or three laughed boisterously, and one cried out: "You forget, Comrade Grocz, that the Dictatorship has abolished all private ownership."

"Ay! Kill her! Hang the girl!"

"Stop! Stop!" Grocz grew desperate. "Listen. Do not kill her ... let us share her, as all good Communists should."

As though at a signal the wild noise now ceased, while this fresh aspect of the situation slowly burned itself into the obtuse minds of the Communists.

Wenzel had to close his eyes; a red filmy cloud floated before them, summoned by the boiling fury which surged up from his heart. Only with an effort of will did he pull himself together and think rationally—he wanted to throw open the door, throttle the vile laughter of the men with his hands, smash them with his fists, pound them to death.

He knew that she had heard, for he heard her catch in her breath with a gush of horror, and felt her trembling. This time he could not mock her weakness.

"The window," he prompted.

"Had the worst come, I should have—have thrown myself out."

"You mean—suicide?"

"Yes," she breathed softly. "May Heaven forgive me for the thought."

"What is below?—the courtyard?"

"No, the Danube, fifty feet down."

"The Danube!" So her room was on the fourth side of the castle? A fifty-foot drop—but if it were a clear fall into the water there would be at least a chance. "Is it a clear drop?"

"Practically. The cliff at this part overhangs the edge of the water, and the castle is built on the extreme edge. With a good jump one might avoid the bank."

"Yet you spoke of suicide!"

"The current, monsieur, runs swiftly at this part. No one could hope to swim against it."

Outside the Communists understood at last, and now, urged on by a different kind of excitement, the tumultuous clatter recommenced. "Break open the door! Let us feast our eyes upon her beauty." The pressure of weight was beginning to have its effect, for the door cracked suspiciously.

So it seemed that Death might claim him at last! Wenzel felt a glow of contentment stealing over him. Perhaps Zita waited for him, there, just beyond the Veil, with outstretched arms....

"Mademoiselle, are you prepared to jump?"

"Gladly. Death can be no worse than—than—— Oh, Mother in Heaven, what has happened to our unhappy country? Monsieur, I am ready."

Not too soon. The door was groaning and splitting. She guided him to the window, and flung it open. Wenzel felt her raise herself up until she was standing on the ledge. He did the same, and so tall was the window that he, for all his height, could yet stand upright.

Before them was a grim blackness, an abyss of gloom. Not even was there the light of a star to twinkle a message of confidence. Behind them an equal density, and men whose souls were blacker still. Nothing but impenetrable darkness in every direction.

The moment was awe-inspiring, soul-crushing. There was a sensation of immensity, a feeling of unfathomable depth. When they jumped it would be—whither?—where? Perhaps, by a trickery of fate, on to the cruel rocks which bordered the river, and which would crush their bodies into pulp; or perhaps into shallow water where they would split open on the river bed.

"You are still not afraid?" he asked.

"Yes, but ready." Her voice was firm and steady, and Wenzel felt a sudden thrill of admiration at her nerve and courage. All at once it seemed to him a pity that such a woman should die. Still...

Even as the door gave way he picked her up in his arms. Bracing his legs he jumped....

He experienced no particular feeling, just a hotch-potch of different sensations—of suffocation, of helplessness, the noise of raging winds and rushing waters, eternity, and finally a shock, which left him dazed and stunned, as they entered the water.

Down, down, and still down. His lungs were bursting. There was no question of thought. It was instinct which made him curve his body so that their hurtling flight to the bottom was diverted; it was the inevitable fight for life which set his legs kicking, shooting his body up to the surface again.

Then air, precious life-provoking air. He filled his lungs with deep soul-satisfying gulps, and soon consciousness returned to him. Elizabeth was still in his arms, limp and motionless, and Wenzel believed she was stunned. Better so—she might have struggled.

Already his thoughts were turning toward life, and while before jumping he had welcomed death, now he wanted to live, to reach the bank, to carry his precious burden to a place of safety.

With this resolve came the knowledge that Elizabeth had not exaggerated the strength of the current. He felt it now pulling, now boisterously twisting and pushing them along hither and thither; but all the time insidiously, inexorably drawing them along on its bosom.

If Elizabeth—if he—were to live he must strike out for the bank. Somehow he shifted the girl until she was half across his back, so that he could hold her with one hand, then with the other he commenced to swim.

He found it easy. With sure, even strokes he gradually progressed, and buoyed up with enthusiasm and confidence he believed it would be a matter of minutes only before he reached the river bank. The current, apparently, was not so strong as it seemed.

Yet the minutes dragged by. Surely now, he thought, he must be in the shallows. He stopped short, and trod water, attempting to feel bottom, but his feet met with no resistance.

Once again his arm and his legs thrashed out—then, all at once, he realized the truth. No wonder the going was easy, for he was swimming with the current instead of across it!

He turned to his right, and instantly experienced the rush of the water, for now he made no progress forward, but was swept along, broadside on.

He was tired, and the cold water began to chill him, but urged by an impulse which he could not translate he struggled on, ignoring the possibility of surrendering himself to the water and the waiting arms of Death. Elizabeth must live—that much he knew; and so he kept going, kept on until his body was once again racked with pain.

He had done so much that night, what more could he do? Why should he do more? If he gave up now he could sleep so easily, so peacefully! His mind worked sluggishly. One, two, three! One, two three! His strong arm, though weakened by strain, continued to strike out regularly. His limbs moved like an automaton, but he still progressed.

The rush of the water grew louder, and Wenzel's head began to sing. Much more and it would be the end. Much more... much more... The words twisted themselves into a refrain, and the music was in time to his strokes. Much more...

Something scraped the toe of his boot, again and yet again, and he knew he had touched bottom. A few more strokes and he discovered that he could stand. Somehow he stumbled through the water till it dropped from his chin to his hips, from his waist to his ankles, and then—there was no more water.

* * * * * *

When Elizabeth came to she was in a peasant's hut, lying in a crude bed. Across the room, bending over a log fire, a woman was cooking something, the appetizing odour of which pervaded the room.

Elizabeth gazed around wonderingly, unable to collect her thoughts together. But presently she remembered. One after another the vivid details returned to her, concluding with the last terrible jump into an inky nothingness....

Where was her unknown rescuer? She looked around, but except for the peasant woman she could see no one. Then, on a chair she saw a note. It was so brief that it brought the tears to her eyes; just:

MADEMOISELLE,
        You are safe with this woman.
                                                                Adieu.

"Adieu!" Good-bye! She gazed away.

He had almost written Au revoir, for as he himself had laid her on the rough blanket, and gazed upon her beauty, his lips had trembled. It was not that she was really like the Zita he remembered, yet...

The hour was past nine o'clock before the Council meeting broke up, and Eugene Hamburger, Commissary for Agriculture, together with his assistant, Apor, were free to leave.

For a while they walked together discussing the work of the day.

"Well, my friend, life is different from what it was in the old days. You and me, what were we before the glorious days of the Revolution? What were we all, who are, to-day, the proud leaders of the world? Slaves of the capitalists, sweating and toiling for a meagre pittance, living in slums and tenements, while our masters reaped the harvest of our industry. What did they do with the money? Increase our wages? No! Improve our houses, help our families? No! They lazed away their useless lives in luxurious idleness; lived in glorious palaces; travelled in handsome limousines." Hamburger chuckled. "Times are not the same. We are the nobles now, Apor, you and I; we are the people who count."

"How can we be the nobles? I thought we were all equal now?" Apor dryly put the question to the commissary.

"Stuff and nonsense! You provoke me to anger, comrade; you are for ever casting shadows upon the golden vista of Communist dreams."

"Well! Well!" mollified Apor. "You must remember that the brighter the sun shines the blacker is the shadow. Do not think I am not satisfied. My only question is: will it last?"

"Bah! Croaking again! Can it do otherwise? How can anything be altered? Does not the Soviet control the country from top to bottom: the Army, the post offices, the banks, the public services, and the people? Do you think the people would wish to rise against us, even if they dared? You are stupid, friend! They have never been so well off as they are to-day. Free as the air, the poorest as rich as the wealthiest, the affluent as destitute as the pauper. The State owns everything, and in the eyes of the State each one of us is equal. Could life be better?"

"And yet the members of the Soviet ride about in motor-cars, and their humble 'equals' walk to work!"

Hamburger's cheeks flushed. "You argue absurdly, Apor. The State merely lends the motor-cars to the Soviet for their extra responsibility."

"I see!" Apor paused, as if thinking deeply. "But the capitalists of the old days, were they not entitled to motor-cars for their share of responsibility?"

The commissary growled. "You are impossible to-night, comrade. You see matters through a smoky pair of spectacles. Much more, and I shall suspect that you have views which do not agree with the doctrines of Communism."

Apor answered smoothly: "Not at all, my friend. I merely argue as one equal to another. We are as free as air, I think you said. Except to think differently, eh, comrade? But there, my tongue is sharp from the vinegar I swallowed to-day. I argue only that I can have the benefit of your wisdom, to be even better assured of the splendid principles of Communism."

Hamburger was pleased, for he laughed softly. "It is a good thing I know you as well as I do, Apor. But there; have I not always thought you a wise sort of a fellow, for all the queer kinks in your brain? I think we part here. I have to-day moved into my free quarters in the Hotel Bristol. Good night, Apor."

"Good night..." Hamburger disappeared into the darkness of the night, and Apor continued savagely to himself: "... and may your bones rot on a dung heap, and your flesh feed the rats."

He turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Presently, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lurking shadow move softly to his side and walk with him.

"You are late to-night."

"Yes. Their rhetoric becomes wilder as their courage strengthens."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean, Wenzel? God! only what I say. Their grip on the country becomes firmer every day. Unless something happens soon, Hungary will be ruined beyond all power of recovery. Already she is weakening beneath the crushing ravages of these Russian-financed Bolsheviks. Yes, Wenzel, there is scarcely one who does not spend Russian gold. But where have you been the last two days?"

"Rescuing Imre Kiss and his daughter Elizabeth. Have you heard?"

"Heard!" Suddenly Apor exploded with laughter. "My dear man, the only thing which surprises me is that you did not hear the echo of the howl which went up when the Council was made cognizant of their escape. For ten minutes nearly every man present shouted at once. But how did you learn of their plans on the Castle Gisella? When I came to warn you, you had gone."

"Arnold overheard Grocz at the station. He was boasting to his friends of what he was going to do to the father—and the daughter. Now, what news have you for me?"

"Bad, Wenzel; bad. For once you have slipped. Your identity is known. You are no longer safe in Budapest."

"Damn!" Aghast at the information, Wenzel unconsciously spoke in English, and Apor started.

"Hush, for God's sake! Never more truly was it said that walls have ears, Wenzel. Detectives swarm all over the place. A word in English is enough to draw a dozen after you."

"Why?"

"Because already the rumour has gone round that the White Knight is English."

Wenzel groaned. "Refugees must have been babbling. After all my warnings, too! Yet, tell me, how came they to connect Wenzel with the White Knight?"

"Simply! When Count Bakocz escaped they sent for you. You were not there and they searched your rooms and found—a white knight."

Wenzel swore again, this time beneath his breath. To have left such an easy clue behind him!

"What a fool I was, what a fool! Now must I find fresh lodgings."

"No, Wenzel, you must go altogether. They are hunting for you right and left."

"Enough, Apor!" There was a steely warning in his voice, but Apor heeded it not.

"But, Wenzel, I am Hungarian born and bred, I, who have, under a different name, suffered untold miseries at the hands of the Bolshevik swine, I am prepared to give my life gladly, and doubtless shall, to bring an end to the Red Terror. But you—you are an Englishman, a foreigner! Why, already we Hungarians owe you far more than we can ever hope to pay. Why should you linger here, your life forfeit the moment you are discovered?"

Wenzel did not at first reply, but when he did his voice was curiously soft: "Dear friend, ask me not my reasons. Sufficient that even though death means nothing to me, should I allow you to stay here in danger, you who act as my eyes and ears in the Soviet Council, and yet fear to come myself? Pursue not the question, Apor. It hurts. Now tell me the latest plans."

"Conditions are more terrible than ever, as I have already said; but, worse still, petty counter-revolutions are springing up all over the place."

The Englishman made an angry exclamation. "Fools! Why must they set about such hazardous undertakings, which can only end in humiliating defeat? If they would only wait with patience just a little longer. In Vienna there is already a movement afoot.... Yet I may not say more—in fact, I know very little myself. Soon I expect a friend with news, but until then..."

"Do not blame them, Wenzel. In one way—well, it is pleasing to note that there are still Hungarians living who love their country, who have not fallen under the thrall of the mouthing Bolshevik orators."

There was a significant undercurrent in his voice, almost of apology, which did not escape Wenzel's keen ear. They were passing under one of the few street lamps which were still burning, and the Englishman put out his hand and restrained the other, then swung him round so that they were face to face.

"Apor, you are not joining any counter-revolutionary movement?"

Beneath his steady scrutiny Apor's eyes dropped, and Wenzel knew that he had guessed the truth.

"Apor! Why must you? Don't you realize that the time is not yet? You will only run your head into the loop which awaits it if you continue; and if you do not fear death, won't you please try to remember that, situated as at present, you are a most valuable spy? There are more saved lives to your credit than fingers on your hand."

"I know! I know!" Apor shook his head helplessly, and there was an unhappy crease just above his eyes. "Yet my soul writhes every time I look at the Red cockade. It is the insignia of blood. Supposing one of the counter-revolutionary movements should turn out to be a success and I were not in it? I should never forgive myself."

Wenzel's voice was hard when he replied: "Yet, Apor, you must work for me alone. You cannot serve two taskmasters. You are inflamed by a fanatical patriotism, and yet, worthy as it may seem, you are blinded by its light, you do not foresee its actualities. Come, Apor; if you love Hungary guard yourself from suspicion, keep free from anything which may cast doubt upon you in the eyes of the Council. Now of these petty revolutions! What happens?"

"Don't ask me!" His voice cracked. "It is awful! The Council tells Szamuelly, then the brute leers, and goes off to his Death Train; the next day—he hangs Hungarians promiscuously. Guilty or not guilty, he strings up any man upon whom he can lay his hands and——"

There was a dramatic interruption. Some twenty yards behind there was a sudden burst of noise, a sound of running footsteps and hoarse shouting, then a series of flickering flashes which heralded the ensuing staccato explosions of several rifles.

Simultaneously there was a scream and the whistling screech of bullets. Wenzel grunted slightly. He was unhurt, but it had been but a matter of inches. A little more to his right, and at least one of the missiles would have found a billet.

"Quick, Apor, are you unhurt?"

"Only just."

"Then run like Hades. It is another poor victim. Whatever happens we must not be found together."

Without another word they parted, and rapidly merged into the darkness.

Presently Wenzel stopped, and from a distance watched. Around the figure of a man stretched out upon the pavement were grouped half a dozen Red soldiers, laughing and joking.

One of them kicked the helpless, stricken man, and even at that distance Wenzel heard the moan of pain. Evidently the human hare was still alive.

Two of the soldiers hoisted the man to his feet, then dragged him along, and Wenzel followed, impelled by a curiosity he could not define. Perhaps for nearly a quarter of a mile the Bolsheviks pushed and pulled the wounded sufferer, till at last they were near the river. The soldiers kept on until they were half-way across the Francis Joseph Bridge, where it was pitch dark, and from where he was Wenzel could see nothing. Yet, all at once, there was a desperate cry for help and then—a splash. The Reds laughed boisterously, and continued their way. Presently there was silence.

The Englishman stood still, gazing into the blackness of the night. The Danube sucked yet one more body into its depths. There was a distant rumble of thunder, from where a storm played round the hills beyond old Buda, yet it seemed to Wenzel more a rolling chuckle of laughter from Mars, as he watched and ticked off one more life in his already long and fearful list. To the fierce Roman god of war it must have seemed almost as bloody a sport as a European war.

* * * * * *

Wenzel restlessly tossed and turned about in the small truckle-bed which he had managed to secure for the night, vainly endeavouring to woo his active mind into repose.

He found himself haunted by dreams and visions, jumbled together into a confused sequence of events, in which but three pictures were outstanding. First and foremost he could see, once again, the scene on the Francis Joseph Bridge, the wounded victim of Bolshevik persecution, struggling desperately in the arms of the brutal Red soldiers, being gradually lifted up for the final throw over the parapet of the bridge.

Wenzel had seen death in many guises, till his heart had become callous through familiarity. He had himself killed Germans in hot blood, and Hungarian Bolsheviks in cold blood, yet never had he believed till now that death could be so ghastly, so savage and ruthless.

It might have been the despairing cry which had rung through the night air, the almost invisible surroundings in which the crime had been committed; it might have been the echoing sound of the significant splash; whatever it was, Wenzel could not altogether dismiss the scene from his memory, it revolved, repeated, and exaggerated itself.

Then, as the murder on the bridge faded away, it was succeeded by another vivid picture; there on the floor lay Zita's father, his corpse slashed and hacked, and Zita herself, dead from shock, her eyes mirroring the terrible scene.

Yet there was one other image which floated before his eyes, hid slightly by a multi-coloured haze—once again he held in his arms a living, pulsating body, though limp and unconscious. In his muscular arms she lay as lightly as a feather, yet her soaking clothes had wrapped themselves round her limbs, revealing and betraying every curve, every line, so that he saw she was exquisitely formed, beautiful in her tapering svelteness, her divinely proportioned shape.

The dark tresses of her hair were massed into a mystic aureole, a dusky halo which emphasized the clarity of her sun-burned complexion. He remembered the symmetry of her features, the daintiness of her nose, the soft curve of her lips.

It was this fantasy which lingered longest in his dreams, so vivid in one sense, and yet so ethereal. When his thoughts idly hovered upon Elizabeth he saw her so, but when he would have concentrated, have definitely and indelibly implanted the picture in his memory, it faded away like a puff of smoke.

Presently he realized that he was more wideawake than ever; his brain, stirred by the imagery of his mental travels, was insistently devoting itself to Zita—and to Elizabeth.

He was conscious of an overwhelming impulse to see Elizabeth again. He wanted to compare her finely chiselled nostrils with those of Zita, to discover whether they quivered sensitively with pride and emotion as had Zita's, whether her eyes, too, glowed with an inward fire.

He wanted to hear again Elizabeth speaking. That night in the castle her voice had been so full of throbbing music, so liquidly clear and steady. He wanted to feel once more the velvet softness of her skin, the smooth, cool touch of her fingers.

He did not think it treachery to Zita to think thus, for she and Elizabeth seemed so much alike. In the thoughts of them both, in the rapid replacement and displacement of their images in his vision, their differences dissolved, and merged gradually into one; and the face which smiled at him from the happy fastnesses of his dreams was neither that of Zita nor that of Elizabeth.

Somewhere within him, though as yet he failed to realize it, the warm blood was beginning to flow again; chilled and frozen by the death of Zita, it was infinitesimally thawed by the thought of Elizabeth. Something tugged at his heart-strings: he felt an overpowering impulse to visit the Château Juhusz, where were Elizabeth and her father, the Bakocz family, and others whom he had rescued.

He knew he could get there and back again to Budapest on the morrow; the inclination strengthened as he thought the matter carefully over. Finally he decided to make the journey, and in less than five minutes he was asleep.

When he awoke the next morning the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, and because of the strange, unaccountable exuberance of spirits which enveloped him it was as if it were a good omen for his journey to the Château Juhusz.

He knew that it was dangerous to venture into the streets in broad daylight; it was well within the bounds of possibility that he might be seen and recognized by any one of a dozen or so people: Bela Kun, Szamuelly, or any one of the Council; Garami or one of the Red guards at the prison; still more likely by one of the many detectives who swarmed the city spying out enemies of the Commune and signs of counter-revolutions.

Nevertheless, he was blithely contemptuous of the fact, believing it to be one thing for them to see him, but another to catch him. His legs were capable of covering good ground in the event of a chase; his arms he considered more than equal to two, or even three, of the average stunted and degenerate Bolsheviks; and if it came to gunfire there was in his hip-pocket a fully loaded revolver which he could use effectively.

What he did was to wrap his dirty scarf more tightly round his neck, and to pull his cap even further over his eyes; prepared for all emergencies he ventured out and made his way to the station.

As he approached nearer his destination he was surprised by its unusual quietness. Where usually it was thronged with travellers, Red guards, surly railwaymen, shouting newsboys, and all the medley of types usually scattered around a railway terminus, this morning there was comparatively no one to be seen, only here and there a small group of people, gesticulating wildly, and arguing with one another.

Not until he was immediately opposite the once handsome station did he discover that all entrance to the platform was forbidden.

"What's the matter, comrade?" he asked of a Red guard who lounged near.

"The railwaymen have struck for more money," replied the other.

It was grimly humorous, but Wenzel dared not display any sign of his real feelings. He spat on the ground. "Ho! May the fires burn brighter in Hades, but your news is anything but good, comrade! There is a pretty wench anxiously awaiting my arrival some miles off. How am I going to reach her?"

The guard grinned. "She will have to wait even longer than a day unless you walk."

"Bah! I don't believe you. Wait until the Council takes the situation in hand. The strike will fizzle out like damp gunpowder."

"Perhaps." The guard shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, I hear Comrade Szamuelly is going to settle the dispute. He has a winning way with him, has Szamuelly."

"Ay! Well, I hope he succeeds, that's what I say. I hope he does."

Wenzel moved away, growling, but if the words which the Red guard caught were enough to make him grin, they were nothing compared with the fury which inwardly consumed the White Knight.

So much for good omens! All his plans to visit the château that day, and return at night, completely shattered.

He walked heedlessly along the streets, utterly oblivious of the people in his way, so that there were several into whom he banged, passing on without a word, and because they were rapidly becoming crushed and cowed by the Terror they continued meekly and unprotestingly.

For perhaps twenty minutes he traversed the streets; not until then did it occur to him that he might walk to the château. It would be a long and arduous tramp, but had he not been hardened to such by four years of route marches? To think the matter over he stopped for coffee at one of the innumerable coffee-houses, many of which were still carrying on a desultory trade.

The Château Juhusz, though more modern than the Castle Gisella, had long ago fallen into decay, and in consequence had been deserted by its owners. Built during times of peace, it had been designed more for comfort than utility, and so the ravages of time, which left older and more strongly built residences comparatively untouched, had eaten into the delicate fabric of the building and underpinned its less solid foundations.

It was Apor who had suggested these quarters as an admirable hiding-place for the hunted refugees, and Wenzel, examining its situation with a critical eye, recognized its advantages. Built deep in a thick pine forest on the slope of a small valley, it was encircled in every direction by well-wooded hills, and was completely shut off from the world. The nearest village was approximately ten miles away; with it, naturally, the nearest railway station.

Who had built it in such an inaccessible spot, and why, Wenzel had been unable to fathom, but at any rate it was more than admirable for the purpose suggested by Apor. If the Communists imagined for a moment that the ci-devant magnates, reared in the lap of luxury, could eke out an existence inside the weather-scarred walls of the château, they were content to leave them there unmolested; except where prisoners came easily to their hands, plunder was of paramount importance. A ten-mile march over the hill-tops with no prospect of loot at the other end would be a senseless waste of time—so the retreat sheltered many who owed their lives to the White Knight.

By train and a subsequent walk the total distance was nearly forty miles, but, remembering that the railway track curved fairly considerably about twenty miles out of Budapest, Wenzel had a shrewd suspicion that by road the distance might be appreciably less.

He paid his reckoning, quickly left the coffee-house, and made his way toward the shopping district. Some of the shops were open, but their windows were lamentably bare. In the Communistic dictionary the word shopkeeper is synonymous with bourgeois, and so the Reds in Budapest had the happy trick of descending upon the unfortunate shopkeepers and, in the name of the Soviet, appropriating the greater part of their goods, for the benefit, usually, of the reformed battalions of Red guards.

Twice, in less than a quarter of a mile, Wenzel entered a possible shop and inquired for a road-map of Hungary. In each case the reply was the same. One of the men had tears in his eyes.

"If you had come but the day before yesterday I could have served you. Yesterday"—he choked—"the Red guards came in. They were marching to the front, they said, to send the cowardly Czechs scuttling back to their own country, and therefore in the name of the Government they demanded all my stock. I must be patriotic, they said. They took everything, whether it was of use or not. What they did not want the men gave to their wives or mistresses. I am penniless now. All I ... I can do is ... is to become a Communist myself. Perhaps I shall be better off then."

Eventually Wenzel secured what he wanted. Poring over the map with eager eyes he discovered that his assumption was correct. By road, so far as he could estimate, the distance would be not more than twenty-seven to thirty miles.

Thirty miles! A seven-hour walk at the most! Wenzel glanced at his watch. There would just be time to get there before night blotted out the unknown roads. He memorized the map, deeming it unwise to consult it more than necessary, and once having fixed the route in his mind he set out.

The hours passed by. About noon the sky clouded over, and Wenzel cursed, afraid it presaged rain, but a westerly wind soon carried the darkest patches along, and the sun shone again, though fitfully.

By this time he had left Buda well behind, and also O'-Buda, higher up in the hills, built on the spot where once had flourished the Roman colony of Aquincum. Below him the city was spread out in a panorama, the Danube glitteringly winding its way through the centre. He found then he was not covering the distance he had estimated—the road seemed for ever on the upward trend, and he realized, much to his surprise, that even in seven months the physical frame can soften slightly.

After several heavy-going miles the grade lessened, his walk became easier, and before another two hours had passed his long legs had more than made up the lost time.

He had something to eat at a little roadside tavern, though it was scanty and poorly cooked, consisting of Gulyas, the national Hungarian dish, a type of Irish stew. This he washed down with an inferior red wine. For all that it was a princely repast compared with the food obtainable in Budapest, where watery soup and bread were sometimes the only means of subsistence.

At five o'clock he was at the foot of a hill, and within five miles of his destination. By now he was tired, his left heel was troubling him; but his heart was light, and he hummed the air of a Hungarian folk-song. The top reached, he gazed at the scene before him. The hill dropped steeply to a valley, only to rise as quickly again to an even higher elevation. On the other side of the farther hill was the château.

The picture was delightful: Nature appeared to have permitted herself a free hand, and her subtle brush had not wavered in her task. The woods were dotted thickly but unevenly, and the blank spaces had been filled up with either green patches of meadowland or else dark grey areas of bare, rugged nakedness.

There was but one blemish: four thin, parallel lines, painfully stark and uncamouflaged, forged their way from as far as one could see, and betrayed the hand of man. In callous comparison with the beauties of the valley the railway lines represented human commercialism, inexorable progress.

The sun was dipping rapidly now; Wenzel dared waste no time, and so he stepped forward once more on the last stage of his journey, and crossing the iron road to Budapest he soon mounted the second hill, till reaching its highest peak he saw, a quarter of a mile below him, the ruined mansion.

He threaded his way through the trees until they thinned out; then through them he could see the château. No wonder it was ignored by the Communists. The mere sight of it was nearly enough to damp his newly born sensation of—of—— He shrugged his shoulders when he tried to analyse his emotions.

Not many of the long French windows were whole, or even unharmed. Most of them were devoid of any semblance of glass, just a few of them still boasted cracked and broken remains. The exterior woodwork was dull and colourless, the tiles of the roof green with moss.

What were once gardens surrounding the building were now a wilderness of cultivated plants turned to weeds. The flagged paths almost lost their identity below the drooping greenstuff; a mournful Mercury, chipped and yellow, no longer poured out a cascade of pure water into the fountain beneath, but stood up desolate and useless.

He had seen it before, but it seemed to him that its atmosphere was more doleful than ever, an unwritten epitaph on the straits to which the unhappy aristocrats had fallen. He wondered what effect it had upon its present occupiers.

His question was to be answered immediately, for even as he watched three people issued from within, and he started slightly as he recognized two of them.

In the middle was Terhune, with Elizabeth on his right, and on his left one who could only be Cecile; for it was as if he were gazing at her photograph, so vivid had been Arnold's many descriptions of her.

Eagerly he watched Elizabeth, noting every fleeting expression of her face, every movement of her graceful body, and his heart sang a pæan of joy as he realized that she more than fulfilled his picture of her, built up from that brief period during which she had lain unconscious in his arms.

For some few minutes his eyes followed her, till the vision of her as he saw her now, her beauty emphasized vividly by the misted background of the château, was engraven into his memory.

Not until then, not until he was satisfied that as often as he wished in the future he would be able to visualize her so, did he turn his attention to the other two.

Soon he smiled. Even if he had not been previously aware of the romance which had quickly budded in the hearts of Cecile and his lieutenant, he could not have remained unaware of it now. They were both so palpably in love; both so absurdly young.

Even from the distance at which he was, decreasing every second as they moved in his direction, he could see the smile which lighted up their eyes as they turned to one another, and the alert, eager glance which hovered upon their faces whenever the other spoke, eager to drink in every word.

They reached the edge of the woods; much further and they might have come face to face with Wenzel; but they turned in time. He let them get back to the doorway, then he rounded his lips, and the next moment the harsh cry of an owl floated through the air.

The effect on the trio was humorous. Terhune stopped suddenly as he realized the significance of the call, and Elizabeth and Cecile turned toward him in surprise. Wenzel saw him listening, uncertain whether he had heard aright; so he hooted again, and the next moment saw and heard Terhune replying to him.

There had to be explanations; all at once the expression on the faces of Terhune's companions turned from bewilderment to blazing, joyful anticipation, and he saw Elizabeth's lips speak three words, and, almost as if the echo of them had floated to his ears, knew that she had repeated: "The White Knight!"

Next, Terhune was emphatically shaking his head. Wenzel's eyes twinkled—he knew well what they were pleading: to speak to the White Knight, to see him—and then, immediately, the twinkle disappeared; his face hardened with an inward pain. Supposing they did see him, supposing the gentle eyes of Elizabeth or Cecile should look upon his ghastly features....

"Geoffrey! You here! I did not expect you. You have brought some one else?"

Wenzel shook his head. "No. I have come for no reason whatsoever. A whimsy! I was curious to know for myself how every one is faring."

"Happily, or rather as happily as is possible. The château is heaven to most of the present inhabitants. After being robbed of everything they possessed, turned out of their homes, and then, if they protested, hunted high and low; some even now cannot understand what it is to spend an easy night without fearing what the morning will bring. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we are overlooked. Still, if the devils should come"—his voice became grimmer—"there is a rifle here for every man, with some to spare, and ammunition in plenty."

"Good! Any other news?"

"Francis Bakocz has been plaguing my life to ask you to let him help us."

"Humph!" Wenzel pursed his lips and looked toward the crumbling pile. "What do you think of him? Would he be a good man or not? We could do with some one else: matters are becoming worse and worse in Budapest."

"He has enough courage for two, and if pushed to it could act a part well. In my opinion he would have only one fault. He would be inclined to be reckless."

"A bad failing, Arnold. Yet, all the same—I will speak to him. Listen, friend! As I am here I would like to talk to—to—one or two for a while, but, as you know, there are—reasons why they must not set eyes upon me. To-night, therefore, find me a room. It must be pitch dark. There I will receive Francis and Cecile Bakocz, Elizabeth Kiss, and perhaps her father. Go in now, and prepare everything for me. When you are ready, hoot, and I shall come."

Arnold returned to the château, a frown of puzzlement creasing his forehead. To-day Wenzel was different: hitherto he had taken no interest in the people he had rescued; once they were safe in the retreat they had passed from his mind, so that what he had done for them might have been merely helping them across a crowded street. Why, therefore, this sudden interest in the refugees?

He was met at the door by Cecile.

"You have seen him?" The last word she uttered in a soft whisper, breathing into it a subtle reverence.

Arnold nodded. "Yes," he replied abstractedly.

She clasped her hands together. "Oh! If he only knew how much we all wish to meet him, to thank and express our gratitude for all he has done for us."

"Perhaps he does!"

She turned swiftly round, so that she was directly facing him. "You mean—he is coming—here, and soon?"

"To-night!"

"Oh! Oh!" Too full for words, Cecile could say nothing. For days she had prayed for the opportunity of speaking to the White Knight—to him who had snatched her father from the very gates of death. Now at last it seemed that she was to have the opportunity.

"I—I shall see him then?"

Arnold hesitated. He realized that he was going to have difficulty in explaining the situation.

"Yes and no," he muttered slowly. "You may be able to speak to him, but not actually see him."

Two faint, twin lines betrayed themselves upon her forehead. "Speak to him but not see him! I do not understand!"

"No, mademoiselle, I did not expect you to do so. The White Knight has instructed me to prepare a pitch-dark room in which to receive you, and only in that room will you meet him."

She shook her head doubtfully. "Yet still I do not comprehend."

Arnold hesitated. "It is that no one shall recognize him."

For the moment she still did not realize, then her eyes filled with tears, and when she spoke reproach and disappointment throbbingly disclosed themselves in her voice. "He is afraid of being betrayed! How could he think that, when there is not one of us here who would not sooner die than expose him to the Communists? Does he not trust us?"

"Mademoiselle, do not think that of him. Of course he trusts you. Could he do otherwise?" Skilfully he endeavoured to change the current of her thoughts by the implied compliment, but the hurt rankled in her heart.

"Then what other reason has he for taking such precautions?"

"Why, plenty.... I—I mean, I do not know! I do not question him!" Arnold floundered, and silently cursed as he foresaw too well what her next words would be.

"So he is not the only one who does not trust me," she replied coldly. "I am sorry, monsieur."

"Mademoiselle!" Desperately he appealed to her. "I did not mean that; you are twisting my words. Why—I—I would lay down my life to serve you. I—I——" He stopped suddenly as he realized that his heart was overpowering his head, thoughts which he supposed to be locked in the deepest recesses of his being were forcing themselves to utterance. "Mademoiselle, I must go at once," he muttered.

"Very well!" She shook her shoulders and turned aside. With a despairing look at her he slowly moved away, and so missed the bewitching smile which sprang into her eyes as she watched him disappearing down the passage.

An unrelieved blackness settled over the countryside before Arnold intimated to Wenzel that everything was ready. Only from the mansion itself was there any illumination, for, despite all possible precautions, from two or three windows came the dull gleam of candlelight. There were no curtains by which the unfortunate refugees could conceal the light, so overcoats, cloaks, and other articles of wearing apparel were made to serve instead.

Wenzel proceeded toward the château until he was near enough to glance in turn through several peep-holes. The scene was anything but cheering, and despite his hardened heart he could not help feeling a tinge of pity for those inside.

The rooms within were bare of any semblance of furniture or decoration other than what the occupiers themselves had made. Naked walls grimly frowned down upon bare floors, and in the general decay one room was no better than the next. In the majority of the bedrooms the only beds consisted of dried leaves over which were flung ladies' petticoats as sheets, men's overcoats as blankets.

Wenzel soon noted that the hands of the fairer sex had not remained idle any more than those of the men. Here and there were bunches of wild flowers, their beautiful colours serving, in some cases, to help hide some of the worst patches on the walls. Pieces of fantastically shaped wood had been tied round with pieces of ribbon, lace, or other trimmings, and these were placed in positions where they could best ornament the rooms.

In several cases the scene had been brightened by cleverly executed charcoal drawings portrayed on the walls, and here and there Wenzel glimpsed colours, though how the artist had obtained them he could not guess.

The men had apparently set to work with a will, aided by what carpenter's tools Arnold had managed to obtain for them, for there were crudely fashioned chairs scattered about, or else uneven three-legged stools. In one room was a rough table.

Somehow Wenzel was grotesquely reminded of the Swiss Family Robinson, of Crusoe, and other similar tales of boyhood days. As he looked in upon the château it seemed to him as though the people inside might also have been cast away on some desert island. To think that they were in the centre of a supposedly civilized continent....

Arnold was waiting for him by the door.

"Everyone is madly anxious to speak to you," he said.

"I can see only a few," Wenzel answered curtly.

He knew beforehand that he was going to be embarrassed by their gratitude, and it annoyed him. "Haven't you told them, Arnold," he continued testily, "that I am doing all this purely for revenge, and to have a chance of killing some of the Communist brutes? Haven't you explained that their lives mean nothing to me?"

Arnold grinned in the darkness. Perhaps he knew his leader better than the White Knight knew himself. "No, I haven't. I have left that for you to do. However, who will you see first?"

"I think—Francis Bakocz! Now take me to the room."

To the White Knight came Francis.

"Monsieur," he said to Wenzel, "I want to become one of your lieutenants."

"Lieutenants! Who told you I have assistants?"

Curtly the words were hurled at him through the dark, and Francis started with surprise. The mysterious White Knight's voice was hard and cruel.

"No one," he faltered; "but there is yourself, and Monsieur Terhune, and I believed there might be others."

"Why should you believe so?"

"I—I—— Monsieur, I do not understand you! I imagined what I did because the escapes you arranged were so wonderful, so marvellous. It seemed to me that you must have many more to aid you. Do you not want me to—to—speak thus?"

Wenzel laughed grimly. "I questioned you to discover whether they were your ideas or some you might have heard."

"They were my own," Francis said quickly. "No one knows anything of you, though we often discuss you when Monsieur Terhune is away," he admitted frankly.

"And you think I am a supernatural being?"

"Almost, monsieur! My father, for instance! When that hideous brute of a jailer was put to guard him he gave up all hope. Only you, monsieur, could have got the better of that monster."

There was a brief silence, broken eventually by Wenzel: "You think so?"

"I am certain of it," replied Francis, with boyish enthusiasm. "From what my father says of the jailer the man must have been an ogre. Ugh! the very description of him makes the ladies shudder." He laughed slightly. "Father's description might be that of the missing link. If ever he and I meet I shall kill him for all he did to my father."

Again a silence, so long that Francis could not maintain his composure. "Monsieur!" he said.

"Go, go!" Wenzel spoke in a muffled voice. "I will let you know if you can help me. Only go now, and tell Terhune to come to me in ten minutes' time."

The boy went, and Wenzel was left to thoughts which seared and blistered. "The missing link!" He, who had once been handsome, who could have once looked at himself in the mirror, and been satisfied with its reflection of healthy, youthful virility, now "an ogre"! Not even could he pretend to himself that his ugliness had been exaggerated in the Count's eyes by the ghastly surrounding of the prison, the apparent cruelty of the jailer. He was not blind; there were times when he was himself appalled by the picture thrown at him out of the looking-glass.

Yet the hurt of Francis' words, though they cut deep into his sensibilities, did not compare with the mental pain of his own thoughts. If a man thought that of him, what would be a woman's feelings, how much worse would be the reaction on the more fragile ideals of a young girl?

A seething disgust of himself swept upward from his heart; soon it seemed to him that such a monstrosity, such a caricature of a man, ought not to live. Grimly it occurred to him that one day he might be held up as an example to bad children, the threat of becoming like him being used as a means of inducing them to yield to parental authority.

His thoughts became more self-accusative and gruesome. When the door opened and some one entered he cursed that he had not said half an hour to Francis instead of ten minutes.

"Arnold! For God's sake leave me alone, man, for another twenty minutes."

"Monsieur, it is not Arnold."

Wenzel sat perfectly still. The low, vibrant intonation echoed the music of the voice which had persistently rung in his ears the last few days.

"Mademoiselle! I did not expect you,"

'You know who it is then, monsieur?"

"You are Elizabeth Kiss."

She laughed softly. "You must be able to see in the dark, monsieur. My eyes cannot pierce the veil of blackness to observe even my hand, and yet you recognize me!"

"It is not your face I recognize, mademoiselle, but your voice."

"But you heard it for so short a time that—that awful night."

"Yet I have not forgotten it. It reminded me of some one I knew many years ago." A surging memory of his last day with Zita carried him quickly back into the past, but it hurt so that he forced himself to forget, to think only of the present. "How came you here? I was expecting Terhune."

"I know," she replied softly. "I overheard Francis telling Monsieur Terhune. I was afraid that perhaps you would refuse to see me, so I slipped in beforehand."

"You did wrong! Why did you?"

"Because I shall never rest with an easy conscience until I have told you of the gratitude which is in my heart for all that you have done for my father and for me."

"Stop! Mademoiselle, believe me, I do not doubt that gratitude for one minute, and if you wish to express it you can do so in no better way than by dropping the subject immediately and never renewing it again."

"But, monsieur, it seems so—so callous, so cold, to let it pass in that way. Yet, if you will not listen to all I would like to say in regard to what you have done personally for my father and me, will you at least let me tell you of what you have done for the nation?

"For years my father has been engaged in a stupendous literary task, that of writing up the personal history of the Apostolic Kings of Hungary, and the evolution of our race. He has nearly finished—a year, two years may see his task completed. If he—he had died, the history would have perished with him, for only he knows where the work is hidden. Monsieur, do you not feel proud that you have done this for the nation?"

He was deeply stirred by the story she told him.

"I am glad you have told me," he said simply.

Beneath the thrall of her presence it did not occur to him then that the saving of the history, or ten histories, should have meant nothing compared with one human life, but at that moment he was conscious only that she was speaking to him, and that slowly, inexorably, he was beginning to fall in love with her.

This meeting only served to emphasize the attraction for her which, almost against his will, had pulled him to the château, away from Budapest. He wished he could see her, watch her ever-changing expressions, behold her again as he had beheld her outside the château, and begrudged the cloak of darkness which blacked out her marvellous eyes from his vision, the eyes which, close to, he had seen covered by alabaster eyelids.

"Mademoiselle, there is a chair just here. Will you not come closer so that I can put you into it?" Even to himself it was obvious that his voice was deeper, more alive, and throbbing with an emotion he could not control.

Elizabeth was conscious of the change, for she hesitated. "I do not mind standing, monsieur."

"Come! I should feel more easy if you would sit." He heard her move slightly, then his outstretched hand came into contact with her arm. Gently he slid his hand down to her wrist, and guided her to the seat. He felt her quivering gently within his grasp, and, aware of her lack of fear, his heart leaped when it seemed to him that there could be but one reason for her nervousness.

Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, and in doing so experienced a sensation of chilling self-abnegation, and forcibly realized that roseate-hued dreams were blinding his sense of reality. The voice of conscience interpolated its everlasting chant: to feel thus was disloyalty to Zita; while revealed in a colder light the suggestion that Elizabeth could reciprocate his sudden feelings in so short a time became impossible.

His heart cried out in protest, so that when he next spoke there was an unshed tear in his voice.

"Won't you tell me of yourself, mademoiselle? Elizabeth Kiss! It is a pretty name."

"It is an old Hungarian name."

"It is prettier still in my language. You know it?" he questioned.

She answered him in English. "A little. I learned it many years ago when I was still at school."

The music of her voice seemed to echo and re-echo in the quietness of the room. Never had his own language sounded so exquisite. Behind each carefully pronounced word whispered a faint suggestion of an accent, liquid and sibilant, like the ripple of a pure mountain rivulet. Each passing moment revealed to him a new charm in her, and every new discovery wrapped him deeper in the meshes of a growing adoration.

"You speak it splendidly, mademoiselle. You must continue to talk to me in English. You were telling me of yourself."

"Was I?" She laughed softly. "There is so little to tell you. Until the night you rescued us my life had been uneventful, monsieur. I have lived all my life at the Castle Gisella, except only during my schooldays, or whenever my father journeyed to Berlin, Paris, or London. Then he took me with him.

"I have been shut off from the world since 1914, though I have been happy and content, except when hearing of the wounds my unhappy country has suffered. Not even of the Commune had my father and I heard anything until a few minutes before we were invaded by the villagers."

"You must suffer all the more then, now that your eyes are open?"

"Indeed, yes. It has been terrible! Each day we hear worse news, until it seems that the woes of Hungary are unending." Suddenly she choked. "Yesterday I received the worst information of all."

Wenzel frowned, wondering why he had not been informed by Terhune of fresh facts. Then he remembered that he had seen his lieutenant for a few minutes only.

"Yes, yes," he impatiently prompted her.

"Yesterday Monsieur Terhune arrived at the château with a fresh visitor from Budapest——"

"Dregely?"

"Yes. Poor Gobor Dregely. He too has lost everything like the rest of us. This morning he and I were talking together of old times. He knew all my relations in Budapest, and—and—oh, monsieur, he told me of the murder in the streets of my cousin, Coloman. Coloman and his friend were walking home one night; they met a group of drunken Communists who demanded of them to hack the royal crown from their uniforms. Coloman refused and—and then—oh! it seems impossible—one of the Communists snatched a revolver from his pocket and shot down my cousin and his friend." Her voice broke, and Wenzel heard the sound of a stifled sob.

He breathed hoarsely. Suddenly all other feelings were gone save those of blind, murderous hate. His hands clenched till the nails of his fingers bit into the flesh of his palm, but he felt nothing of the physical pain, only an overpowering mental anguish at the thought of the brutal murder. Always he felt thus upon hearing fresh Communist horrors; this time it was intensified by the fact that one of the victims was Elizabeth's cousin.

"Dregely—knows he who was that Communist, by any chance?" Fiercely he put the question to her, not daring to hope that she would be able to reply in the affirmative.

Her voice hardened: "Yes. Dregely was Coloman's friend, and by some means found out. He wanted revenge, but the Communist left Budapest."

"Yes, yes; but who was the murderer?"

"He was a People's Commissary, by name Comrade Gonnard. When Dregely searched for him he heard that Gonnard was touring the country, preaching on behalf of the Commune for sanguinary measures against the bourgeoisie. Dregely would have followed, but he was proscribed an outlaw, and so had to flee himself from the clutches of the Communists. Only now is he safe, thanks to the White Knight."

"Yes, I heard of Dregely's danger, and sent Terhune to help him. But this Comrade Gonnard"—his voice boomed with fury—"for what he has done he will have to settle with the White Knight. Do not worry, mademoiselle; the White Knight will avenge your cousin, I swear by the blood that Gonnard shed that the Communist shall die if I have to follow him from one end of Hungary to another!"

"Oh, monsieur!" She sighed. "I believe I am gentle-natured, it hurts me to see a fly struggling to escape the ruthless clutches of the spider, yet my heart leaps with joy to hear you say that. If only I could be of assistance to you!"

"Perhaps you can," he breathed softly.

"Tell me quickly," she said eagerly.

He had not meant to let the words slip out, they were an echoing murmur from his heart, and now he felt embarrassed, unable to think what to say. Once again the battle between his desires and his sensitive conscience waged fiercely. There was much he wished to tell her, but all the time a mocking voice taunted him on his forgetfulness. What was his love worth, it asked, that he could forget Zita so soon? Less than two months ago he had stood over her dead body and vowed remorseless revenge, and yet already his heart was stirring at the proximity of another woman!

With pitiless insistency the hammer-strokes of his self-inflicted arguments flayed his soul till he writhed in agony. He forced himself to thrust away the mental pictures of Elizabeth which constantly depicted themselves in his imagination, and hardened his voice in an endeavour to deceive himself as well as her.

He had nearly led himself into a trap. There seemed to him only one way out of it. "You can help me by never mentioning a word to anyone that I am going after Gonnard."

"Monsieur!" Reproach battled with anger in her voice.

"I am sorry, but prattling tongues, even in this château, can do inestimable damage. Already some one, who, I do not know, has in his—or her—gratitude kindly betrayed the fact to my enemies that I am an Englishman. Whether by accident or design I do not know. In any event, a word in English now is sufficient to raise a horde of amateur and professional trackers on the trail of the unfortunate speaker."

Elizabeth bit her lip, and wished it were within her power to understand her mysterious rescuer. In the first place, from what little she had seen of him, he was utterly unlike the evenly balanced, phlegmatic Englishmen whom she had previously met. His moods changed with the rapidity of a temperamental woman: he was tender, fierce, calm, and tempestuous by turns. At one moment his voice throbbed with sympathy, the next it grated with bitter cynicism.

His lack of trust hurt her. The pitch-dark room! She tried to persuade herself that there was some other reason, but in vain. It could only be that he feared to reveal his face even to her, in case of treachery. She rose to her feet.

"I must go, monsieur. There are others who wish to express their gratitude to you beside myself." With an effort she kept her tone at an even level, concealing the disappointment which she felt.

His thoughts were chaotic. He did not want her to go so quickly—there were still many questions he wished to put to her, anything to keep her near him; but his lips seemed paralysed.

He was saved a final decision. The door opened and Terhune's voice rang out:

"Geoffrey, I am sorry to interrupt, but Apor is here with grave news."

Instantly his brain cleared. "Mademoiselle, you will excuse me!"

Her lips twitched bitterly. There was a faint note of pleasure in his voice. Evidently he was pleased to get rid of her! "I will go at once," she said.

Terhune guided her to the door, and when he came back Apor was with him.

"Shall I light up now? The window is well covered," asked Terhune.

"Yes, yes. I am tired of the gloom."

When the candle was alight Apor turned to Wenzel.

"My only hope was that you would be here, though how I even guessed that you might be I do not know. Telepathy, no doubt. How did you get here? There is not a single train running."

"Walked here," Wenzel grunted.

Apor whistled in surprise, and gazed at his leader with admiration in his eyes. "It must have been a hard walk, Wenzel. For myself, I confiscated a motor-car and left it in the woods three miles away. Wenzel, if ever your help is needed, it is now, at once. The Devil's let loose.

"Just after three to-day the news came through to the Council that a counter-revolution had broken out in Bira. There was an uproar. Szamuelly said that if the Soviet were to reign supreme all counter-movements must be squashed. For three hours he pleaded for a free hand to take his Death Train to Bira to settle the revolution his own way, but there were some there who hesitated at the idea. In the end he won. I left at once and searched Budapest for you or Terhune. I found no trace, and something prompted me to try here.

"Wenzel, some time to-night the Death Train will leave Budapest for Bira. If it ever gets there, God help the poor devils! Szamuelly is a fiend incarnate. Something must be done to stop him arriving. If we can but delay him twenty-four—or even twelve—hours one of us might get there in the meantime, break the movement up, and get the ringleaders of it to flee for their lives."

Wenzel nodded his head. "You are right, Apor. How many miles is it to Bira from here?"

"Seventy."

"Good! Then give Arnold your car. Arnold, you must go at once to Bira. Fortunately only to-day I bought a map. Here it is. Drive like Hell! You ought to be there at the very most in six hours. In the meantime somehow or other we must delay the Death Train."

"But how?" It was Apor who put the question.

Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. An eloquent answer! There followed a silence while each of the three men racked their brains in an effort to elucidate the problem. The minutes ticked by. Then, suddenly, Wenzel turned to Apor:

"The line which runs in the valley the other side of the hill—is that the direction to Bira?" There was hope in his voice.

Apor nodded. "Yes!" he said, but his expression was puzzled.

Noticing it Wenzel laughed slightly. "Our course is clear, Apor, but we must hurry. You and I have work to do. While Arnold hurries to Bira we will go down into the valley. There are plenty of tall trees there."

"Well?" Still Apor did not understand.

"Don't you see?" explained Wenzel impatiently. "Arnold has a saw. We will fell one of the trees and drag it across the lines. It will be apt to stop any train which comes along; the quicker it is travelling the better havoc there will be."

There dawned in Apor's eyes a smile of triumph which slowly travelled down to his mouth. "What a wreck! If there arc not a few dead Lenin Boys afterwards——" Suddenly he snarled: "The murderous brutes! I hope to God it may kill every one of them and smash the Death Train to pieces!"

Wenzel smiled cruelly. "Maybe it will, Apor. Maybe it will. Now go, you, Arnold, to the car, and on to Bira, and you, Apor, bring me that saw."

He chuckled as his two followers rapidly made their exit from the room. Then he blew out the candle, and moving to the window drew aside the overcoat which covered it and gazed into the night. There was no compunction in his heart for what he was about to do—in fact, it was not of Szamuelly and the Death Train of which he thought, but Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's cousin.

"And afterwards," he whispered to himself—"afterwards.... Take heed, Comrade Gonnard, the White Knight is on your track. May you sleep well to-night! You have not many more nights left."

The darkness of the woods was overpowering. When Wenzel ventured out, followed by Terhune and Apor, he wondered how they were all going to find their separate ways, but when he mentioned this to Apor the Hungarian laughed.

"Do not worry. I shall be able to guide you to the valley. As for Terhune," he turned to Arnold, "keep that star immediately above that distant pine—the one over there on the peak—always in the same position, and you will find yourself right on the road. Then walk to your left until you come to the car. Keep straight on for two miles, when you will arrive at cross-roads, take the right-hand road, and after that—well, follow the map, and remember to take care of the petrol. It will only just be sufficient, I am afraid."

They saw Terhune stumbling through the trees, hands outstretched to warn him of impeding obstacles, before they continued their own way. After he had been following Apor for a short distance, it appeared to Wenzel that the pseudo-Communist found his way with uncanny ease.

When he said so Apor laughed. "You forget, Wenzel, I was born in these parts, and in my younger days there were no automobiles. We had to horseback everywhere, and so became accustomed to making our way about in the dark."

Soon they reached the summit. "The valley is before us," Apor announced.

"How the Devil can you tell? Gad! it looks to me as black as the nether regions. You must have cat's eyes."

Apor laughed. "A result of upbringing. I cannot really see, so that it is probably instinct which enables me to move about so easily."

He led the way, Wenzel following close on his heels, and for some minutes they proceeded downward into the valley. Then Apor stopped.

"Can you hear anything?" he asked, in a puzzled voice.

Wenzel listened acutely, but caught no sound other than the slight movement of trees, the rustle of scuttling animals, and the grumbling chirrup of disturbed birds.

"What kind of a noise do you mean?"

Apor hesitated. "I scarcely know. More like a distant hum."

Wenzel gazed into the darkness. He did not expect to see anything, for he believed trees to be on either side of him, but looking to his left he saw a small, red reflection away in the far distance.

He caught Apor's arm in a pinching grasp. "Look!"

Together they watched the curious glow; almost simultaneously they realized that it was becoming larger, and then Wenzel too heard the echo of a faint, whispering drone.

"What the Devil!..." exclaimed Apor.

The glow apparently increased—then they saw that it was not actually growing larger, though this effect was caused by the fact that the reflection was rapidly approaching in their direction.

It was Wenzel who first grasped the truth. "Damn! Oh, damn!" he exclaimed. "We are too late! It is the Death Train!"

Apor could not contradict. It was too evident now. White billowing masses of smoke, belched forth into the air, were lit up and reddened by the reflection of the roaring boiler-fire. Evidently it was approaching at full speed, for the engine swung round a curve and the watchers saw following a twinkling line of lights. For a second only, then the coaches were hidden again behind the smoke-clouds.

The effect was weird and unearthly. Swirling into the air the smoke formed briefly into strange, phantomesque, and terrifying shapes, which gave way instantly as other puffs spread out and re-formed into other ghoulish creations.

It might have been a burning chariot from Hell furiously driving along toward them, fiendishly blazing its defiance into the night: were it the Death Train, with Szamuelly inside, then indeed was the description all the more applicable.

Filled with despair, Wenzel watched the progress of the train which meant the collapse of all his plans. At the rate the locomotive was moving, Szamuelly would have reached Bira and completed his massacre long before Arnold arrived, and more Hungarian lives would have been lost in a fruitless cause.

He groaned, and hearing him Apor sobbed slightly. "Satan is with him. Szamuelly must have altered his time-table. Wenzel, I can't look, I can't." He sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands.

By now the Death Train was passing below them, roaring onward, screeching and wailing like a lost soul in agony. Four coaches there were, brilliantly lit; one flashingly revealed a party of men, holding glasses in their hands, toasting.

Then no more, just the tail-light, mockingly winking its derision at Wenzel, ominously reminiscent of blood—blood....

Fascinated, mentally stupefied, and partially mesmerized by its malignant twinkle, Wenzel continued to watch the red light, and wondered how soon it would be before its circumference dwindled to a mere pin-prick, thence to fade away as the train vanished round the next curve.

It was receding from him, but as yet he could still see it plainly. He waited, and the minutes ticked by. Still it was visible, also the glow of the engine fire on the smoke.

"It has gone?" There was a query in Apor's dull voice.

"Not yet."

"Not yet! But surely...!" Apor scrambled to his feet. Then he turned to Wenzel. "My God! Don't you see, Wenzel? It has stopped!"

"Stopped!" So that was why he could still see the wicked, red glare? "What does that mean, Apor? Is there a station there?"

"Not for another five miles."

They stood, side by side, watching, and waiting for the train to resume its journey, but presently they noticed the clouds of smoke diminishing.

Wenzel stirred at last. "Apor, I am curious to know why Szamuelly and his crew have stopped. How far away do you imagine it to be?"

"It is hard to say. Perhaps a mile, perhaps more."

"Then guide me there. I am going to investigate."

Twenty-five minutes' journey brought them to the slope of the hill just above where the train stood. Now it was necessary to move with caution, for the quiet night intensified sounds. They could even hear the sound of voices where the Terror Boys argued together.

Wenzel caught hold of Apor, as the Hungarian would have continued to advance, and whispered in his ear: "I will go on alone, Apor; there is light enough from the train to guide me."

The other man turned remonstratingly. "But, Wenzel——"

Wenzel shook his head. "Waste no words, Apor. I know full well what you would tell me. I understand and sympathize. Yet you must curb your impatience. If I should be recognized and escape no harm will be done, but should you once be seen you could be of no further use to me. One thing more before I go. If I get killed Terhune will carry on my work. Give him your allegiance, Apor, in the same spirit as you have given it to me. You will?"

Too moved for words the Hungarian held out his hand. Wenzel gripped it tightly, and knew he need have no doubt of his follower. Then he bent low and crept away through the trees toward the train.

He reached the fringe of the wood; before him the Death Train snorted impatiently, radiating a brilliant glow of light, and Wenzel was able to see for himself the ghastly thing of which he had heard so much.

It consisted all together of the four coaches; the first two he noticed to be first-class saloon cars, the last two ordinary third-class. This fact he noted in a sweeping glance which embraced the whole of the train; then he turned his inspection upon the two Pullman cars, and as he noted one detail after another it seemed to him that his eyes must be playing him a freakish trick.

He blinked once or twice, but when he looked again the picture remained unaltered, and slowly the realization sank into his brain that what he saw was no fleeting chimera, no fanciful dream, but stark, actual fact.

He had travelled in de luxe Pullmans of pre-War days, and considered them the acme of comfort, yet they were cheerless and commonplace compared with the coach which Szamuelly had adopted as his home, and in which he now lived permanently, surrounded by his guard of wicked Terrorists.

All the regular furnishings of the car had been stripped away; instead was substituted gorgeous furniture, filched from the palaces of the King of Hungary, or from the palatial town and country residences of the magnates, from the castles of the aristocrats, the châteaux of the ruling Magyars.

The walls were hung with exquisite tapestry, worked long ages ago, and depicting the glories of Hungary's past, the heroic deeds of Losonczy at Tenescar, of Szondi at Dregel, Zrinyi at Szigetvar, and vaguely Wenzel wondered how each thread, worked by dainty fingers, must have twisted in shame and disgust, as it hung there and witnessed other deeds, black and bloody, blotting the later pages of Hungary's chivalrous history!

Beautiful bevelled mirrors were displayed upon the walls, and pure, deep glass glitteringly reflected the fragile gilt Louis XVI furniture which stood everywhere, its pink brocade dimly reminiscent of another revolution, while lastly, in the centre of the first coach, stood a delicate, feminine writing-table, its dainty carving in harmony with the cushioned settle by its side.

To Wenzel, gazing into the lighted saloon from the shadows of the wood, it was as though he might have been peeping from the dark, overcast present into the brightness of the past. Not one adornment in the saloon but had survived many decades, not one piece which could not have breathed the fame of Deak or Kossuth.

Wenzel wrenched his gaze away. What of the third-class compartments by which the train earned its ghastly title? Therein travelled the unfortunate prisoners of the Terrorists, therein the walls and floors were bare of any ornament other than the rusty stains of dried blood which covered them—the blood of the murdered. Well was it named the Death Train!

There in the two end carriages countless executions took place at the command of Szamuelly, who sat at the fragile desk in the parlour-coach. At his word his captives were butchered, and their bodies flung through the windows, so that the railway tracks of Hungary during the days of the Red Terror were littered with naked corpses.

With a shuddering gasp, which even he could not altogether restrain, Wenzel turned his attention to the Terrorists themselves, who strolled along the down track, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs.

In a sense they were uniformed, not only in costume but in face. Most of them wore Army service uniforms, some with puttees, others wore their trousers loose, but every one boasted the voluminous, heavy overcoat and fatigue cap. It was their features where the similarity was mostly to be glimpsed, not in actual likeness, but in the same degenerate cast, in the same surly, lowering glance, in the same cruel, tightened lips, and receding forehead.

Only one stood out conspicuously. Wenzel had a good view of him as he stood still, right in a path of light. He was a Jew, of small stature, dressed in black, with leggings. He was different. His hair, crinkly, curled, was not shaven to the scalp like the majority of the others. His forehead was high, and apparently intellectual, his eyes open and fearless.

The lower part of his face was covered with a beard, but it was carefully trimmed, and that, with his heavy moustache, gave him a handsome appearance. Wenzel would have believed him a prisoner of the brutes who surrounded him, but, even as the White Knight was watching, one of the Terrorists called to the Jew, and the name he cried was "Kohn-Kerekes."

Kohn-Kerekes! Szamuelly's favourite hangman! The man who once had an argument with Gustav Nick, a freed murderer and Terrorist, as to whether it were possible to hang two or three men within the space of five minutes!

This, then, was the trainload of murderers who were on their way to Bira to put down the counter-revolution. Something seemed to tighten around Wenzel's heart at the mere thought. Somehow he must delay them, hold them back long enough for Arnold to get to Bira and warn the rebels of Szamuelly's approach. Yet how?

The engine was left unguarded, the engine-driver and his mate having joined their fellow-Terrorists. Wenzel's eyes flared with suggestion. He knew nothing of engines, yet he felt confident that if he could but work his will on the levers, the handles, and all the different controls, he was bound to do some damage or other.

He made up his mind to attempt the feat, but firstly he realized that it would be necessary to cross the line and approach the engine from the other side. As far as he could see, all the Terrorists were on the down track, some seated on the rails, some walking up and down, so that, to judge from appearances, the farther side was apparently unprotected.

He slunk farther back into the shadows of the trees, then took a direction which would bring him well to the front of the train, assuming that there he would be less likely to be seen, by reason of being behind the light cast by the engine boiler-fire.

When he had traversed the distance of a hundred yards or so he considered that he had gone far enough, and made his way toward the track again. Where the trees finished to make way for the iron lines he paused, ready for the crossing.

He peered into the gloom on each side of him, and listened acutely for any suggestion of an approaching Terrorist; but everything was calm and peaceful.

Doubling his tall bulk he moved cautiously forward, and without a sound crossed the track into the belt of wood the other side, and once there made his way back again toward the train.

It was as he had suspected: all the men were congregated on one side of the train, leaving the approach on the other absolutely clear, though how long such a state of things was likely to continue he did not know. He realized that he must work at once or perhaps fail to have another opportunity.

Poised ready for instant flight in the event of discovery he advanced toward the train, step by step, and at each stride his eyes flickered from side to side for any sign of interruption.

On the other side of the coaches he heard the chatter of their tongues and the crunching movement of their feet as the Terrorists walked to and fro. By peering low between the carriage wheels he could even see some of them, and knew that, contrariwise, if one of them should chance to look his way, discovery would be inevitable, and all chance gone of delaying the Death Train.

In a man's way he prayed that he might reach his destination. As he advanced and nothing happened he began to believe that Fortune was playing into his hands. At last! The steps to the driver's platform were before him. He swung himself on to the engine with a lithe movement, but even as he did so, a flashing glance toward the end of the train made him aware that the driver and the fireman were slowly strolling back to their allotted places.

He could not retreat, for now he was cut off. He could not go forward, for the dozens of Terrorists on the down track. Swiftly he glanced around, for hide himself he must. There was only one possible place: on top of a coach.

He clambered silently up the tender, and then, trusting to luck that he would not be seen, hoisted himself on to the roof of the first coach, and on his stomach wormed his way along. He was only just in time, for even as he reached the shadows he saw the driver and his assistant mount the engine platform.

Despite the precariousness of his situation he could not help appreciating the humour of it. Undoubtedly, of the many predicaments in which he had found himself from time to time since his adoption of the role of White Knight, the present one was the most curious and unusual.

By lifting his head slightly he could see the Terrorists below; so visible were they to him, indeed, that he felt sure that he himself must naturally be equally outstanding to anyone who should chance to look up, until he reflected that he was above the radius of the light.

Their voices rose clearly to him, and concentrating on one couple, who seemed either to be nearer than the others or talking more loudly, he was able to hear their conversation.

"Three-quarters of an hour we have been here. Why don't we get on instead of hanging about?" said one.

"Obviously Szamuelly wants to get to Bira just after daybreak so that he can catch the White Revolution in the act."

The questioner spat on the ground. "Good enough, comrade; but as we are here why not let us go right ahead? A man hangs as well in the dark. Alternatively, we might as well have slept in Budapest. There are at least women there."

"Use your brains, Kerner. If we should arrive in Bira too early every one would be asleep, and if they should wake up to see us standing in the station they would speedily forget to be White and would don their Red cockade again. Every one would be innocent, and there would be no one to hang." The speaker laughed.

"Well, and could we not have stopped in Buda, and have left there in time to arrive in Bira soon after daybreak?"

"Perhaps Szamuelly thought we should not be too willing to get up."

"Huh!" The first man grunted. "Maybe he was right. Once I tumble into bed I prefer to stick there."

Wenzel did not listen any more—he had heard sufficient. What need to draw attention to an enemy in their midst by tampering with the engine when, if the Terrorists below were to be believed, Szamuelly was of his own accord delaying the train? He could trust Arnold to do his work well. When Szamuelly arrived he would find no one upon whom to wreak his sanguinary vengeance.

There remained nothing else for him to do but to make his escape from the present situation as quickly as possible. Unfortunately he could not return as he had come, the engine-driver effectively barred the way, but he believed that he might creep along to the edge of the coach, and slip down the space in between it and the next one.

Still lying flat on his stomach, he moved gradually away from the engine and nearer to his way of escape, but as he looked around he began to realize that, just as a rat confidently enters the inviting trap, only to find his exit barred, so was he too in a somewhat similar position.

The Terror Boys were restless. Groups of them sauntered in every direction, many of them now encircled the train in a regular promenade, and the White Knight, as he felt the cold penetrating through his clothes, did not need to conjecture the reason for their movements.

With the utmost care he wriggled into a position from where, at the first favourable opportunity, he would be able to slip down to the ground and scuttle back into the wooded slopes again, and waited.

The minutes ticked by—minutes which began to total into respectable fractions of an hour—but still many of the Terror Boys kept up their unceasing tour. Round and round they marched till the blood glowed as redly as possible in their wan and dissolute faces, and in the meantime the White Knight became more and more chilled.

He longed to move, to circulate his freezing blood—to do, in fact, what his enemies themselves were doing—but it seemed that Fate, having once permitted him to board the train, was set on keeping him there, irresponsibly transferring her favour to the other side; coquettishly flirting, now with him, the next moment conspiring against him.

Once there was a lull. For some reason the Communists suddenly assembled together in argument, and as the group swelled, so one side of the train was left to itself.

Wenzel tensed himself for his escape, but even as he drew himself to the edge, preparatory to clambering down to the buffers, the engine-driver alighted and walked along, swinging his arms as he moved. By the time the man was warm again the promenade had recommenced and Wenzel's opportunity had gone.

Later the Terrorists began to climb back into the train, and Wenzel's eyes glistened with anticipation; but his hopes were very quickly shattered. Szamuelly, with the cunning of a serpent, set two guards, one on each side of the train.

So the night passed. Despite everything, his watch and his discomfort, Wenzel fell into a fitful slumber—not sleep in the actual sense of the word, but a restless jerky doze from which he forced himself to awake every few minutes until his head ached with the effort.

Without warning there was a grinding jerk. Wenzel opened his eyes with a start. The train was moving; with a sense of dismay he realized that eventually he must have given way and actually slept. Now it was too late to escape—he was being carried with the Death Train to Bira.

The engine gathered speed and, with its added velocity, rocked unsteadily from side to side. Then for Wenzel began a nightmare of inconceivable hideousness. He gripped hold of something—he never knew what—and held to it with a tenacity which presently became subconscious, but even so his body was turned, rolled, and banged on the sloping roof.

The billowing clouds of smoke blew into his face until his throat and nose were filled with cinders, and he felt sick from the taste of the acrid fumes. Somehow he repressed the burst of coughing which threatened to seize him every second, but to do so he had to fill his body with deep breaths which served to suck in still further supplies of the smoke.

Fortunately there was enough wind from the east to keep the smoke sufficiently away to enable him to retain consciousness, but in doing so its scurrying rush deadened his senses and numbed his limbs and bones.

Time ceased to be of consequence, he knew only that he must hold tight if he wished to retain his life. So, somehow, his fingers continued to grip, even when his consciousness practically vanished.

The train pounded on, but except for a sensation of unreality he was totally unaware of what else was happening. From head to foot his body ached and pained. Bruised all over from the buffeting of the train, frozen by the cold, deafened by the shrieking of the wind, blinded by the smoke-dust, he believed then that Hades itself could not contain more suffering, and he groaned slightly with the torture.

At last it was over. He felt the train slowing down, and released one hand to free his eyes from their covering of grime and dirt. During the journey the day had dawned, and in the misty half-light he saw the name of Bira written on the railway embankment in small, white stones, and in the distance the station.

He knew that there was no time to be lost, so gathering up what strength there was still left in his limbs he climbed down to the buffers. Quietly and ominously the train slid into the station and quiveringly halted; the next moment Wenzel jumped to the ground, crossed the lines, and was out of the station.

He dimly expected a hail, if not from the train, then perhaps from the station, but he had not been noticed. He breathed softly with relief, and looked round.

There was an ominous, brooding silence, and over the neighbourhood in which he was there seemed to hang a pall of oppression and apprehension. It was whispered by the wind which sighed sullenly through the telegraph wires; it was told by the Red flags hung out at intervals, which flapped angrily with staccato reports; it was suggested by the tightly shut windows and doors.

Wenzel's face broke into a smile of gratification. Evidently Arnold had done his work well. Not only was there no one about, but so quickly had Bira turned Red again at the news of the approach of Szamuelly that nowhere could Wenzel catch a glimpse of white. There was no work for Szamuelly's butcher hangmen in Bira.

All this he noted in a quick, fleeting glance, for a backward look at the train revealed to him that its travellers were tumbling out in pell-mell haste. Wenzel knew that he must hide quickly.

Before the front of the station was a wide square. He knew if he doubled across it he might be seen. Obviously it would be better to hide on the station roof. He looked up and noted that the stone coping formed a convenient ladder upward. A few seconds later he was securely hidden, watching the movements of the Terrorists below.

Szamuelly, carefully guarded by four or five men, each of whom flourished a serviceable revolver, sauntered toward the station, to halt scarcely a yard or so from where Wenzel was hidden.

In quick, precise tones Szamuelly gave his orders, and small parties of his men dispersed to different parts of the town. In the meantime, while he waited for their return, Szamuelly smoked a cigarette and jested with his own special guard.

"Well, comrades, ready for your work, eh?"

One man grunted. "Everything looks strange. Where is the White counter-revolution which we have come to suppress, may I ask? There are Red flags by the plenty, but I see no signs of the White cockade."

Szamuelly laughed grimly. "The revolutionaries are skulking away. We will drag the rats from their holes. When they stand before me, waiting for my verdict, we shall soon see by their faces whether they are loyalists or not. We will let go free all whose faces go red—eh, friends?—and string up those who go white at the sound of their sentence. Will that not be judgment worthy of Solomon himself?"

Then the conversation drifted into more personal channels. There was a woman in Budapest whom one had seduced, and the tale was well worth the telling. As the story progressed the laughter of the listeners became incessant.

Presently the Terror Boys returned, group by group.

"Where are the prisoners?" Szamuelly asked, and his voice grew harsher as he heard the same answer from all quarters:

"There has been a mistake, comrade. Bira is Red. There is no counter-revolutionary movement here. The Red flag flies everywhere."

"Fools, dolts, idiots! Do you think we have come all this way to go back again like a lot of lost sheep? If we cannot track out the revolutionaries themselves then we must find their supporters with whom to set an example. When I leave here Bira will hesitate to tear the Red flag down again. Go on, boys, fetch them out."

Then followed a ghastly scene, which Wenzel viewed with indescribable horror. Filled with enthusiasm, the Terror Boys crossed the station square and burst into surrounding houses. Presently the air was filled with the sounds of struggle; here and there the reverberating echo of shots intermingled with the wailing of women, the pleading of children. Half dressed, unkempt, and dishevelled, the victims of the Terror Boys were hustled across the square to the station, where they were lined up before Szamuelly.

"Ho, you!" Szamuelly strode up to one of the prisoners. "So you are one of the scum who saw fit to try and overthrow our glorious cause, are you?"

"No, no, comrade, I swear I am not. I am a loyal Communist. For God's sake, do not hang me! My wife—she is giving birth to a child, even at this minute. Mercy, mercy, for the love of Christ! Mercy!"

The trembling wretch sank on his knees, the tears ran down his cheeks. Szamuelly laughed.

"Is his face red or white, comrades?"

There was a roar of laughter from his followers, and the verdict was unanimous: "White, Comrade Szamuelly, white!"

"Then he hangs. Throw a rope over that tree yonder."

Willing hands were found to obey the injunction. In less than a minute a rope was thrown over a lower branch, a running loop formed, and underneath it a chair was placed.

To it the victim was dragged and forced up upon the chair. The loop was adjusted round his neck. Everything ready, Szamuelly crossed and stood in front of the man. He took the cigarette from his mouth, and suddenly placed its lighted end upon the hapless victim's bare foot. The poor wretch howled with pain, kicked backward, the chair fell over, and the loop tightened....

There were seven other trees near by, and in less than twenty minutes at every tree twisted and swayed a lifeless body at the end of a rope. After that Szamuelly was satisfied.

"Come along, comrades. Do you think Bira will go White again?"

A hoarse growl of laughter arose. "Not if they are wise."

So the Death Train steamed back to Budapest. Its work was done. Bira would not go White again. Innocent or guilty, eight victims hung warningly in the station square.

Wenzel—as his body had been chilled with cold the night before, so now his heart and his emotions were frozen. He could not think coherently. Civilization! What progress had it made in the hearts of these people? They were more savage than the Turks their forefathers had driven across the frontier centuries before.

There was but one thought dominant in Wenzel's mind then. After Gonnard, Szamuelly; after Gonnard, known murderer of two good Hungarian men. Szamuelly, the murderer of hundreds!

Szamuelly must die! Of the chaotic thoughts which obsessed Wenzel that was the one dominant factor. Szamuelly must die!

The Death Train disappeared in the distance, and Wenzel watched it with eyes which gleamed with an unbridled fury of hatred. Even the death of Elizabeth's cousin was as nothing compared with this crime, but there was his word—the word of the White Knight—given to Elizabeth. Yet afterward... Szamuelly must die!

Thirty-three miles away from Budapest is Aszod.

This town was almost as much a centre of Communism as Budapest; its people took kindly to the doctrine of upheaval, and so they hoisted a huge Red flag, which flapped in the wind from above the reformatory, while a similar flag above the station advertised the politics of the town.

In the days which followed Wenzel's unexpected trip to Bira, Szamuelly put down the railwaymen's strike by the aid of a firm and bloody hand. With a sullen, menacing growl they resumed work, but if to all outward appearances they quickly forgot their new woes, a dull resentment against a self-elected autocracy smouldered in their hearts, ready to blaze whenever the train to the torch of real freedom might be lit, a sentiment not shared by the huge crowd which, thronging the arrival platform, awaited the train from Budapest which bore among its passengers a commissary, come to address the people of Aszod.

As the commissary in question opened the carriage door he was greeted by flourished handkerchiefs and a rousing storm of cheers. It was Comrade Gonnard.

Short, fat, with an adipose face, an unshaven chin, the ribbons, floating around his neck, of an enormous Red cockade set in the lapel of his coat, he was typical of the Communists who governed the country.

His grossness was no less pronounced than was the evidence of low mentality and criminal tendencies, betrayed by a receding chin, a shelving, narrow forehead, and close, deep-set eyes; but this meant nothing to the crowds who flocked to welcome him, to listen to his bombastic eulogy, his crazy ranting.

The cheering having died down, he raised his hand, and obtained immediate silence. Striking a flamboyant attitude, he commenced his speech.

"Comrades," he bellowed, "fellow-proletarians, I am here to-day on behalf of the People's Council, to give you news of our satisfactory progress, to give you an outline of our future programme.

"'A short time back our worthy comrade, Bela Kun, on behalf of the Hungarian Soviet Republic, got into wireless communication with Comrade Lenin, of the Russian Soviet, and sent the following message to him:

"'Last night the Hungarian Proletariat seized all powers, established the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, and greets you as leader of the International Proletariat.

"'The Social Democratic Party has adopted the Communist point of view; the two parties have united. We have named ourselves the Hungarian Socialist Party. We ask for instructions in this matter. Bela Kun is Commissary for Foreign Affairs. The Hungarian Soviet offers the Russian Soviet a defensive and offensive alliance. Fully armed, we turn against all enemies of the Proletariat, and ask for information concerning the military situation.'"

There was an outburst of cheering, to which Gonnard smiled and smirked his acknowledgment. Presently, when there was silence once again, he continued:

"Comrades, to this historical message of love and goodwill to all fellow-proletarians there came a reply, dictated by Lenin himself, who spoke as follows:

"'Lenin speaking. Hearty greetings to the Hungarian Soviet's Proletarian Government, in particular to Comrade Bela Kun. I have just communicated your message to the Congress of the Communist Party of Bolshevik Russia. Enormous enthusiasm; we will send a report on the military situation as soon as possible. A permanent wireless communication between Budapest and Moscow is absolutely necessary. With Communistic greetings, Lenin.'"

The cheering with which the speaker's first message had been met was entirely eclipsed by the terrific roar which went up as he read out Lenin's reply. Hats were thrown into the air, Red flags were waved frantically, and in the madness which ensued there was scarcely one present who realized the shame of it; the dishonour of the Hungarians, descendants of the fiercest fighters, of the proudest aristocracy in Europe, appealing to a foreign Government for instructions.

So insidiously can propaganda work, the propaganda which had been secretly distributed in the Army, in the Navy, and throughout the workshops of Hungary for the past few months. The cankerous root is not more harmful to the animal body, the death-watch beetle does not rot the heart of wood so quickly, as the propaganda of the gospel of Bolshevism putrefies the common sense and saps the morality of a working people.

"Comrades," shouted Gonnard once again, "well may you cheer at such excellent news—Russia and Hungary hand in hand. Together we will spread the seed of Communism. Already England is ripe to hail the Red banner, and German workmen are more than willing to throw off the shackles of their capitalist taskmasters. France but awaits the word, Italy seethes with discontent. The workmen of the world await the hour with eagerness, and will soon follow the glorious example of Hungary by throwing off the heavy mantle laid upon them by the bourgeoisie.

"Comrades, it is but a matter of time," he boasted. "There is nothing, now, to stand in the way of Proletarianism and the Commune."

From somewhere in the crowd a voice interrupted:

"What about the Enemy of the Commune? What about the White Knight?"

There was silence, broken by a sudden growl from the crowd. "Yes, what about the White Knight?" cried one. "What is the People's Council going to do about the Enemy of the Commune?" shouted another.

Gonnard, bewildered and perplexed by this sudden turn to his oratory, gazed stupidly at the crowd, and gave no reply.

"Speak louder. I cannot hear!" called some one waggishly, and there was a hoarse roar of laughter.

"But I don't understand," Gonnard spluttered. "What do you mean?—what are you talking about?—the Enemy of the Commune?—the White Knight?—I don't understand!"

"You are a fine People's Commissary! Never heard of the Enemy of the Commune? Ho! there's a fine comrade for you!" again some one from the crowd called out.

Gonnard flushed a dull red. "Well, then," he cried out angrily, "supposing you tell me."

"I'll tell you," called out the same voice again. "There's a man in Aszod who calls himself the White Knight, the Enemy of the Commune, who has vowed the downfall of the Soviet, and the death of all the proletariat who stand in his way."

"Bah!" answered Gonnard, "the bourgeois—are you then frightened of a bourgeois, comrades?"

There was dead silence again. Gonnard laughed harshly. "Cowards!" he cried, "cowards, all of you! Frightened by some half-witted bourgeois who calls himself by a strange name." He sneered, palpably.

"Ho, then, Comrade Gonnard," interrupted the same voice again, "can you explain the death of Comrade Fejer and Comrade Pauler? You may be the next, my friend—or me."

The blood drained away from Gonnard's face. Evidently this suggestion had not yet occurred to him, but as the force of the man's remarks struck him he twisted his head nervously from side to side, perhaps already anticipating the death which he so richly deserved.

There was a taunting cry from several in the mob who observed this fact. "Look," cried one or two, "our People's Commissary turns white about the gills!"

As the jeer sank home Gonnard heaved his heavy form more upright. "Afraid, am I?" he shouted nastily. "Well, then, if that's the case, I'll just show you how far you are wrong. If any of you before me knows of this so-called Enemy of the Commune you can tell him from me that in less than a week I'll string him up on the nearest tree I can find!"

At his words there was a dramatic interruption.

From one of the houses which overlooked the station there was a hearty roar of laughter, and then to the ears of Gonnard and the crowd which surrounded him came the echo of a mocking voice.

"I accept your challenge, Comrade Gonnard. But it is you who will swing, not I!"

* * * * * *

Comrade Gonnard, as befitted a People's Commissary and a representative of the Workers' Council, took up his headquarters at the château of Baron Szechenyi.

No formality about this. He, together with local commissaries, merely marched up to the château, seized it in the name of the Soviet Government, and informed the Baroness that henceforward she and her family would have to be content with three rooms. The rest of the house was then thrown open to the proletariat, and before nightfall the château was filled with the scum of Aszod.

Before the next day had passed the whole place was turned upside down, while everything of value had disappeared, confiscated by any who cared to help themselves, for was not the meaning of the Commune that anything possessed by one belonged to all? "What is yours is mine, what is mine is mine own," might have been the motto of the Communist; or—abbreviated—"Thine—mine."

Notwithstanding his doctrine, Gonnard took care that the finest room in the house should be allocated to himself, and, once settled down, he awaited the local detective whom he had immediately put on the track of the mysterious White Knight who had so publicly and audaciously taken up his challenge.

Not at once had the crowd moved when the White Knight announced himself. They were stupefied with astonishment, and it was not until Gonnard, in a paroxysm of temper, thrashed his arms about and ordered his audience to chase the man that anyone moved.

When at last a movement rippled through the crowd there ensued a scene of confusion.

"Which house?" "Where?" "What was he like?" were questions answered by "This house," "That house," "The one over in the corner," nearly every house being mentioned in turn. Confused, the mob sheepishly turned from side to side; while all the time Gonnard profanely swore at them to chase the interrupter, but no one moved until a young fellow at the back led the way.

Three or four houses in turn were entered, searched, and secretly looted, but there was no trace of the Enemy, who had long since made himself scarce. As to his description, so many had positively seen him and were able to give reliable information that, collectively, he might have been anything from a red-headed dwarf to a fiery-eyed, black-bearded giant.

Gonnard's anger over, fear stepped into its place, and, scarcely giving the people time to report their failure, he summoned detectives and ordered them to hunt down the "criminal" who had dared defy a People's Commissary, even though he were an ex-convict, released when Bela Kun opened wide the prison gates to enrol recruits as Red adherents.

In the evening came Gunzi.

"Well," snapped Gonnard, "what news?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "None."

"None!" exploded the Commissary. "The Devil take it, what are you men here for? No wonder the bourgeoisie still walk around, unchecked. I thought Aszod was loyal to the Commune. Are you all fools?"

The other man flushed. "Hold hard, comrade. Don't be too easy with your words. 'Tis not so long ago that you yourself were on the wrong side of cell bars at Budapest. I do not forget faces quite so easily. You had another name then. Let me see. It was for desertion, and robbery with violence. You, my friend, have reason to be thankful that the people are in power, and not the aristocracy."

There was an awkward silence. Gonnard had not realized that he might be recognized, though actually this could make little difference to his position. He was only one among many.

"I'm sorry, friend, if I spoke hastily," he mumbled presently. "Now tell me more of this White Knight. What is he? Who is he?"

Gunzi laughed. "The Devil himself, it would seem. The first we heard of him here in Aszod was about a week ago. One morning we found, pasted over the official posters of the Soviet Government, slips of paper bearing the words: 'Proletarians, beware. Nemesis is on your track. The White Knight. An Enemy of the Commune.'"

"Nemesis! Who is he? That's not a Hungarian name," said Gonnard.

"I knew not, till I asked the schoolmaster, who roared with laughter when I asked him." The detective's eyes narrowed. "He is a bourgeois, that schoolmaster. Him I will soon put into prison."

"But Nemesis?" prompted Gonnard.

"Oh, yes, Nemesis. He told me Nemesis was a daughter of Nyx, a person who metes out punishment to the unjust. Bah! They think to get the better of good proletarians with their long words and foreign names. Wait until I get my hands upon this woman, Nemesis, or the White Knight either."

"What about Fejer and Pauler?"

Gunzi pursed his lips. "Ask me not, Gonnard. All I know is that they were both found dead, and each had in one of his pockets—a white knight!"

His sibilant voice lowered itself toward the finish of the sentence, and Gonnard shivered. "It is you who will hang, not I." Again in his ears rang the confident challenge hurled at him across the heads of the populace. Supposing he failed in his boast, and, worse, supposing the Enemy of the Commune were successful! ...

Involuntarily his hand flew to his throat and he loosened his shirt collar. It was rather too tight to be pleasant. Gunzi's mouth slowly widened into a grin.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" cried Gonnard, and there entered a small boy of about eleven years of age, dressed in clothes far too large for him, which, judging from the cut and the material, had been filched from one of the bourgeois residences.

"A letter for you, comrade," announced the newcomer, his remark punctuated by an oath. The gamins of Hungary spent a royal time during the Commune. Released by order of the Soviet from all authority whatsoever, of their parents or of their school-teachers, they revelled in their freedom and made the most of their opportunity.

Gonnard glared at the boy. "What do you mean, son? A letter for me? Where from?"

The messenger grinned. "Don't get excited, comrade. It's not from a lady. I was walking down the Palyaudvar-utcza when a man came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn ten crowns. 'Make it twenty crowns,' I said to him, 'and I'm your man.' 'All right,' he growled. 'See, here's a letter. Take it up to Comrade Gonnard, who is living in the château of Baron Szechenyi. He will be pleased to get it.' Then he gave me this letter, and I immediately brought it along. Give me a crown, comrade, and you can have it."

Gonnard scowled. "Son of a pig, hand it over." He half rose from his seat, and the boy quickly tossed it on to the table in front of him.

Clutching the envelope Gonnard slit it open with his dirty thumb, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This he opened, and then, as he read, choked with fury.

"My God," he called out hoarsely to the detective, "read this!" With a livid face he held it out to Gunzi, who perused it, his forehead lifting slightly in his surprise:

Within a week you will hang, Comrade Gonnard, and so the death of two honest Hungarian officers will be avenged.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

While Gunzi reread the message, studying the handwriting, searching for the watermark of the paper, or any other clue which might ultimately lead to the disclosure of the mysterious White Knight, Gonnard cast back his memory in retrospection.

It was one night some months before. Budapest lay covered in a white mantle of snow, which happily concealed the garbage and rubbish littering the streets. He and two other Communists were straggling home. Fortunately the streets were empty; people were afraid to wander much those nights, for parties of ex-Russian prisoners and numbers of ex-soldiers, disbanded but not disarmed, roamed the countryside, shooting and pillaging, even daring to enter the towns.

The three Communists wandered on, hazy with drink, their revolvers spitting fire, which, in lieu of finding human billets, broke lamp after lamp, window after window.

They had nearly reached their quarter when round the corner strode two officers of the demobilized Hungarian Army, their uniforms still glistening with the emblem of the royal crown.

The sight maddened the Communists, for the majority of ex-soldiers, who for four years had, day in and day out, pluckily withstood the forces of invading hordes, who, indeed, had fought for this very emblem, now would tremblingly hack it off at the command of a few of their own countrymen.

Lining up, they stopped the two officers, and hoarsely ordered them to strip, their revolvers pointing with unpleasant directness at the stomachs of the two men.

With a haughty motion of the chin the elder of the two, disdaining the drunken men, stepped forward, and would have passed, but Gonnard's pistol flashed, and a crumpled body slumped to the ground, where it was quickly accompanied by the corpse of the second officer. Thus died two who escaped the bayonets of Hungary's enemies to die of the bullets of Hungary's men—the red of their blood gradually dyed the pure white of the snow—the insignia of the Crown blemished by the symbol of Communism.

Like a wraith he saw again the haughty officer falling—falling toward him; the accusing eyes approaching nearer, the outstretched hands grasping for his throat....

He called out chokingly, and the ghost dissolved into the smoke of a cigarette which the placid urchin of the streets blew out of his mouth in thick clouds.

Gonnard's dazed glance wandered from side to side—from the face of the grinning messenger to the puzzled countenance of the detective. How came this spectre from the past? How knew the White Knight that he was the murderer?

"Well?" asked Gunzi inquiringly.

"Nothing—nothing," muttered Gonnard. "I want to know about that note."

The detective turned it over and over in his fingers. "No clue of any kind." He turned to the boy. "What was the man like who gave you this? Can you describe him?"

"Yes, of course," answered the urchin, and Gonnard and Gunzi leaned forward, a gleam of hope lighting up their faces. "He was tall, though not too tall, say about—about as high as my father, who is bigger than either of you, comrades. His eyes were a greeny blue, or perhaps brown, I forget now. His hair was a darkish brown, nearly black in parts, and he was dressed as you, not quite so well as I."

Gonnard groaned. The explanation might fit anyone in the world. "Get out!" he shouted. The boy turned tail and ran, wondering what had happened.

Gunzi grinned. "Not of very much assistance, comrade. Apparently the Devil is not as conspicuous as I had believed."

Gonnard turned upon the detective with an ugly snarl. "Cease your prattling, Gunzi. This is no laughing matter." His eyes narrowed into mere slits, and he leaned forward in the other's direction, gazing fiercely at him. "Listen, my friend. It is written that the past is past. I am a People's Commissary now, and have the ear of Bela Kun. It will be a bad day for you, Gunzi, if by next week you have not laid this cursed bourgeois by the heels. This day week some one is going to hang, and if it is not the White Knight—comrade, you have a nice soft neck. It would be a pity to see its tender skin black and blue, rasped and bruised by a rope. Do you think it within the bounds of possibility that you might bring this dog to me—soon?"

His bombast did not worry the rat-faced Gunzi. He shrugged his shoulders. "To-day week should be an interesting one. Yet it will not be I who will hang—and it might not be the White Knight, friend."

With that he strolled from the room and left the ex-convict and murderer alone with his thoughts.

Comrade Gonnard spent an unpleasant night. At supper he both dined and wined in unwise manner, so that no sooner had he laid his head upon the pillow than he became conscious of the fact. Whatever his feelings awake, they were mild compared to the succession of nightmares which visited him asleep. It was an ill-tempered and uneasy comrade who arose at a late hour next morning.

He drank his coffee with a gulp, and opened his newspaper. There was a note pinned to the front page:

Still six days, Comrade Gonnard.
                                                THE WHITE KNIGHT

His face whitened to a chalky pallor; he gazed at the warning with dilated eyes.

For the rest of the day his mind dwelt upon matters which were of anything but a pleasant nature. At every step he winced perceptibly and kept an uneasy eye upon the door and the window. Though he had been warned that there were still six more days for him to live, he was convinced in his own mind that the White Knight was bluffing, that the blow might be struck at any moment.

The day passed, and, despite his experience of the night before, Gonnard again indulged in a heavy meal. The consequence was that his dreams were even worse; his fears, in conjunction with his groaning stomach, wreaked havoc with his inner consciousness. As the night passed, the vision of the White Knight appeared more frequently, and in different guises, each one of which was more terrible than the last. When he was awakened by the welcome sunlight, which came streaming in through a crack in the shutters, he found himself in a sweat which poured off his forehead and down his body.

A newspaper, brought in to him with his breakfast by a friendly Communist, lay on the table alongside his coffee. With trembling fingers he unfolded it, and gasped with relief to find that this time its creases hid no terrifying message. He almost enjoyed his breakfast.

Then arrived the post. There was a letter for him; the writing was feminine; there was a faint, lingering suspicion of perfume. A letter to him from a woman! His eyes glistened with anticipation. He inserted his bulgy forefinger and hastily slit open the envelope.

It was no billet-doux; only once again the fatal warning:

Five days more, Comrade Gonnard.
                                            THE WHITE KNIGHT

The words faded away in the misty film which covered his eyes, and his shaking fingers dropped the letter so that it fluttered to the floor.

The days passed. Each morning he received another revised message—by telegram, by telephone, once again by the post, and then, on the last day, by Gunzi.

The detective looked tired and haggard. For six days he had scarcely slept; clue after clue he had followed in vain. The White Knight was more elusive than the fata Morgana.

When he saw Gonnard he stopped short in surprise and swore, and Gonnard, seeing him, clutched his arm frantically:

"You have found him, Gunzi?"

"No."

The word was like a death-knell; Gonnard sank back into a chair, shaking in every limb, and Gunzi eyed him scornfully. He had not seen the commissary for five days, but in that time the once gross and fleshy Communist had shrunk till the skin hung from him in pouches.

His flickering, restless eyes unceasingly switched from one direction to another, his drumming fingers everlastingly beat a tattoo upon the object nearest to them. His clothes positively hung from him and were buttoned only here and there; his boots were not even laced.

Gunzi stared at the wreck of a man and could scarcely believe him to be the same as the bombastic commissary who had arrived the week before to teach the people of Aszod the benefits of the Commune.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" Gonnard whispered. "Gunzi, you must find him or he will kill me. His messages haunt me wherever I go. I have not dared to go out for the last three days lest I should be stabbed, or shot in the back, or crushed by a passing automobile." His voice rose to a shriek. "For God's sake, Gunzi, tell me you know where the White Knight is hiding, that you will arrest him to-day, at once, and save my life! You do know where he is, don't you?"

Gunzi turned away: "No, comrade, I do not."

Gonnard gazed at him incredulously, his head unconsciously wagging from side to side. "You don't? But ... but you are ... are a detective."

Gunzi shrugged his shoulders. "Nevertheless, friend, I have searched Aszod from end to end, I who know it so well, but I have not traced the White Knight. There is not a building I have not visited, not a single source of supply which I have not tapped, yet in vain. How can I describe him? No one knows what he is like."

"The telegram he sent me! I forwarded it on to you."

"I got some sort of description—enough, in fact, for me to track the sender."

"What!" Gonnard sat up. At the sudden suggestion of a possible success on Gunzi's part a remnant of his courage returned, and hope gleamed from his eyes. "You have tracked him? You arrested him?"

The detective smiled grimly. "Of course I did. He is in prison now."

Gonnard looked bewildered. "Then ... why... Surely I ... I am safe...."

"You jump to conclusions too hastily. The sender of the telegram was not the White Knight, friend. He was paid by the White Knight to send the telegram to you."

"Then ... then he must have seen the White Knight?"

"'Tall, though not very tall, about so high, perhaps a trifle bigger. His eyes were brown, or blue, they might have been either. His hair was inclined to blond, and he was dressed like any other man.' That was his description!" Gunzi jeered. "I left him in prison. The change may improve his memory. In the meantime I have a message for you."

Never suspecting what was coming, Gonnard was but mildly curious. His head was too full of other thoughts. "Well?"

"I was on my way to you, comrade. There was a meeting near the station. I stopped for a short time to listen. When it was all over a crowd of us moved away. Some one touched me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear: 'Tell Comrade Gonnard, to-morrow.' I looked round, but ... he might have been one of a dozen."

The commissary's mouth worked spasmodically. He endeavoured to speak, but his tongue was paralysed. His twitching nerves betrayed the panic which embraced him, and his head drooped.

"Cheer up, friend; do not let your fears get the better of you. Surround yourself with a few of the Red guards; you must have a pocketful of crowns else you cannot be much of a commissary. Grease a few palms. The White Knight is only a man after all."

Gonnard looked up. "Gunzi, I am afraid," he whispered hoarsely.

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "Then you had better do as I suggest as soon as you can. Meanwhile ... I think I will go and see our friend who sent the telegram."

Gonnard, shivering with apprehension, watched the detective depart. Gunzi had failed, the White Knight was at liberty. He clutched his throat with his hands. He seemed to feel the rasp of the rope.

"Oh, Father in Heaven! Oh, Holy Mary!" Again and again he breathed aloud these words. Life was so precious, so dear to him, and to-morrow he might die, hang as he had seen a man hanged scarcely a month back when Szamuelly had sat in judgment at one of the wayside stations.

Clearly and concisely, as though he were at a cinema watching the unfolding of a photographic drama, he remembered the horror depicted on the man's face as he was marched toward the gallows. Vividly he recollected the sudden jerk, the body stiffening.... "Save me, our Father, save me!" he wailed, his uneducated mentality incapable of varying his conjurations. "Oh; God, save me!"

The curtain at the window stirred slightly. With a sudden jerk which set his heart tumbling and beating Gonnard turned his fear-shot eyes in that direction. He saw it was but a sudden puff of wind, but it might have been the White Knight, and at the mere idea he whimpered to himself.

Well had Wenzel summed up the character of the Communist. As reparation for the death of Coloman, Gonnard was suffering the tortures of the damned. Conscience and cowardice were taking their toll of the man.

Somewhere in the streets a clock chimed, and Gonnard started. Eleven o'clock. Another thirteen hours and the morrow would arrive and then ... He crouched back into the chair, his hands warding off an invisible horror. To-morrow the White Knight would come for him and he would hang ... hang....

Mentally unhinged by the White Knight's repeated warnings, it never occurred to Gonnard that, as Gunzi had suggested, he might easily have surrounded himself by wily guards who would have been more than sufficient to protect the commissary against the cunning of the White Knight. Yet, with an uncanny insight, Wenzel had foreseen the consequences of his melodramatic policy.

It was not from bravado, or a leaning toward the theatrical, that Wenzel sent the warning messages to Gonnard. He wished to create the impression of omnipotence, to hypnotize his victim into positive belief in the powers of the White Knight. Then he had intended to play a similar trick to the one he had perpetrated in Budapest when he had rescued the Count Bakocz.

He had played his cards well, but, as he was to discover, he had not under- but over-estimated the courage of his opponent. Gunzi's message destroyed the last remnants of Gonnard's courage.

That the White Knight could touch the shoulder of the detective who was searching for him, actually speak into his ear, and yet get safely away, hinted to Gonnard of the supernatural.

Vague imaginings disturbed him. Anything was preferable to his present misery—even death. Supposing—merely supposing—he hanged himself. The White Knight would be cheated, he himself peaceful and content at last.

The idea haunted him, and he laughed suddenly at the picture of the White Knight's face. Perhaps it was the sound of his own insensate mirth which brought him to his senses; when he realized the thoughts which had been passing through his mind he shuddered, and once again his everlasting prayer to God left his lips.

His terror increased when, after what seemed but a few minutes, seconds almost, a near-by clock struck the hour of midday. Another hour gone by—another hour nearer his death!

Something snapped in his brain. He must run, leave Aszod behind him, get to Budapest. Bela Kun would protect him, Bela Kun would see that the White Knight did not carry out his threat.

Just as he had arisen from his bed, dirty and unshaven, he scurried from the château. Without hat or coat he gained the streets, and blindly fled from a horror which, in his own conscience, pursued him even through the streets, and all the time he seemed to see, some distance behind, a vague, terrifying creature which mocked and gibed at him, yet which always kept apace.

There was no train to Budapest for hours. So said the porter as he spat on the ground.

The pursuing phantom laughed and gibed when Gonnard glanced behind, and the commissary's trembling knees felt weaker. Somehow or other he must get to Budapest! Bela Kun would save him!

There was a motor-car outside the station. Its engine groaned and snorted, wasting away confiscated petrol. Once it had belonged to the Thokoly family, but that was before the Revolution. Since then the local commissary had commandeered it. At the moment its present owner was purchasing tobacco.

The loud clamour of its carbonized cylinders attracted the attention of another commissary. To Gonnard it seemed to say: "To Bud-a-pest ... to Bud-a-pest."

What matter to whom it belonged? It was a way of escape from Aszod, a method of transportation to Budapest. For the first time for a week a watery smile parted his lips, and the next moment he had stepped into the driver's seat, let out the clutch, and was noisily traversing the empty streets.

The houses thinned out, the intervals between them became larger, and soon he was in the country. Of the direction in which he was travelling he had not the remotest idea, all he knew was that Aszod and the White Knight were being left behind.

At last he dared to look behind him. For a moment he believed the road to be clear, but when he glanced to his side there was the haunting, visionary avenger, keeping apace, laughing derisively....

"Keep away! Holy Mary, keep him away!" he shrieked, and pressed his foot still harder on the accelerator, and the automobile shot forward. In vain! With incessant, terrified glances he realized that the shapeless form, the chimera of his guilty fear, was joined by two other wraiths, which fell ... and fell ... even as had fallen two Hungarian officers.

The car flew on along the rutted roads. The rusted speedometer ticked away mile after mile, but Gonnard drove blindly forward. What matter which direction he took? Behind him the vengeance of the White Knight. If once he stopped he might hang....

For hours the car with its solitary passenger careered on unchecked, taking first this road, then that; its bonnet pointing now to the east, now to the west.

The hour might have been five, six, or seven o'clock. Gonnard knew not. The passage of miles meant more to him than the passing time. Moreover, he felt somewhat easier. The last time he had looked he had failed to see the two officers. They had disappeared, left behind, while the White Knight had seemed to be flagging.

He wanted to look again, but dared not, lest he should discover that they were back. The urge continued, and slowly his glance slipped round to his side, then to his back, and his heart seemed to bubble over with unexpected relief. The White Knight was gone too, he had outstripped his avenger. He was safe ... safe ... safe!

He patted and fondled the car with a loving air, and with his fears dissolving common sense stepped in, making him realize that he must find his way to Budapest before dark, the darkness of which he was still afraid.

He passed through one or two villages. He did not recognize them, but when he slowed down and inquired his way of the inhabitants they jerked their thumbs forward with a surly air. Rumours were in the air; hangings had been more frequent; and latterly they were not quite so sure in their own minds that the dictum of Budapest was all that it was represented to be.

Conscious of an easier mind than he had possessed for the last week, Gonnard gradually turned his thoughts into more pleasant channels than that of the death he believed he had barely escaped. Once he arrived in Budapest he meant to make up for the past week.

Firstly he would put himself under the protection of Bela Kun. Then afterward, perhaps a good meal, and the company of a charming woman, whose lips would not be too backward.... In the days of the Revolution there were many such. There were mothers to be kept alive, or younger brothers and sisters. They had to be fed.... The saddest sights of Budapest during the days of the Red Terror were the women whose gentle, innocent souls were besmirched and befouled so that others might subsist.

The road was inclining upward; in the distance was a group of hills which Gonnard seemed to recognize. Soon he was sure. They were the hills of Budapest. He would soon reach the city now.

Soon—soon—soon; the purring of the wheels on the road sang the refrain. Despite its age the car took the gradient well, and mounted higher into the hills.

Here the forestry encroached on the cultivated land: or, perhaps more correctly, cultivation ceased to invade the forest. There was a sweet smell of dewy vegetation in the air, the scent of pine and herbs.

The last remnant of fear faded from Gonnard's mind, routed by the thought of what lay before him in Budapest. He sucked in his lips appreciatively, already enjoying in anticipation that which would be reality within a few hours.

Should he pick a fair or a dark woman; one inclined to plumpness or——? There was a staccato report, a slackening in the speed of the car, and an unpleasant grinding sound.

Gonnard swore, and now that his courage had returned it was the Devil he invoked. A puncture! He applied the brake, shut off the engine, and the car glided to a standstill. The commissary jumped out; then, not without a frightened glance to the rear to make quite sure the White Knight was still not to be seen, he inspected the tyre.

It was perfectly flat, the cause of the trouble obvious, for not far from the valve a large nail was embedded in the outer cover. There was only one thing to be done. Gonnard cursed, and with smouldering fury in his heart hastened to look under the seat for the necessary repair appliances.

Fortunately everything needful was in its proper place, so stripping off his coat he set to work. In twenty minutes the repair was completed, and as he let down the jack he spat on the road, a mark of relief.

It was at that moment he became conscious of a sound to his right. He spun round, his body slumping into a crouching position, his eyes gleaming with terror. He waved his hands weakly to ward off the coming horror, but as the sound continued his appearance changed. From fear, his expression changed to puzzlement, then gradually broadened into cunning amusement and bestial anticipation. The sound which had arrested him was that of a woman singing.

A woman! His thick, sensuous tongue licked his dry lips caressingly. Had not his thoughts dwelt for the last half-hour or so on women? Now, suddenly, there was one within less than a hundred yards from him, and by the sound of her voice she was young. To the commissary it seemed Fate had sent her. If she were alone...

Stealthily he crept into the forest, and made his way in the direction from which floated the clear, low notes of the singer. Carefully he threaded his way through the trees, and with every footstep he took his thoughts became baser and more beastly.

He halted behind a near-by tree, where he remained, as he became assured that the woman was approaching. He did not have to wait long. From out of the tangle of greenery a vague form materialized, until at last, as she emerged from behind a large shrub, she became fully revealed to the lustful eyes of the Communist.

He sucked in his breath with a slight gasp, and his eyes gleamed still more brightly with the flare of his aroused passion. The gods were kind! Never before had he seen a more beautiful woman, a more delicate shape, nor so divine a form. Even his wildest dreams were surpassed by the reality.

She had been picking flowers; her arms were filled with beautiful forest blossoms, piled up in cascades until they reached her chin, framing the fascinating face above.

Gonnard grinned mirthlessly. She was the fairest flower—a few yards more and she would be in his arms...

He remained motionless: the woman passed by. Rapidly he stepped behind her, and catching her wrists wrenched them apart. The wild flowers of the forest dropped mutely to the mossy carpet beneath.

Mentally stunned by the shock Elizabeth did not even attempt to struggle. The next moment Gonnard gagged her mouth with one filthy handkerchief, and tied her arms behind her with another. Then he lifted her in his arms, and leering into her face grinned derisively at her blazing eyes. He turned back to the car again.

Now what of the White Knight! His fears were gone, there were better thoughts to occupy his mind. Indeed the gods were kind! He cranked up the engine, and swung into the driver's seat. It would not be long before they arrived in Budapest, and then... He chuckled to himself as the car started forward.

In the meanwhile, back in Aszod, Wenzel awaited the hour of eight, when the plans which he had laid so carefully should commence to fructify. He knew that Gunzi was searching the city for him; at times he had shadowed the detective to assure himself that the other was not too warm on the scent.

Cunningly he had arranged that Gunzi should track him soon after eight, and for that purpose had left behind a host of clues. When the plans materialized Gunzi would learn of the whereabouts of the White Knight. He would arrive just too late. Alarmed by the closeness of the detective the White Knight would have fled.

Gunzi, he knew, would hurry back to Gonnard. What would be the reaction? The White Knight had not set Francis Bakocz to study the habits of the commissary before Gonnard moved on to Aszod and remained unaware that he would turn to wine and women.

In the days of the Revolution English money meant much. With the crown falling and falling a few Treasury notes would buy a man's soul, and would still more encourage a woman, who already hated the Communists for all they had done to her young sister, to listen with a willing ear to Wenzel's suggestions.

A rendezvous—a pretty woman—potent wine—and in the middle of the supper—retribution.

It was a pretty scheme and there were no loopholes. Even if Gonnard should fail to fall into the baited trap he was prepared with an alternative—but the White Knight was confident of his man. At seven o'clock Arnold would arrive. Wenzel glanced at his watch; just four-fifteen, and therefore time to set his plans in motion.

He lounged out of the room he had confiscated together with several Reds in the name of the Commune. Downstairs one of his fellow-proletarians was just entering.

"What, going out? You are a queer fellow, comrade—different from the rest of us. We sleep all day, and at night..." He grinned. "Well, I could take you to several little haunts, my friend. Why don't you join us? I know a pretty blonde; her lips are redder than a ripened cherry, and warmer than the hot springs of Margaret Island. She would bring life into those dull eyes of yours, and set your blood racing."

"Women!" Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. "What do I want of women? I have had a surfeit of them until I am tired of their monotonous caresses."

The other looked at him enviously. "You are a lucky fellow. A case of beauty and the beast, eh?"

Wenzel turned upon him, and the Communist saw that in his eyes which made him feel afraid. "All right, comrade," he added hastily; "I was only joking, of course."

Wenzel growled, "Keep your jests to yourself, friend, for sometimes they are like curses and chickens—and come home to roost," then turning away he lounged out.

For some time he walked heedlessly. "Beauty and the beast!" So hideous was he that even his own sex were conscious of the fact! For the first me he wondered what Arnold thought of him. Did he too see his leader in the same light?

Remorselessly he forced the trend of his thoughts into other directions. He knew from past experience the after-effect of too much communing with himself on that subject, for the bitterness of his thoughts ate into his soul, and the world became a black place—too black, for was there not supposed to be a better one elsewhere?

He saw a train steaming into the station from Budapest, and, more to keep his thoughts occupied than for any other reason, he joined the throng of idle sightseers who lounged near the entrance watching the exit of the passengers.

The people streamed through; some hesitatingly, pausing outside to look around and find their different ways; others, with a contempt bred of familiarity, dispersed quickly and decisively along the adjacent streets.

Suddenly Wenzel stiffened, and frowned slightly. Arnold was supposed to arrive by a later train, yet he was even now jostling his way through a party who clustered round a newsboy.

Not seeing Wenzel, Arnold would have passed on, but the White Knight stepped forward.

"Hullo, comrade!" he cried loudly. "So you are back again? How go things in Budapest?"

"Well, my friend; well." Arnold's expression never altered. "Our troops beat back the enemy in every direction, and the People's Government becomes stronger and more fully recognized every day. It is said that the Allies have expressed a desire to treat with our great leader, Bela Kun."

"Excellent, excellent! Come, Stephen, I will see you home. You shall tell me more."

They moved on, talking evenly until the people thinned out.

"One of Gunzi's men was near by," explained Wenzel. "But now, why come you by an earlier train?"

Arnold's face clouded over. "Bad news, Wenzel; bad news. Apor was caught corresponding with the Whites and has been arrested."

Wenzel's face turned pale with passion. "The fool, the fool! Why did he? Did I not give him strict injunctions to serve me alone? Now, not only must he suffer for his folly, but you, I, and others of his own people, as well. My eyes and ears cut off from me, my plans prejudiced: if he dies it is no more than he deserves."

"He will die, Wenzel." There was a quiet suggestion in Arnold's voice which Wenzel did not fail to perceive.

"You are right, Arnold. Korvin-Klein is merciless, there is no hope for him."

"None at all?" There was wistful pleading in Arnold's voice.

"You liked him, did you not, Arnold? So did I. Now you hint at rescue. But what of my mission here? I have sworn Gonnard shall die, to-night will see the fulfilment of my vow. Afterwards we will go to Budapest."

"To-morrow will be too late, Geoffrey; surely Gonnard can wait? Is not the life of Apor more to be desired than the death of a Communist?"

"Be quiet!" His voice rasped with anger. "My plans are all prepared. Nothing must be allowed to upset them."

For a little while they walked along in silence, but eventually Arnold spoke: "I do not understand you to-day, Geoffrey. Has Gonnard done you any personal injury that his death should be of more importance than the life of one who has served you faithfully? We may not save Apor—I cannot see how such a feat could possibly be carried out successfully—yet it will hurt me always if I—no, I say, we, Geoffrey—do not, at least, make an attempt."

The White Knight knew how true were the words of his lieutenant. In speaking aloud to Arnold he had been arguing with himself. If he went to Budapest Gonnard would escape his clutches, perhaps never to fall into them again, and then what of his word to Elizabeth? He had sworn that Gonnard should die—Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's cousin. On the other hand, there was Apor. Had not Apor risked his life, time after time, to get him news of the movements of the Communists, information which was of the utmost importance to the White Knight in his rescue of the unfortunate victims of Bolshevik persecution? Had not Apor, descendant of generations of warring aristocrats, demeaned himself, humbled his pride, to serve in the enemy ranks that he might more usefully aid the White Knight? Was all that service to count for naught?

Wenzel sighed. "You are right, Arnold. Gonnard must wait. We will catch the next train to Budapest."

They turned toward the station, and as they approached Wenzel looked behind him, smiling grimly: "What an unpleasant day Gonnard will spend to-morrow waiting for the blow to fall!"

* * * * * *

Gonnard knew Budapest as he knew the lines of his face. There was not a criminal resort with which he had not been acquainted in the old days of law and order, while the number of more or less habitable quarters where he might lie securely hidden from the prying eyes of the detectives, and to which he had the entrée, was well into double figures.

To one of these he drove the helpless Elizabeth. As he brought the car to a halt he gave a quick glance up and down the narrow road, but fortunately no one was about, so with a deft movement, which was hard to associate with one of his clumsy build, he picked her up in his arms, and with scarcely any effort carried his burden within, up the four flights of stairs to the whitewashed attic, and there carefully locked the door behind him.

Once safely there, apparently unnoticed, he plucked the gag from her mouth.

"Well, well," he mocked, "here you are, little chicken, and here you will remain until I have finished with you." Like all cowards he was a bully at heart, and he spoke with blustering braggadocio.

She gazed at him unflinchingly. "What do you want of me?" she asked calmly.

The question set him roaring with laughter. "Ho, ho! Innocent one! So you do not know for what I have brought you here to my little love-nest? Ho, ho! Think it well over, my sweet, and see if you cannot find out before I return." Suddenly his attitude became menacing. "Sit down!" he ordered.

Elizabeth laughed slightly. "You are a fool," she said easily. "Do you think you can hold me here against my will? I have only to raise my voice and I do not doubt that I should have half a dozen people flocking to my aid—in addition to the police."

He seemed to find humour in her answer, for his face again broadened to a grin. "You think so? Let me assure you to the contrary. In the first place, people who live in this district mind their own business. Half a dozen ... flocking ... your aid..." He could not finish for the laughter which consumed him. "Women have screamed for help before now, but no one has interfered. We have more manners than that. As for the police—— We live in different days, my sweet: the police do not arrest commissaries."

"So you are a commissary?" Elizabeth looked at him with a quiet scorn, which pierced even his hide, and his eyes narrowed.

"Say all you want, my lady. It will be my turn later on. Yes, I am a commissary. You and your kind no longer rule the country; the proletariat have arisen. Government for the people by the people is our watchword, with no more magnates living like princes on sweated gold."

Elizabeth did not speak in reply to this diatribe. Despite her defiant attitude her heart beat with a throbbing intensity. She knew her danger and endeavoured to think of a way out, but she was conscious of a hysterical panic which for all her courage she could not repress, and the knowledge clouded her reason.

In the meantime Gonnard continued speaking. "Too proud to talk, eh? Well, well! You will learn reason very soon." His eyes lit, and he stepped up to her, so that she shrank away with a repulsing gesture. "Why should I wait?" he asked thickly. "Why should I wait? You and me——" Then he calmed down.

"No. I will get rid of the car first, and see Bela Kun. Just as well he should know that——" He broke off short and glanced at Elizabeth.

Then, without the slightest warning, he clasped her in his arms, turned her round, and inspected the strength of her bonds. He laughed grimly. "You will be safe enough. You won't undo that handkerchief in a hurry. And just in case you should make too much noise——" With a quick movement he forced her mouth open and inserted the gag again.

Elizabeth helplessly watched his ungainly form as he lumbered across the room. Under ordinary circumstances she would have shrunk from him with loathing. Now, in his power, it seemed to her that he was even more horrible, still more the chimera of an unbalanced imagination.

Gurgling deep down in his throat he unlocked the door, then turned and blew a kiss across the room. She shuddered slightly, and his mirth rang out coarsely. Then he was gone, and she heard his footsteps heavily descending the stairs.

She listened acutely. The echo of his steps grew fainter, until it faded away; but presently she heard the whir of the motor below, then the chug-chug of the engine as it progressed along the narrow street, until that too died away, and an unnerving silence ensued.

Tired of standing she sat on a wooden chair, which wobbled unsteadily, and nearly threw her to the floor, but she managed to save herself by thrusting out a foot against the wall.

Her mouth hurt abominably—the plugged handkerchief nearly choked her, while a fold of it tickled the back of her throat until she felt a spasm of vertigo. Her wrists smarted with the rub of her bonds, and her bones ached from the cramped position she had been forced to occupy during the drive into Budapest.

Her physical pain, however, was as nothing to the mental anguish which pricked and tortured her. Over and over again she chided herself for her folly in venturing so far from the château. Conscience played havoc with her nerves; she realized that the discovery of her presence might create danger for the rest of the refugees, and that if that were not so her disappearance might subsequently have a similar effect, for she knew too that, as soon as the fact was discovered that she was missing, search-parties would be organized, and as they failed to find her they would surely venture farther and farther afield. Was it not likely that in doing so they might come into contact with curious peasants, or be seen by suspicious Communists?

Her father—of what would he be thinking? What would be his sensations as the hours passed and no good news of her arrived? She rocked slightly in the agony of her thoughts, and the chair very nearly tilted over.

There was one other, too, of whom she scarcely dared to think. The White Knight, the man who had risked his life again and again to rescue her father and herself, what would he think of her?

Her remorse was more than she could bear, and tears started to her eyes for the first time in fifteen years. With an effort she rose to her feet, and paced the floor as far as its limits would allow, hoping that with the physical effort her thoughts would plague her to a lesser degree.

Presently she crossed to the window and gazed down upon the road beneath, then at the houses opposite, and she realized that, if the depressing environment and the ill-cared-for state of the buildings counted for anything, the commissary had not exaggerated his claims to seclusion.

The street was dismal and unkempt; it radiated an evil atmosphere, a suggestion of mystery. Here and there people moved about, but, such is the force of habit, even though the Government was now in the hands of the criminal community, and everything was done to favour instead of incarcerate the criminal, the denizens of this quarter still continued to slink warily, casting uneasy glances from side to side.

The women were drab, their faces were hard and starved, while the men were brutal, their shaven heads intensifying the criminal cast of their faces. Horrified by all she saw, nevertheless Elizabeth could not withdraw from the window. It was all so new to her who had always lived on the broad, clean plains, who had seen only village life, except for glimpses of the world, now and again, from hotel windows.

A deep thinker and a student of physiognomy, she believed she would have been deeply interested had she been in more happy circumstances. As it was, studying the neighbourhood as far as the narrow compass of the window would permit, the sight did not help her to minimize her plight; rather it assumed, every second, an uglier garb, and she laughed mirthlessly. Supposing she were rescued, say, by any of the residents of the neighbouring buildings? It seemed a moot point as to whether she would be any better off, for her one thought then was whether any one face which she saw from the window was more evil than the next.

A minute later and, with a feeling of uncontrollable horror, she had to reverse her theory. There swung into her vision a tall man—like most tall men, stooping slightly. He was dressed in filthy clothes, a cap was crammed over his head and eyes, a scarf wound round his neck. He walked as did Gonnard, with a shuffling, uncouth gait.

At first she saw nothing of his face, but he stopped by the wall to light a cigarette, and apparently his cap must have caught on something sharp. Puffing the cigarette he stepped forward on his walk, and the hat came off his head.

For a brief second he gazed upward in surprise: it was then that Elizabeth realized that of all the vile, brutal faces which she had seen in the last half-hour there was not one to be compared with that upon which she now gazed.

Its monstrous ugliness hurt her, the blood-red scars which deformed his head and face sickened her, and her lips trembled. Supposing that it were he, not Gonnard, who held her prisoner....

She saw him snatch his cap from the wall. His lips moved, and she had no doubt that he cursed blasphemously. He would have crammed his hat back on his head when suddenly it seemed that her fixed gaze was magnetically riveting his attention. He looked upward, his eyes travelled toward her window.

With a shudder she jerked her head backward that he should not see her ... and the White Knight, wondering what impulse had made him glance upward, continued his way toward the rendezvous he had made with Arnold when they had parted at the station.

That night the sun had scarcely buried itself beneath the rim of the horizon when Gunzi entered a low-class bar in a quarter scarcely a stone's-throw from where Elizabeth was imprisoned.

Many things had happened that day in Aszod. In the morning the White Knight had been daring enough to touch him on the shoulder, whisper a message in his ear, and yet dissolve into the crowd without betraying himself in the slightest to the detective, and Gunzi, who could conceive only that the White Knight had singled him out for the purpose of fooling him, seethed with fury against the audacious bourgeois.

He had masked it when giving Gonnard the whispered message. He realized that the terror caused by the constant succession of warnings was part and parcel of the White Knight's plan, in which case it obviously suited him to assist it to its fulfilment, for he was certain that sooner or later the White Knight would betray his hand.

After leaving Gonnard he worked diligently all the morning, but with no tangible result, and his anger increased, and burned within his breast like a smouldering fire. Then, in the afternoon, he came across his first clue. The man in prison recovered his memory, not so much as regards his description of the White Knight, but as to an address where the mysterious avenger had once stayed.

There was only one small matter: if it should be definitely proved that his information was correct he was to be released unconditionally. Gunzi, who aimed for bigger fry, was more than agreeable to this proposal.

When Gunzi investigated, it was to find that the White Knight had gone from there, but—"Look you, comrade, I had my suspicions of him. He did not seem a true Communist, and he talked in his sleep. One night when I was passing his door I heard the name of Comrade Gonnard mentioned, whoever he may be, and this man was turning, twisting, and swearing vengeance."

"Yes, yes; but where went he after leaving you?" Gunzi could scarcely control his patience.

"Ah! friend, maybe I can tell you, maybe I cannot. Yet, some time after he left me, I saw him coming out of a house in another part of the city. Where was it? Well, comrade, am I not about to tell you? Why should I hurry?..." And the detective had to listen for ten minutes to unimportant and loquacious meandering, but in the end he learned a fresh address.

Scarcely daring to hope he rushed post-haste across the town. The door was opened by a smiling-faced, buxom woman. Did she have a man so—and Gunzi described to the best of his ability as much as he knew of the White Knight—staying at her charming residence?

"Why, yes, comrade, of course I knew him, but he left me four days ago. Hearing that the château of Zoltan Giesswein was to be taken over by the Communists, he told me he intended to confiscate one of the rooms for himself. He seemed a studious young man. He was kind and kissed me when he left."

Later, Gunzi arrived at the château of Zoltan Giesswein, once magnate and owner of a huge steel-works, now a refugee in Vienna, devoting his time to the formation of a White Army.

Here the men were more loth to answer questions, for they, unlike the others, had not been coached in their answers. What did it matter to Gunzi, they asked, if such a man now lived at the château? In no uncertain words they told him to look for himself. Yet in the end he secured the information for which he had been seeking.

"Him!" The man to whom the detective put the question laughed scornfully. "He is out all day, yes, and he is out now. But he will be back, comrade, do not worry. A cold-blooded fish—women do not interest him; he told me so this very afternoon. Tried to make me believe he had had too many. As if any man can have too many women!"

"So he will be back to-night?"

"I am not his mother. He did not tell me so."

"But you think he will?"

"Bah! I have no doubt that he will. Myself, I believe he is afraid of the dark. He will be back. An early worm!"

There were no longer any doubts left in Gunzi's mind that he had tracked his man, and chuckling to himself in triumph he hurried back to Gonnard to let the commissary hear the good news.

When he looked for Gonnard the man had disappeared. The detective could make neither head nor tail of the mystery, and with a sinking heart came to the conclusion that the White Knight had succeeded in his revenge, cleverly anticipating his ultimatum by a day, and he realized the full cunning of the daily warnings.

For all that, where was the missing Gonnard? With a tenacity worthy of a better cause Gunzi set to work again, and fitted together, piece by piece, a possible solution.

The commissary had fled in fear; and from the facts he had collected Gunzi could not believe that he had scuttled to anywhere save Budapest. Determining to wait only long enough to arrest the Enemy of the Commune, he resolved to follow.

He waited—in vain. Night arrived, and in the end he realized that the White Knight too must have hurried to Budapest, more than probably on the heels of Gonnard.

Under the new régime Gunzi had no superiors. It was in his own hands to depart instantly for the capital. As for the necessary funds ... down one quiet road he saw an old man shuffling along. At the pistol's point, and in the name of the Commune, Gunzi forced him to turn out his pockets, and fortunately secured enough cash to get him to Budapest and back, with the possibility of a drink or two in between.

Arriving late in Budapest he made his way to a place he knew well, a beershop which defied the official regulations as to the sale of intoxicating liquor, and the White Knight, recognizing him, knew that the Fates were playing into his hands, for he could have wished for no better tool than Gunzi to use in the plot already fermenting in his head for the rescue of his lieutenant from the clutches of the Communists.

He followed Gunzi in and sat a couple of tables away. With a loud but unsteady voice he ordered drink. His rough tones were heard even above the din of voices and clatter of glasses; several pairs of eyes, observing him, twinkled significantly.

For a while Wenzel remained quiet, drinking steadily, but after a time he shuffled uneasily.

"More drink!" he shouted, and a fresh bottle of wine was placed on the table before him. He filled his glass, rose to his feet, and banged loudly. The noise of argument ceased, and he became a centre of interest.

"Here ... here's to the Commune!" he toasted, and with a wavering hand, which caused the wine to slop over the rim of the glass down the front of his clothes, he guided the glass to his lips and drank heavily.

"Hear! Hear!" There was an echoing chorus, and the toast was drunk.

Wenzel refilled his glass, and once again pounded on the table. "And—and damnation—to all Whites!" he bellowed.

There was muttered laughter. The fellow was becoming amusing, and for the sake of the fun they began to encourage him. Once again they drank his toast.

"Go on, go on!" some one called out encouragingly.

Wenzel blinked, his head wagged stupidly from side to side. "And death to all those who say otherwise," he hiccupped, and drained a third glass.

There was an unrestrained roar of laughter: "Keep it up, keep it up!"

Wenzel refilled his glass, the wine spilling all over the table in the effort: "And may—the—damned traitor Apor—die soon."

There was a silence. This was news.

"What's that you say? Who is Apor?" Questions were hurled at him from all quarters of the tavern.

Wenzel looked blearily around. "What! Have you not heard yet of the arrest of Apor, assistant—assistant to Comrade Eugene Hamburger, Commissary for—for—for Agriculture?" he asked thickly.

There was a stir of interest. "No, no. Tell us, friend."

"Tell you! Why not? Have I not heard the story from Comrade Hamburger himself? This Apor was a good Communist, yet secrets of the Soviet drifted out, and the Council wondered why. One—one day a detective searched this Apor's correspondence. What do you think he found, friends?" He paused dramatically, and looked round with a triumphant grin. "He discovered, comrades, that Apor was a spy, corresponding with Vienna, acting for the Whites."

There was a wild roar of anger from his listeners, but Wenzel held up a shaking hand.

"Peace—peace, friends. There is more to tell you. Not only was Apor a spy for the Whites, he was also acting for one of whom we have all heard ... heard. The White Knight, friends, the White Knight."

There was a momentous silence, broken only by a gasp from Gunzi. Then, suddenly, the tavern resounded with hoarse cries of anger. Many rose to their feet. "Death to the traitor, death! Hang him! Torture him! Make him confess! Make him tell of the White Knight!"

If Wenzel had hoped to create pandemonium he had undoubtedly achieved success. Presently the clamour subsided, and once more all eyes were turned in the direction of Wenzel, who continued to stand upon his feet, but only with an effort. He swayed to and fro, his eyes blinked and watered under the cap which was crushed down over them. They could see only the lower part of his face, and that but indistinctly, for the scarf which was wound round his neck and chin reached as high as his lower lip.

Wenzel laughed gutturally. "What—what use shouting, comrades? Apor will not die. White Knight will rescue." His speech became more indistinct, and his audience feared that he would collapse in a drunken stupor before his story was finished. Some one dexterously removed the half-finished bottle from the table.

At the same time this last statement was received incredulously. Some one remonstrated: "Yah! Yah! You talk loudly, my friend. How could anyone rescue Apor? Is he not in prison?"

"Apor in prison." Wenzel laughed, and the saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth. "Of course. He is in Parliament—cells. Yet White Knight will rescue. Easy enough."

"Bah! I know the Parliament House cells, and I say that not even the White Knight could rescue anyone from them."

Wenzel wagged a remonstrating finger. "Yes, he could, just same I could."

There was a roar of laughter, and Wenzel frowned.

"Tell us then," his hearers shouted, but Wenzel shook his head. "You might tell Bela Kun—I hang—keep my secrets—myself."

His talk was incoherent, the interest of the others began to lessen. They had obtained all the news they could from him, and now they wanted none of his drunken babblings and theories of impossible rescue.

Yet there was one who leaned forward, eyes gleaming interestedly. Gunzi knew well the potent influence of drink: in his time he had secured many a guarded secret from a man "liquored up" to a degree of nicety, and Gunzi, reading the signs, was convinced that the man to whom he had been listening had reached that stage.

He moved his chair over to Wenzel's table: "Sit down, my friend, and tell me. I am interested."

Obediently Wenzel collapsed on to his chair, then glared malignantly at the detective: "Why should—tell you and not—not—not other people?"

Gunzi shrugged his shoulders. "They are fools, they would believe anything. Myself, I would not. I ask you to tell me so that I can point out to you how impossible would be your plan."

For a moment he believed the Devil had been raised in the other man, for Wenzel shot out a clawing hand which searched for the detective's throat, while Gunzi shrank back, his small rat-face paling, but the effort was too much for Wenzel. His arm relaxed, fell heavily upon the table, and his head followed suit.

Gunzi frowned. Supposing he learned something of advantage to Bela Kun! It was not unlikely that the Dictator might reward him. He leaned forward and whispered: "More drink, eh, friend?"

His words had their effect. Wenzel raised his head and blinked. "Yes," he muttered, "if you pay."

"I will pay," Gunzi agreed eagerly, and ordered wine. Slowly Wenzel raised himself to a sitting position, and drank.

"Well, comrade, how would you rescue this traitor, Apor?" prompted the detective.

"Easily. Suppose ... suppose, for instance, I were this—this White Knight. Would I wait longer than early to-morrow morning rescue Apor? No, comrade, for if I were the White Knight I should hear that to-morrow Apor—come before Korvin-Klein. There—therefore should I act even before the sun rises above the—the horizon.

"To Parliament House I should go with a letter from Bela Kun himself, an order to release an unnamed prisoner." Wenzel chuckled, and looked cunningly up at Gunzi from the corners of his eyes. Unconsciously his hand wandered to his breast pocket and patted it caressingly. "What would the jailers say? 'What want you ... this prisoner?' I should tell them.... 'Bela Kun's business. Apor to be hanged elsewhere.... Allies might hear of it ... interfere.'"

Gunzi smiled scornfully. "A fool scheme, comrade. The jailers would smell a rat. They would refuse to hand over the prisoner."

Wenzel leered. "Yah! You take me for big fool! I am not that, no. I am all ... I ... I would be all prepared. Do I not know the jailer would be curious?..." Somehow the expression of his face changed, and Gunzi saw a look of suspicion cross the features of the other.

"Why—why ask you all these questions? What does it matter to you?" His eyes seemed brighter, less bleary.

"Nothing, nothing at all, comrade." Gunzi endeavoured to appease the other: "You will drink again?" The detective dreaded that the symptoms of the drunken man might change. At present he was docile; just stupid and sleepy. If he should become ferocious, should the spirit of battle be aroused within him ... Gunzi had seen many a drunken scrimmage in his time, and with a sinking heart realized that the other man's temper was slowly rising.

Quickly he ordered the drinks. Wenzel observed the bottle of wine set before him, and wavered. He stretched out a hand to grasp it, and Gunzi sighed with relief. The next moment Wenzel rose to his feet and towered above Gunzi. He seized the bottle and crashed it down on the table, where it shivered to pieces, the wine spurting in streams on to the floor.

"You—you spy!" In a thick, unsteady voice Wenzel accused the detective. "I will not talk to you. Perhaps I will kill you!"

There was drama in the air. Once again Wenzel was the centre of attraction, and several men near by tensed themselves, ready to spring to Gunzi's help. Wenzel gazed round him with a belligerent air, but seemed to realize that the odds would be against him, for with a growl he turned his back and swayingly zigzagged his way to the door. This he opened, and the next moment disappeared into the night, and with scarcely another pause the tavern resumed its normal appearance.

Nevertheless Gunzi was annoyed that he had not heard the finish of the scheme, though he believed he had heard enough to assure him that the White Knight intended to act before the early morning. Some one ought to be warned!

He communed with himself. He had enough news to give Bela Kun to warrant asking a favour in return. If he waited until morning the White Knight might have carried through his plans, and have liberated Apor. Then of what use would it be for Gunzi to approach him?

He made up his mind, called the waiter to him, and asked the way to Bela Kun. The man smiled. "Bela Kun may be anywhere. In the palace of the Hapsburgs, in the Parliament building, or yet, and still more likely, in Batthyany's Palace. He likes good food, I am told, and there is nightly a great feast there."

With rapid steps Gunzi made his way toward the Batthyany Palace, and for the first time obtained a glimpse of Budapest under the Red régime. Everywhere he passed wholesale looting was taking place. Savage Red guards and drunken Terrorists, riding wildly about in confiscated automobiles, commandeered food and dwellings.

Other bands paid domiciliary visits in search of bourgeois spies, or refugees. Hostages were arrested, to be kept in prison against the good behaviour of the innocent bourgeoisie.

Even Gunzi was slightly surprised, though not shocked, and he was all the more determined to gain a post in Budapest. He began to have visions of a life about which hitherto he had hardly dreamed. In Aszod, he realized, he had been too faithful to his duties, even if he were indubitably a Communist.

He remembered the beautiful mansion in the Theresa Boulevard, and because he had visions of it still in his mind's eye as he neared it, its present appearance caused him to rub his eyes and wonder whether he were dreaming.

In front of the house the pavement was heavily barricaded. Lights gleaming from the mansion behind the obstructions reflected on the barrels of field-guns, machine-guns, and Minnenwerfers, while before the gates were three heavy motor-lorries, armed with machine-guns.

Here and there patrolled Lenin Boys, and Gunzi, looking through the barricades, could see that each one was armed with revolver, bowie-knife, and hand-grenades.

Gazing at the mansion in bewilderment, Gunzi compared it to a fortress, and, as he was afterward to find, the imagery lost nothing in the searchlight of reality. It was indeed a veritable fortress. Down in the cellars were stored an enormous amount of ammunition and quantities of food. Still more, it protected a host of Lenin Boys, who, under the leadership of Josef Cserni, an ex-sailor of no mean physical dimensions, terrorized the city of Budapest.

Evidently Gunzi was betraying too great an interest. He felt something boring into his ribs, and turning round found a Lenin Boy covering him with a rifle.

"Well, comrade," the guard growled unpleasantly, "what do you want? This part is unhealthy for sightseers and tourists."

"I am looking for Bela Kun."

"Well?"

"I have news for him, urgent and important news."

The Lenin Boy laughed shortly and jerked his thumb in the direction of the palace: "I doubt that you have news more important than the little lady who doubtless occupies his attention at the moment. Try and see him to-morrow, friend. You will find him more inclined to listen to affairs of State."

"To-morrow will be too late," protested Gunzi. "Tell Bela Kun my news concerns the White Knight."

"What!" The guard lowered his rifle. "That is different. The Devil! Why did you not say so before?"

"Did you give me a chance?" asked Gunzi, but the other had not heard, for with a muttered "Follow me!" he turned and was threading the barricades toward the entrance of the Batthyany mansion.

Five minutes later Gunzi was taken to Bela Kun, and there received another shock. Partly warned by the waiter at the beerhouse, he had realized that he would find the Dictator partaking of some sort of a feast, but in no way was he prepared for the positive banquet which was set out in one of the rooms.

The tables groaned with good food and wine, all commandeered, and round them sat dozens of Terror Boys, already showing traces of the orgy in which they were indulging. Not only Terror Boys were there, but many women, kidnapped earlier in the evening and forced to take a part in the wild revels.

In the Batthyany Palace there was no evidence of the food shortage. No one seeing the nightly feasts which took place would have suspected that in Hungary people were starving for lack of nourishment, that women sold their souls to keep homes going. The best of everything was served up to the four hundred odd Terror Boys and the commissaries, with their wives and mistresses. "The Commune!" One day in the future dictionaries will print another definition of the word. Perhaps—"mine—thine." It will be sufficient! The true Communist may rant of "share—share!" He can afford to, he who has nothing to share!

Gunzi could readily conceive Bela Kun's dislike to being interrupted after the business of the day was over. On his knee sat a young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age. Her clothes were torn in front from neck to waist, exposing here and there two snowy-white, innocent breasts. Her dainty little face was suffused with terror; her dilated eyes, her trembling lips were ample evidence that she was in torment—and Gunzi saw that she was but one of many.

When he saw the detective Bela Kun glanced up with an ugly frown. "I hear you have urgent news for me concerning the White Knight? What is it? And listen, my friend, if it is not important——" He left the threat unspoken.

Gunzi, who in his own way was not unpossessed of his share of courage, smiled slightly. "Fear not, Comrade Bela Kun. My information is more than urgent. It needs immediate attention.

"To-night I arrived in Budapest from Aszod and entered a tavern for a glass of beer. There I came across a man, half-drunk, who rose to his feet and told the company at large that an assistant commissary, by name Apor, had been arrested to-day."

Bela Kun's eyes narrowed. "This grows interesting. I thought the fact of Apor's arrest was secret. Go on."

"Next," continued Gunzi, "he told us the reason why. Apor had been found corresponding with the Whites in Vienna." He looked at the Dictator for confirmation, and the other nodded his head slightly. "There was an uproar from his listeners, but this drunken fool had not finished blurting out all his secrets. He told us all something else. He said that Apor was also an emissary of the White Knight."

He stopped short. With a roar of rage Bela Kun rose to his feet in a turmoil of excitement, throwing the girl to the floor, where she lay, sobbing. Fiercely the Dictator peered into the face of the detective, seeking to divert the direct stare of the other, but Gunzi's glance did not waver.

"Satan! If that is true——"

His words rang queerly to the astute detective. "What do you mean, comrade?" he asked hoarsely. "Did you not know that?"

"No, by God, I did not!"

"Then," said Gunzi quietly, "that proves my theory. The man who, with a drink-loosened tongue, let me into all his secrets must have been a member of the White Knight's gang." He smiled scornfully. "That must have been good wine!"

Bela Kun waved his hand impatiently. "Tell me more."

"I got this man to talk. He told me much; not all that I wanted, yet sufficient to assure me that before the sun rises to-morrow Apor will have been rescued."

"Impossible! Apor is imprisoned in the cells beneath Parliament House."

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "Yet it is all planned. The White Knight has a letter from you, an order to release an unnamed prisoner——"

He was interrupted by a hoarse growl of rage from the Dictator: "The Devil! He speaks the truth. Some time back I wrote one out. It disappeared. How did he get that?" Light dawned in his mind. "Apor!"

Gunzi nodded. "You see, comrade, I do not exaggerate. That much I discovered, but that was all. Not only will the White Knight rely upon that letter, but he has some other plan up his sleeve. What it is I cannot tell. If you wish to keep Apor prisoner you must act now—immediately."

"You are right." Bela Kun's face worked with the rage which consumed him, but presently his face calmed, and slowly a smile—a grin of wile and cunning—spread across his features.

"I think," he said, chuckling, "that for once the White Knight is going to fail. Before the sun rises to-morrow morning Apor will be dead."

"You mean...?" Gunzi raised his forehead inquiringly.

"I mean that I shall telephone immediately to Parliament House. In less than ten minutes' time a few trusty Red guards will convey Apor to the Suspension Bridge and drop him into the Danube, bound hand and foot, that the rat shall not struggle. Do you not think that a good scheme?"

"It is the only one," agreed Gunzi admiringly.

Two men crouched back deep in the shadows of Parliament House, tensely waiting, waiting with a nervousness neither could conceal.

"Arnold, the time goes slowly. I feel damnably afraid. Supposing my plan should miscarry, supposing I have failed to elucidate the intricate workings of Bela Kun's twisted mind, I shall have signed Apor's death-warrant just as if I had passed judgment on him myself."

"You can do no more, Geoffrey, than what you have done. In any event Apor would die."

"Never have I perpetrated such a thin, feeble plot, Arnold. It has so many weak links. When Gunzi passes on the news to Bela Kun, the Dictator may refuse to credit Gunzi's story; on the other hand, he may be so enraged that he will telephone through to have the poor fellow bayoneted right away. Or, if Apor is to be flung into the Danube, he may do it from Parliament House, and all we shall hear will be a splash and—and Apor will be no more." His voice broke slightly.

"That—that, I am afraid, is your weakest link, Geoffrey."

"No, you are wrong there, Arnold, and it is upon my estimation of the ingrained cruelty of the Red guards that I have staked the success of my plans. To you or me it would be an easy matter to dispose of—of Apor. A blow on the head, and over the balustrade into the river. Nothing could be more quiet, more secretive.

"Such a programme fails to satisfy the Communists. It is too quick and too easy a death, so they drag their victims to one of the bridges. That takes time—every yard progressed is a mental, poignant stab for the unfortunate prisoner. Every step is punctuated with a thrust from a rifle butt or the prick of a bayonet. Fine torture that, Arnold, and ... well, I hope to Heaven that they think Apor worthy of it. Otherwise he is doomed and——"

Some one stumbled in the distance, and with a warning touch on Arnold's arm Wenzel stopped short, and the two Englishmen waited, hoping against hope that Bela Kun would fall into the trap. With fierce eyes they watched the door from which the condemned prisoners were led. Would it open?—would it open?

The streets were quiet and comparatively deserted. At night only the Terror Boys, or slinking fugitives, ventured out, for there were flying bullets, apt to hit the most innocent targets. At night the Red guards were even more belligerent. Those who would live, or remain unmolested, stayed indoors.

Thus the steps of the one whom Wenzel had heard in the distance echoed loudly in the quietness, and the next instant the air resounded with the notes of a jubilant song. In quavering tones, hideously out of tune, punctuated with hilarious bursts of laughter, the inebriated singer disturbed the peace, and the effect was the more weird for its jarring contrast to the air of tragedy in which Budapest was steeped night and day.

Suddenly Wenzel swore. Judging by the increasing clearness of the wild sounds which the man uttered he was approaching Parliament Square. The White Knight clenched his fist with a desperate intensity. "May the Devil seize him, the drunken swine!" he whispered. "If his visit here should coincide——"

The door which they watched was opening, formless shapes could dimly be seen issuing from it, and the next moment Wenzel knew that up to this point his plot was a success, for in the vague, uncertain light of an adjacent street lamp he could distinguish Apor, handcuffed, surrounded by three armed Red guards.

The moment the door was shut behind the group the time for action would have arrived. Wenzel and Arnold gripped their revolvers by the barrels, ready to bring them down upon the heads of the soldiers.

The drunkard came nearer, and Wenzel could have cried cut in agony. Instead of proceeding with their ghastly business, the guards were hesitating, looking curiously around. The Englishmen shrank closer into the shadows. If they were seen...

For some reason the men seemed disinclined to slam the door, and start.

"Hullo, comrade, what noise is that?" asked one.

The man to his right laughed slightly. "Some one who has failed to heed Bela Kun's instructions as to prohibition. His row is enough to awaken the dead. What say you, friends—shall we knock him across the head with our rifles and teach him a lesson?"

"You are envious, you," exclaimed the third man. "Let us get this job over. I feel sleepy."

"Yes, leave the poor devil alone. He is lucky to get it, that's what I say."

The sanguinary one hesitated, and the damage was done. The group had been seen. Steering an erratic course the drunken singer made toward them.

"What ... matter...? What are you men doing here?"

Wenzel stiffened. The voice was reminiscent. He peered through the darkness, but the newcomer had his back toward him.

"Move on, comrade, and mind your own business."

"Who you telling—mind my business? I am commissary—for me order you about...."

"Hell!" The guard who had originally suggested doing what Wenzel longed to do turned upon the drunken man with an angry air: "Don't you talk like that, my friend. Get on, I say!" He stretched out an arm and roughly pushed the other, so that the commissary stumbled and nearly fell. By swinging round he saved himself, and then Wenzel saw his face.

A wild sense of exhilaration bubbled up inside the White Knight. How wrong to think that Fate was playing against him! How wrong, when it was just the opposite! How it was that the man came there, what he was doing in Budapest, Wenzel could not even imagine, but at that moment nothing mattered, nothing except that after all he could keep his oath to Elizabeth, for there, in front of him, was Comrade Gonnard.

he gripped Arnold's arm convulsively, and with the slightest hiss Terhune signified that he was prepared. Events were turning out more propitious than either of them had dreamed. For a brief space the Red guards were interested in disposing of Gonnard, and without being aware of it their vigilance had lessened.

Once again Wenzel's fingers conveyed a message, and the next instant two silent forms leaped from the shadows of Parliament House. There were two sickening thuds, as two of the guards collapsed to the ground with scarcely a moan.

The third man yelled with surprise. Hypnotized by the sudden attack, his limbs refused to move until he saw three shadows advancing toward him with an uncanny quietness.

His hand darted to his belt; even as he pulled out the heavy Army revolver his fingers tightened on the trigger, and a stream of bullets whipped through the air, the attendant flickering flashes of light momentarily lighting up the drama with a ghastly clarity.

Almost before the guard's last shot had finished echoing reverberatingly round the square it was challenged by two new reports, and even while Apor whirled round and dropped, and Gonnard, the third man, grunted and gently collapsed, the guard shrieked, and then he too slumped to the ground, where he lay still and motionless.

Wenzel was conscious that one other shadow still remained upright. "Who is it?" he asked hoarsely.

"I am untouched—and you, Geoffrey?"

"Safe—but I am afraid Apor is down."

It was Apor himself who answered: "Only a flesh wound in the arm, Wenzel."

"Thank God! But now we must run like Hell. Quick, Arnold, help Apor."

Already Apor was making an effort to stumble to his feet, but his manacled hands made the task difficult. Arnold bent down and practically lifted him to his feet.

"Away with you," Wenzel growled—his ear caught the sound of running footsteps inside Parliament House—"they are coming."

For one second Arnold hesitated: "And you, Geoffrey?"

"Leave me, I will join you—later," he answered quietly.

There was no time to argue. With a quick run Arnold and Apor disappeared into the night en route for a previously arranged destination, and Wenzel laughed softly to himself. Provided that nothing unforeseen should happen, in five minutes' time Apor would be safe, and once again the White Knight would have scored another triumph.

He knew that he should run—he could hear the reinforcements, shouting in their excitement, just inside the door. Four, three more paces and they would be in the open, their revolvers cocked ready to spit at the shadow which he knew would be faintly visible to them. Yet, before he left, there was one more task to do.

Gonnard was lying at his feet: alive or dead he knew not, nor was there time to investigate. That would do later. He picked the body up and flung it across his shoulder. The first guard came through the door, and Wenzel fired. His aim was true, the man fell heavily.

There were dismayed cries from the others, and the rush ceased suddenly. It was all that Wenzel required. He turned, and his long legs carried him across the square and away into the friendly darkness, while the bullying Red guards cowered back, shooting indiscriminately from the cover of the protecting doorway.

There was no pursuit, and as Wenzel quickly drew farther away the crackle of the shooting sounded fainter, until suddenly it stopped, and the White Knight knew that revenge for the death of Elizabeth's cousin was now certain.

He was well away, and rapidly drawing near the Suspension Bridge. He stopped short as he approached it, but there was not a soul to be seen, and he continued on his way across it. In the centre he halted again, and slipped the unconscious commissary from his shoulder.

Gonnard was not dead. His heart was thumping irregularly, but strongly, and even as Wenzel laid him down the wounded man stirred, moaned with pain, and spoke.

"My ankle! What has happened? My ankle, it hurts. Where am I?" He spoke as though his mind were in a haze.

Wenzel bent over to him and whispered in his ear: "In the hands of the White Knight, Comrade Gonnard, and to-day——"

He heard the Communist gasp. There was a moment's silence, tense and dramatic, then Gonnard shrieked with horror. Wenzel clapped his hand roughly over the mouth of the other, and the noise died away to a faint gurgle.

With the other hand Wenzel fumbled in his coat. Always prepared for emergencies, there was a length of rope in his pocket. Sternly and unemotionally he adjusted a noose, and slipped it round the neck of the commissary. The other end he tied to the steelwork of the bridge.

Easily, as though he were lifting a baby, he raised the Communist up. Once again he whispered in his ear: "The White Knight pays the debts of two Hungarian officers, comrade."

Then he dropped the helpless commissary toward the water: Gonnard fell the length of the rope, moaning. The noose tautened—the corpse swayed to and fro like a pendulum—and with a set face, on which there was not the slightest expression of pity or horror, the White Knight passed on his way. In the country of lawlessness there was but one law: "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!" His merely the hand of judgment—alas, the only hand!

* * * * * *

"Suicide!" was the general verdict of the large crowd which gathered round to watch the unusual spectacle of a man hanging in mid-air, suspended from the bridge.

The news spread rapidly. Some one recognized the corpse as that of a commissary. The rumour came to the ears of the Council, the meeting was hurriedly adjourned, and many of its members hastened to the bridge.

Some one pulled the body up. The pockets were searched ... and the Communists glanced affrightedly at one another. There was no need to explain the tiny piece of carved wood which the searchers discovered.

The white knight spoke for itself.

When Elizabeth eventually awoke from her last unsettled sleep she became conscious that her body was cramped, aching in every bone, and she hazily wondered why. Next she frowned, for her eyes failed to recognize her surroundings. Then she tried to flick from her face an unruly, annoying hair, and not until she found it impossible to move her arms did her mind become clear.

All at once she remembered the events of the day before—her abduction, her agonized wait through the long hours for the return of her jailer—and finally she recollected relaxing. After that she assumed she must have fallen asleep.

She still sat upright on the chair, the one and only article of furniture in the attic other than an equally rickety table—and an empty soap-box. Her mouth caused her more terrible pain than she had ever imagined existed, and she wondered how the hurt of it could have allowed her to sleep. Her arms felt numb and paralysed.

Despite everything she felt a wave of exhilaration: she was still unharmed, uncontaminated. It was almost a good omen.

This feeling did not last long, for gradually it evaporated, a blank despair taking its place. There was no means of knowing the time, but a faint suspicion of chill in the air made her suspect it to be still early morning. Even so, it meant that she had been missing from the château for twelve or thirteen hours, sufficient time to have confirmed the worst misgivings of her father and of her fellow-refugees.

Thoughts of her father hurt. His gentle soul would suffer from the uncertainty of her fate. What would he imagine had happened to her? Would he suspect the truth? She endeavoured to persuade herself that such a thought would be farthest from his mind, but unfortunately she realized only too well that one of the most possible solutions of her disappearance would be what had actually occurred.

What would the White Knight say? As not infrequently happened, her thoughts turned toward her two brief recollections of her rescuer. Extraordinarily enough, each time she had met him they had remained in pitch darkness, so her only memory of him was his voice.

The thought of him thrilled her. In thinking of him who was known as the White Knight she became aware of an extraordinary glow of warmth within her, as though, at the mention of his name, there was kindled an inward fire. Her blood pounded through her body all the more hotly because of it, and, almost against her will, her brain visioned dreams—light fairy fancies which airily danced to the blithe tune of her innermost desires.

As yet she was unaware of the reason. In her life of partial seclusion, her father and his work had occupied the greater part of her thoughts, so that his alone would not be the triumph when his book finally saw the light of day. Her work and her encouragement had been invaluable to him.

With her day occupied, and her maternal instincts satisfied in the loving care of her father, men had somehow failed to find a place within the limit of her mental horizon. Love, marriage, and motherhood had been names only; to be venerated in due course admittedly, but as yet relegated to some future time.

She naïvely believed her interest in the White Knight to be unexpressed thanks for his deliverance of her father and herself from the clutches of the Communists, and therefore it did not seem unusual that the memory of the deep vibrant clarity of his voice should ring so repeatedly in her ears. Strangely enough, the quality of their voices was to each of them a revelation of the other, for it had been the fearlessness, the steadiness, the sweet cadence of Elizabeth's tone which had first attracted the White Knight's attention, though afterward her voice ceased to be remarkable because it inevitably became an integral part of her charm and beauty.

She was convinced that, to judge by the little she knew of him, he was all that an English gentleman should be, and so she was wont to visualize him as being tall, and owning more than his fair share of strength, for had he not fought the swift Danube current, landing them both in safety—a feat she had previously believed impossible?

He had been excellently educated; his cultured voice assured her of that; his accent, the result of four years' practice that he might converse worthily with Zita, was irreproachable, his foreign mannerisms discernible only to the acutest eye.

Of his age she was more uncertain. Physically she would have surmised that he was at the zenith of manhood; in strategy and generalship he seemed apparently older by a score of years. That this last assumption might be correct she hated to admit, not realizing that four tense years at the Front more than made up for a thrice longer period lived under mor peaceful conditions.

As to his characteristics, she considered it scarcely incumbent upon her to criticize one who risked his life daily to aid the helpless nobility of a country against which he had but lately been fighting, and in any event she could not conceive that in such a man there could be anything other than good.

It was only about his looks that she was doubtful. In her imagination she saw him with strong but sympathetic blue eyes, possibly shadowed by slightly heavy eyebrows. His hair, she felt, would be of a nut-brown colour, alive with crisp, irregular curls, while his face surely would be long, consistent with his height. His nose undoubtedly was finely chiselled, his chin round, firmly betraying the masterfulness of its owner.

The White Knight! How applicable was the name! He was indeed a knight-errant, truly a 'White' knight as opposed to the 'Reds.' Like a legendary figure of the past, he might have arisen from the ashes of forgotten heroes, have been a reincarnation of one of the saintly king-warriors with whom the pages of Hungary's history abound.

Such was her dream-picture of him, such was the cloak of perfection in which she had wrapped his personality!

* * * * * *

There was a sudden clamour in the street below, and Elizabeth realized that for a brief time she had forgotten her plight in contemplation of the White Knight.

She heard a voice shrieking, "Long live the Commune!" and shuddered. How long would the hated Commune exist? Had not the Communists already dragged their country into the lowest depths of degradation, without wishing to exist solely for the purpose of completing the ruin? During her stay in the château she had learned the real meaning of Communism, what it had done to her country, and to Russia also.

She tried to struggle to her feet, but found that her legs were lifeless. The rigid attitude of her sleep had prevented the blood from circulating; when she tried to stretch she found she could not move her limbs.

Her under lip trembled slightly. Sleep banished, dreams dissolved, once again the full realization of her plight returned to her. Why had the Communist not returned? How could she escape before he did? Her eyes gleamed more brightly and her mouth tightened to control the quivering muscles. Her courage returned in full, overpowering even the knowledge of her helplessness. Had she not struggled for hours the night before till her wrists bled, fruitlessly endeavouring to free her hands? Had she not worked her mouth till it was swollen and sore to dispose of the gag, without the slightest suggestion of success to encourage her?

For all that she would try once again. Whatever she might suffer now, it would be as nothing compared to what she would have to endure should the commissary return. Before anything, however, she realized it was necessary to force her legs into activity again.

She began by concentrating all her will-power to fidget her toes about. For some time there was no response, so she tried tightening the muscles of the limbs with spasmodic jerks. The effort of doing this caused her exquisite torture. Acute, tormenting pains shot up and down the arteries, so that she had to bite her lips to prevent a moan escaping.

Again and again she worked her muscles so, till at last feeling returned to her toes. After that her work became easier, if more painful, until finally she felt she could stand, and with a great effort braced herself up to her feet.

She had overestimated the strength of her legs. They were unable to bear the weight of her body, and she fell to the ground with a heavy crash which jarred every nerve in her body, twisting her arms until she wondered if either of them was broken.

For ten minutes she remained as she had fallen, a hundred different pains racking her body, while her brain havered on the borderline of consciousness. Only an indomitable will to refrain kept her from fainting.

At the end of that time she recommenced her exertions, but now she was in an even more awkward position than before. There seemed only one way of gaining her feet. Rolling to the wall she placed her back to it, and pushing with her slowly reviving legs gradually forced herself upward until she stood.

She crossed to the window and looked down upon the street below, but it was quieter. Evidently the crowd who had just been noisily acclaiming the merits of the Commune had departed for another quarter; there were not more than half a dozen people in all to be seen, of which number three were women and two children.

The sight served to cheer her more than anything else. She felt that if she could but escape from the room she might yet gain a safer part of the city without molestation. Yet—how to free her hands?

Despairingly she gazed round the room. There seemed nothing in any shape or form which could possibly assist her. Obviously there was but one thing to do—to continue twisting her wrists as much as possible in the hope of finally loosening the handkerchief.

Perhaps half an hour passed, but it became more apparent that she was no freer than she had been at first. She angrily chided herself on her woman's weakness, confident that a man could have wrenched his hands apart from sheer strength.

She could feel her wrists bleeding again, the skin bruised by the rasping of the material. She did not know how much blood was escaping, but there was enough to make her hands sticky, and she became afraid that if the cloth should become saturated it might shrink.

Feverishly she continued struggling, and for some time without any signs of success, but suddenly her thumb slipped through into a fold. She forced it higher and still higher till it hurt, but all at once it was free. The rest was easy. While her index finger struggled to follow suit, she forced the material farther down the hand, till a few seconds later her arms were free, and her mouth too.

Then she cried—not from pain or fear, but from pure relief. Only a few seconds before she had believed her task impossible, and then, unexpectedly, she had succeeded. There remained now only the door.

Drying her tears she approached it and caught hold of the handle with both hands. Placing her feet against the wall, she pulled, but the door held steadily, and presently she had to stop to regain her breath, but for only two minutes or so, when once again she took up her position.

Her hands turned on the handle; she pulled, and the door swung open. Gonnard had thought it locked, but the key had merely turned in the lock; the tumblers had not moved. Elizabeth laughed, a trifle hysterically. She had pulled so hard, when all she need have done was to have walked out....

What did it matter? The way to freedom was before her, and, stopping only to dust herself as far as possible, and wipe away as much of the blood from her wrists as she could, she crept cautiously down the steps and into the street.

* * * * * *

It would have been difficult to decide which of the three men walking toward the Château Juhusz was the happiest. Apor would have sworn it to be himself. During his brief imprisonment he had not been without hope that the White Knight would rescue him, even if he was more than fully aware of the difficulties which his leader would be bound to encounter.

This supreme confidence upheld him, right until the time when he had fallen asleep in his cell. At the Communists' threats, at the brutal jesting of his jailers, he had merely laughed lightly. Somehow or other the White Knight would rescue him!

Because of his high spirits the reaction was all the greater when, a few hours later, he awoke to find a leering face bending over him.

"Come along, my friend, get up." The words had rung ominously to Apor's ear.

"And why?" he had asked. The Red guard had grinned.

"Because why?" he had repeated. "Because Bela Kun has just telephoned through and ordered you to be taken at once to the Suspension Bridge to be dropped over."

"My God! But that would be murder. Surely I am at least entitled to a trial?"

The guard shrugged his shoulders. "It is none of my business, comrade. Besides, what do you want a trial for? The result would be the same."

Apor could not deny it. As assistant commissary he had seen more than enough of the methods of the Communists to know how true was the remark.

The blow had been a heavy one. Convinced that for some mysterious reason the Communists had suddenly changed their plans with regard to him, he had been forced to realize how impossible it would be for the White Knight to rescue him, and so, with a sinking heart, he had resigned himself to fate, prepared to meet his death as a man should.

By the time the handcuffs were snapped upon his wrists he had given up all hope of rescue, and though he walked with a steady step there had been a bitter smile upon his lips. He had not understood the reason for the urgent need of his death—the Communists knew, of course, of his connexion with the Whites, but as far as he was then aware, they were not cognizant of the fact that he was also a member of the White Knight's band.

So, in his own mind, Death had stood at his shoulder, and yet, unbelievably, miraculously, he had been rescued. Instead of being dead he was alive, and his heart filled with a bubbling happiness. No longer need he pretend; now he could openly declare himself a White, and fight for the relief of his country from the clutches of the Bolsheviks.

Arnold, on his part, was filled with a sense of satisfaction, and, better still, a pleasurable anticipation. Satisfied, because Apor was safe, and pleased—more than pleased—because in a few minutes' time he would see Cecile again, would look into her eyes, where he hoped to see the flame of welcome, of gladness, because he was still safe and unhurt.

Their love still remained unspoken, yet to themselves neither disguised its existence, just as each recognized that it should remain unrevealed until other times—better times—when the Red octopus should be slaughtered.

And Wenzel ... in one stroke he had fulfilled his oath to Elizabeth and, by an ingenious plan, had rescued Apor. The one puzzling aspect in the drama—namely, how it was that Gonnard was in Budapest—did not worry him for long. What mattered how he came there? He had met his fate, and Elizabeth was avenged.

Elizabeth! It was because he was near Elizabeth that the White Knight was conscious of an infectious gaiety in the air. Within a few minutes they would reach the clearing. Then, while Apor and Arnold went in, he would climb one of the bordering trees, and with greedy eyes would watch every fleeting expression which would cross her face, every graceful movement of her body, while she walked the weedy gardens of the château with Cecile, with Arnold, or with her father.

He was content just to watch her so, to worship her from afar. Beyond that he knew he might never dare venture. If once she saw him—his searing scars... He visioned her face if that should ever happen, and saw how it would twist into horror; how she would shrink away in disgust.

He forced these thoughts from his brain and indulged in more roseate dreams. Arnold, he knew, understood, and would diplomatically arrange that for a short time she should wander where he could best see her. Dear old Arnold! What did it matter to him what happened to Hungary? What had been his reason for helping Hungary? Only an innate pity for the helpless, a gallant, old-fashioned quixotism, a love of adventure, and, above all, friendship for the man who was now his leader. That was all! Wenzel smiled to himself. All, originally, but now Arnold had another interest in Hungary. He had been rewarded. Well, he deserved it. He had risked his life for Hungary, and sooner or later, if all went well, he would pluck one of her choicest blooms for himself.

No brighter was the sun which bathed the country in its benevolent smile than the thoughts of the three men and the faces of two. Whatever his inward thoughts, Wenzel's expression never changed. He knew from past experience that, hideous as was his face in repose, it became positively satanical when he smiled, for then his face puckered up, his wounds twisted into grotesque shapes, and to look upon him thus was as if looking upon the visage of a satyr, a mocking mask of demon-like cunning.

They reached the edge of the clearing. With a slight motion of his head Wenzel sent his two friends forward, then climbed the branches of an adjacent tree, from where he could see and yet remain unseen.

To his impatient glance it seemed as if Apor and Arnold lagged in their walk to the château, but at last they disappeared within. Not long to wait now! A few minutes more and he would see Elizabeth! Already he knew every sweet expression by heart.

It seemed hours before anything happened, though actually it was but four to five minutes—just long enough for an hysterical father to pour the story of Elizabeth's disappearance into Arnold's horrified ears, and for the tired and despondent searchers to confirm and corroborate.

Unsuspectingly Wenzel waited. He wondered why Arnold had not yet succeeded in enticing Elizabeth into the garden. Then from his leafy retreat he saw Arnold hurrying toward him.

Wenzel's eyes narrowed and his nerves seemed to tighten warningly. There was something in Arnold's attitude, in his unusual walk and expression, which prepared Wenzel for bad news. He quickly swung himself down from the tree, and dropped even as Arnold approached.

"What is it, Arnold? There is something wrong?"

Arnold's glance wavered and dropped. "There is, Geoffrey," he said huskily. "I—I—Elizabeth Kiss has—disappeared."

Wenzel battled with his emotions. He felt a tigerish fury arising, but knew that firstly he must hear all and not let his temper cloud his reason.

"Tell me!" he said curtly.

"She told Cecile that she was going out to pick wild flowers as usual—that was some time between four and five o'clock. Cecile suggested going as well, but Elizabeth laughingly commanded her to finish the picture she was painting, and went alone.

"By six o'clock she had not returned. Imre Kiss began to fidget, and when at seven she was still missing he insisted on a search-party.

"They divided into groups. One group headed towards the Budapest road, and just near found a big bunch of flowers lying carelessly on the ground, as if they had been suddenly dropped. That was all! All night long they have searched, and there is still no sign of her."

"The Devil! What does it mean?" Suddenly Wenzel jerked his head forward. "Wheel tracks, footprints, were there marks of any kind on the road?"

Arnold laughed bitterly: "No one thought of looking. I asked the same question."

Wenzel felt his blood seething: "Oh, heavens! What idiots, what stupendous fools! Hell! For what are brains made if people do not use them? Fools! Fools!" He clenched his hands in the agony of his thoughts. "And you, Arnold, what do you think?"

"Heaven only knows what to think! So many things might have happened. A band of roving Communists may have seen her—a—a—Hades! Geoffrey, I hate to say it, but I must—a licentious lunatic—Heaven alone knows!"

Wenzel bowed his head and groaned slightly. "Oh, I hope not. I have not said anything to you, Arnold, but ... I can never hope for anything else, yet just to watch her from a distance..." Suddenly his mood changed again. His passionate temper—born the day he first saw the foul ravishes of the Communists, and aggravated by the mis-aimed bullet which had seared perilously near his brain—burst its always unstable barriers, and Arnold saw deep into his leader's soul, and for the first time saw how near twisting it had been but for Elizabeth. He realized also, if anything should happen to her, how it still might warp.

With fierce, angry words Wenzel blasphemed his Maker, reviled the world, and even cursed his parents who had brought him into it. For a brief space he was insane. There was no one, not even Arnold himself, who did not come beneath the flail of his wrath, and Arnold flinched before the torrent of words which Wenzel released.

Presently he became calmer, and in the end he apologized in halting, broken sentences.

"I am sorry, Arnold, but—four years I dreamed and planned—for four years I dodged bullets, praying to God that I might live—I loved Zita so, she was my beacon, the one star in the black, overcast sky—full of hope I journeyed to Budapest, only to find her dead—dead, Arnold, before my eyes, killed simply and solely by horror....

"Can you wonder that my brain may have given way? Since then I have seen worse sights: Szamuelly hanging innocent men just for the love of killing—gouging out their eyes for the pleasure of torture—burying his victims alive for the sake of brutality.

"Then God was kind to me—I met Elizabeth. I can never even let her see me, yet—once again I have found a star to guide me, and if anything happens to her too, if the Communists have—— Arnold, I must not give way." He stopped, his lips moved, while his teeth bit into them.

"There, I am calm now.... Arnold, listen!" His voice was crisper, once again he was the White Knight, the leader. "That road, near which Elizabeth presumably disappeared, is the road to Budapest. It is quite possible that Elizabeth has been carried away to that city. It is but the barest possibility, I admit, yet there must be no stone left unturned, no avenue which must be left unexplored, to find her—safe or—or otherwise.

"While I go to Budapest you must go the other way. Francis can tour the countryside between Budapest and here; Apor from here onward.

"If you should find her, meet me to-night, fifty yards from the Tunnel, Pest Bank, on the left-hand side of the road, at nine-thirty sharp. If I am not there within forty minutes meet me the following evening. Now go. I shall try to get that early train back to Buda."

With two seconds to spare Wenzel caught the overcrowded train to the capital. It meant lying on the roof, but as there were many doing the same he was in no way conspicuous. Not very long afterward he was once again in the lions' den.

Outside the station there was a crowd, gathered in several groups. Wenzel could see that a spirit of excitement prevailed; there were many individual speakers, gesticulating less confidently, for they were being heckled from every direction. He would have passed quickly on his way, anxious to get into the heart of the city, from where he intended to commence his search for Elizabeth, but suddenly his attention was arrested by the mention of the White Knight.

Even the most secret sessions of the Soviet Council were apt to be noised abroad, and more than once, by joining Communistic gatherings, he had garnered information which had subsequently proved invaluable to him.

"Yes, comrades, despite all the boasting of the Supreme Council that they would soon have detectives on the track of this White Knight, this protector of the bourgeoisie, this Enemy of the Commune, as he calls himself, he has been at work again, has flaunted the feeble efforts of the detectives, and scarcely less than twelve hours ago had the audacity to rescue again a prisoner from under the very noses of the Red guards.

"Bah! The fools! Do you know the story, friends—would you like to hear the details? Eh! I thought as much. Yesterday morning an assistant commissary, named Apor, was arrested by members of the counter-espionage. Apor was a White spy. He was thrown into prison, into one of the Parliament House cells. You might have thought that he would have been safe enough there. So would I. But listen.

"Late last night our worthy Dictator learned that Apor was more than a White spy. He discovered that the assistant commissary was one of the White Knight's band. That was news, was it not, friends? What did he do? What you or I would have done, and wisely.

"He knew the White Knight would try and rescue his follower, so there and then he telephoned through to Parliament House and ordered the guards to throw this Apor into the Danube. Yes, all of you, that was Bela Kun's order, and no one can say it was wrong.

"In less than five minutes the Red guards left Parliament House with their prisoner. They had scarcely got outside the door of the building when two of them were stunned, the third one shot dead, and Apor, the traitor, the spy, was rescued!"

His next words were lost in the fierce growl which arose from the crowd. Question after question was asked of the speaker, but he stood mute, holding up his hand for silence, and presently, recognizing that he still had more to say, the audience quietened down.

"That was not all!" With fierce emphasis the man flung the words at the surrounding crowd, and as they sunk into the brains of the people there was a tense, dramatic silence.

"Yes, he did more than that! This White Knight, disdainful of the Commune and the weak efforts to catch him, hanged a commissary from the middle of the Suspension Bridge."

Evidently the man had a sense of the dramatic. He swayed his listeners as he willed, and Wenzel saw a grin puckering the corners of his lips as the crowd obeyed his unspoken commands.

The people raged and stormed. "Death to the White Knight! Search him out! Hang him!" That and more they yelled and shouted, all the while Wenzel wondered the reason for the enigmatic smile. Evidently the speaker had an axe to grind.

Wenzel was soon to know. "Now, comrades, if Szamuelly were allowed a free hand..." So that was it! A tout for Szamuelly. Szamuelly the murderer was not yet satisfied. More and more blood must flow to appease his appetite.

A tiny pin-prick of murderous hatred danced in the White Knight's eyes. Not yet had he forgotten Bira, and now Gonnard was out of the way. But first Elizabeth.

Now that he was in Budapest, where in the name of creation could he look for her? She might be in any one of a thousand buildings, even assuming that she were indeed within the limits of the city. She might be to the north, south, east, or west.

At any rate, for what little good it might be, he had a fixed plan in his head. In the morning, which even now was nearly over, he would call in at every coffee-house frequented by the Council and higher members of the Commune. There he might pick up scraps of conversation or a slight clue, anything which might suggest any connexion with the disappearance of Elizabeth.

In the coffee-houses, he knew, the talk was apt to veer round to women. If they all failed he would try the beer-taverns and the wine-bars, where the men conversed together even more openly still of their women-folk, and at one of them what would be more natural, or unnatural, according to which way one thinks, than that the kidnapper should boast of his capture?

The spouter outside the station continued to rant of Szamuelly. It was evident to Wenzel that he would do no good staying where he was, and so he carelessly moved off, and was presently away from the crowds, once again his mind reverting to Elizabeth.

With his thoughts centred upon her he began his weary search.

There are coincidences in real life which far outrival their nearest cousins in fiction. Life is a paradox, controlled by mysterious forces of Nature which even the most learned of students does not dare to criticize.

Coincidence it may have been, yet there is a more subtle explanation. On that morning two minds were fixed upon each other. Wenzel, as he moved from coffee-house to coffee-house, was aware of one thing, was obsessed by one thought, only—Elizabeth—he must find Elizabeth; and so his brain disseminated his innermost resolves and desires, and upon the wings of Nature's electric waves, for ever radiating through the ether, were shed Wenzel's mental longings.

On her part Elizabeth crept through the streets of Budapest with a furtive air. She wandered hither and thither, up one street and down the next, only knowing that she sought a station, or a neighbourhood she knew, but afraid to ask, to question passers-by, lest she should draw attention to herself.

Despair was in her attitude. Even if she reached a station she had no money with which to journey back to the château again. In the sullen, uncouth faces which paraded the streets of the Communist stronghold, where was one which she could recognize, where was one, perhaps kindly and sympathetic, to which she might turn for succour?

There seemed not one. In the days of the Red Terror Budapest was safe only for the Terrorists, the Red guards, and their rabid supporters. The rest had fled or else kept within the scanty security of their single rooms.

The very environment of the town filled her with a nervous dread, brave and fearless though she was ordinarily. In her plight there was but one upon whom her thoughts turned. The White Knight! If only he knew!

So, as she wandered aimlessly, she wondered what he would think of her. What would he do when he discovered her disappearance? What could he do? She smiled bitterly to herself. There was nothing. In all Hungary how could he possibly surmise that she was in Budapest?

She encouraged herself to think of him as she continued her search for—what? She herself scarcely knew.

Like magnet and steel they gradually drew together. Neither of them aware of the fact, their thoughts were, attracting one another, picking up the broadcast messages, until suddenly, as each turned a corner, they met with a force which sent her reeling to the wall, and his hat to the ground.

Wenzel stared at her with a blank amazement. Like a miracle she was all at once before him, not a vision of her, but the real her, panting for breath. His eyes lit with a glare, a flash of triumph, of love; his lips moved to shout out her name in a glad welcome; but just in time he remembered.

He dared not do so. She must never know him for what he was, never realize that she had met the White Knight face to face; for his romance would be broken, never to be mended. He felt the horror with which she would always in future regard him, for, with a bitterness which cut into his heart, he saw it already rising in her eyes.

He did not misread her expression. A cold wave of terror swept over her as she recognized the face of the man who had looked up at her window the night before. Too vividly she remembered the scars, the evilness of his looks. She shrank away from him, sick and faint lest he should take notice of her. Even Gonnard before this man—and at that moment she prayed to God that He might send the White Knight to save her.

He saw on the other side of the road a man, whom he knew to be a journalist, eyeing them queerly. With a vile oath he crammed his cap back on his head again, and spat on the ground. With a leering glance he moved on.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the newspaper man turn away, so he looked back. Elizabeth was hurrying off as quickly as her legs could carry her. Wenzel swung round on his heels. He must not lose her again.

While he discreetly followed her through the streets, Wenzel puzzled over the strange problem of her sudden appearance. The last thing he expected was to find her at liberty. At the same time his heart was troubled with doubts—not of her, but of what horrors might have happened to her in the meantime.

As the time passed, and the chase continued, along road after road, he was forced to the conclusion that she was wandering aimlessly. She was certainly making for no specific object, for first she headed to the north or the east, then to the south or the west.

It was not until he saw her stop by a communal restaurant, and look inside with a longing expression, that he remembered that in all probability she was without money. He saw her hesitate, move on, and then retrace her footsteps. Once again she faltered before the open door. Then with a determined movement she went within, and he groaned.

Not knowing that Elizabeth, starved and miserable, and unable to stand any longer the pangs of hunger which gripped her, had decided to throw herself on the tender mercies of the proprietor, he was convinced that his supposition with regard to her financial stability was wrong, though he knew that she was doomed to disappointment. Only those with the red food tickets of the manual labourers or the blue ones of the intellectual workers were allowed to dine at the communal restaurants, or even buy food at the shops.

Two minutes elapsed. He frowned, imagining that, after all, she must have obtained the necessary tickets, and that she was feeding. Disturbed, he left his retreat—the shelter of an empty shop window—and took two steps toward the restaurant.

At that moment Elizabeth emerged, dazed and bewildered by the truth. In perhaps kinder tones than he had used for a long time the proprietor had explained that matters were no longer as they used to be—it was not of his own choice: in the old days he had served ladies and gentlemen, and liked them well. No, he dared not serve her. He had a wife and child; if he were thrown into prison for surreptitiously feeding a bourgeois—he asked her pardon for using the word—what would become of them?

As she came out Elizabeth felt the tears springing to her eyes. Here, in Budapest, in a big middle-Europe city, the capital of a large country—even then being carved up by the peacemakers in Paris—her plight was no better than that of a castaway on a desert island. Surrounded by food of a kind, yet unable to eat any of it! Passing thousands of people, yet not daring to speak to one of them! Scarcely forty miles from the château, yet without the slightest possibility of getting back there!

A bubble of hysterical laughter forced itself to her throat: then, surprised at her own humour, she looked up, and her mirth died away. As quickly as Wenzel had retreated to his shelter again, her sharp eyes had seen and recognized him.

Instinct gave her an inkling of the truth: he was following her. The human vulture had scented his prey, and was merely waiting the opportunity to pounce upon her.

The knowledge threw her into a state of panic. Obsessed by the terror with which the man of the scars inspired her, she hurried from the spot, oblivious of everything except the fact that somehow or other she must get away from him.

Just before she had been ready to drop with fatigue; now the startling discovery supplied her with fresh vigour. Forgetting that her feet were sore, that blisters were developing, that her legs were leaden, and her wrists smarting, she blindly threaded the streets in an effort to shake off her pursuer.

So quickly did she travel, indeed, that she very nearly succeeded. Not realizing that she had seen him, Wenzel still kept at a reasonable distance, and thus came to a choice of roads, with no inkling as to which one she had taken, for both streets curved inwardly, thus effectively hiding the continuity of each one.

He felt the first warning of temper, a curious constriction in his throat, but resolutely he conquered himself. He realized that he must take a chance. She had come from the road on the left. Hurrying as she was, he felt it would have been natural for her to have taken the nearer one to her, and so he too took the same one, increasing his pace considerably in an effort to catch her up.

He was wrong. Elizabeth had not even realized that there were two roads. She had seen one ahead of her, and had crossed to it, but, had she known, it would have been all the same. The street was a crescent, curving back to meet itself, and so for the second time that day they met face to face.

She faltered and stopped; a moan escaped her lips. All her efforts for nothing, and with the realization of her failure returned a consciousness of her weariness, and knowledge that she could continue no longer.

She leaned against one of the trees which lined the street, her breast heaving with despair and lack of breath. One hand clutched her throat, the other she rested over her heart as if to stay its wild beating, and thus she waited, physically unable to continue her flight.

Wenzel read her mind, realized that she had reached the limit of her tether, and was glad, for in the meantime he had formed a plan in his head, a scheme by which he could secure her safety, and yet not have her suspect that he was the White Knight.

With a rapid glance in each direction he observed that there were but three people to be seen, all women. He lurched up to Elizabeth.

"Well, my little chicken, a fine chase you have led me." His voice was rasping and uncultured, and never for a moment did Elizabeth connect it with another voice of which, even now, the memory echoed in her ears.

She looked at him scornfully. At her steady glance Wenzel felt a glow of admiration, and at that moment loved her more than ever. Her quivering under lip betrayed the fact that her heart was sick with fear, but otherwise her attitude was one of defiance, of cool disregard for his blustering arrogance.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Too proud to speak to me, are you, my fine lady? Well, that does not worry me. When you hear what I have to say you will soon change your tone." He lowered his voice: "Listen, I have news for you from the White Knight."

"The White Knight!" There was a marvellous transformation, a bright light dawned in her eyes, and her face was suffused with a newly found relief and joy. "You bring me news of the White Knight? God be praised! How knew he that I was in Budapest?"

"Because he saw you early this morning, and sent me after you. Why did you hurry away from me?"

His question seemed to awaken suspicions in her mind, for she drew herself up slightly. "I will tell that to your master, the White Knight," she said coldly, and then asked: "What is the message you bring me?"

"Huh! Is that all you have to say? After all my trouble following you round the city and awaiting a convenient opportunity to speak to you! Bah! I have a good mind not to tell you."

Instantly she was apologetic. "You will forgive me?" she said prettily, and Wenzel had to turn his eyes away so that she should not see into them and recognize the thoughts behind. "I—I have been frightened."

"Yes," he answered surlily, "I suppose so. He said that you were to come with me and I should take you to him."

"Oh!" She clasped her hands together. "Then I shall be able actually to see him? God be praised! I thought I was lost, and yet for the second time he has come to my rescue. Where is he?"

"That's none of your business. You wait and ask him yourself. In the meantime, come with me."

"I am ready," she said simply.

Wenzel himself did not know the neighbourhood in which they were, but with the bump of locality strongly developed he proceeded in what he believed to be the direction where a week ago he had found new headquarters. In the heart of the roughest district of Pest it was there he believed he would be least suspected and least conspicuous. Already he had seen in the same street many faces which, if not as brutal and terrifying as his, were at least more decadent and bestial, more sensuous and cunning.

He recognized it as a risk to take Elizabeth there, for she was too beautiful not to be noticed, but, once in his room, he knew there was less prospect of interference, and less likelihood of being detected by a chance detective or spy, all of whom were too busy raking in the bourgeoisie and magnates from the better parts of the town to worry about the criminal quarters, especially when, in the present lawless times, their interference meant, more than ever, death.

The journey was long, and as the time passed vague suspicions occurred to her that everything was not as her momentary optimism had suggested, and in that spirit she began to see the situation in a different light.

The man by her side had not once mentioned her name. Certainly he had said he was from the White Knight, but what proof had she that he really was? She had heard from Arnold and Francis that the White Knight was known and hated throughout the Communist community of Budapest, but on the other hand more than revered in the circles of the persecuted.

It was therefore, she argued with herself, not impossible that her present escort, calculating from her attitude that she was being pursued, and perhaps not realizing that he himself was the guilty one, had craftily used the name, hoping that it would act as a password to her confidence.

More and more she became uneasy, and when she glanced up at the scowling face of her guide all her terror of him returned. Suddenly she stopped, and when he looked round questioned him.

"Why did not the White Knight himself come after me?"

There was grim humour in her words which unfortunately he alone was able to appreciate.

"Huh! So you are suspicious of me, are you, my fine lady? For why do I work for this spawn of Satan, this bourgeois, the White Knight? Only because he pays me good money—money which I spend to have a merry life. There is nothing else to live for in these days but money. He pays me well, pretty one, but so would Comrade Bela Kun. I could give him a lot of information. He would not be suspicious of me, nor insult me with sneering glances and haughty airs.

"Why did not the White Knight himself run after you? Perhaps he knew it would be a long chase—though his legs are longer than mine." He laughed at his own joke, then leered into her face so that she shrank back. "What do you take him for? An idiot, a fool with the brains of a babe? If the White Knight ventured into the street he would be torn to bits. Now follow me again if you want to see him."

Without another word, without a look to see whether she was keeping up with him, he strode on, and almost at once Elizabeth caught him up. There was so much truth in his words. Not only that, but with a queer feeling of constriction at her heart she realized that a false move on her part might throw the mysterious Englishman into the hands of his enemies. Supposing through her the White Knight were betrayed...?

The neighbourhood became more shabby, somehow reminiscent, and with a shock Elizabeth recognized the street. They were passing by the building in which she had been imprisoned the previous evening.

Despite herself, doubts again began to arise in her mind. That she should be brought to the same street was too much a coincidence. With a wrenching pain at her heart it seemed to her that, too late, she saw through the whole plot. The commissary, having discovered her flight, had sent a friend out to search for her, and, like an innocent child, she had believed that the man—of whom instinctively she had been afraid—was an emissary of the White Knight.

Suddenly she reasoned to herself that the White Knight would never put his faith in such an evil person as the man with the scars, and with that thought she became conscious that it was now too late for her to escape.

The knowledge proved too much. Wenzel heard her gasp, and suddenly realized that she was fainting; so with a rapid movement he put his arm tightly round her waist, and holding her upright by sheer strength forced her on until at last he came to his destination, and turned into a dark and evil-smelling doorway where Elizabeth collapsed into his arms.

More a result of exhaustion than anything else, her brief swoon was soon over, and she revived just as Wenzel tenderly laid her on a decrepit bed which stood in a dark corner, scarcely remaining upright.

She sat up weakly. "You cur, oh, you cur!" She spat the words out with a fierce intensity, and two bright red spots glowed in her cheeks.

Wenzel was amazed at the reception. Not for a moment suspecting the trend which her thoughts had taken, not even aware that she had been near the neighbourhood before, he could not conjecture what her unexpected words represented, but if he did not know the wherefore of them, he understood their significance and saw how he could take advantage of them.

"Ho, ho, my fine lady, more suspicions?" He laughed mockingly.

"You have lied to me!" she panted breathlessly: "you do not know the White Knight; you are no gallant helper of his. Fool that I was not to understand," she continued bitterly. "You are a friend of the man who kidnapped me. Oh, Heaven, how cruel, how cruel! To get away safely once, only to be captured again." She faltered, and, that he should not see that her discovery was more than she could bear, turned her head away.

A fierce glow of relief flooded the whole of his body. In a few words she herself had answered a question which he would never have dared to ask. Safe and sound, untouched and unhurt! In his emotion he laughed aloud, and Elizabeth shuddered, taking it to mean a confirmation of her accusation.

At the same time her words gave him the clue he needed as to what had happened, and also assured him that she would never, never suspect the truth. He would play up in earnest to the part which she had allotted him, and so he spat upon the floor.

"Ho, ho! So you are quick at putting two and two together, are you, my dear lady? You have made five of it this time. You are right up to a point. You were missed—and not by the White Knight, oh, no—and I was sent to look for you.

"But he won't see you again—not yet, anyway. You are far too pretty, my dear. Why should I go to all that trouble for nothing? It isn't every day I can pick up a fine prize like you for the asking. I am going to keep you for myself.

"You have heard of the White Knight, have you? I thought the bait would work." He grinned. "Well, well, the nearest you will see of the White Knight for some time now is the one in the box over there. While I am gone to tell my friend how I lost you, you can work out a few chess problems and see whether the white knight can prevent his queen being checkmated. I shall be back—later." With a roar of significant laughter he walked from the room, and this time Elizabeth heard the key turn unmistakably in the lock.

Her soul wilted, for whatever fear she had felt of Gonnard was infinitesimal compared with the terror which she now experienced. There was only one thing which prevented her giving way to the hopeless despair that gripped her in its vice. The few words which he had spoken had flashingly supplied her with a possible scheme of escape, and, only waiting till the sound of his footsteps had completely faded away, she leaped from her bed, prepared to risk her life on one throw of the dice.

A lurking shadow whistled sibilantly as Wenzel approached, and the White Knight, recognizing its low note, knew that Arnold had kept his appointment.

"No news for you, Geoffrey." Arnold's voice was full of sympathy.

Wenzel laughed happily. "But I have, old man," he announced. "I have discovered her. Listen, walk along with me and I will tell you everything." And so, while they walked, talking carelessly, yet withal keeping a wary eye open for Red guards and the Terrorists, Wenzel retailed the story of his chance meeting with Elizabeth and the subsequent happenings.

"And now, this is where you come in. When I go back there I shall play up to my part, and torture her mentally so that she will never believe me anything other than the worst specimen of a Communist on earth.

"About twenty minutes later you will burst in. There must be a grand battle, and in the end you will give me an upper-cut and I shall be hors de combat. Then you can hurry her away, and the deed will be done. Make up some tale or other as to how you discovered her.

"Only one thing, Arnold. Never, under any circumstances, must she ever suspect that I am the White Knight. If you had but seen her expression when she looked me full in the face!..."

In silence they walked along toward their destination, until at last Wenzel halted.

"Look, Arnold, you had better have a drink while you are waiting. Give me about a quarter of an hour, and then follow."

They parted with a handshake, and while Arnold dropped into an illicit beer-tavern Wenzel passed on to where he had left Elizabeth.

There was no light in the room, but he could hear the sound of her breathing. He struck a match and illuminated a half-burned candle, which, stuck in the neck of an empty wine-bottle, occupied a place of honour on an old soap-box in the middle of the room.

Elizabeth was on the bed, gazing defiantly at him.

He laughed coarsely. "Well, my little canary, are you glad I have returned?"

She did not reply, but continued to gaze at him in a steadfast manner.

He advanced toward her with an ugly glare. "Sulking, are you? I know what to do with perverse women." He moved another step nearer to her, his attitude became more menacing, but still there was no sign of fear on her face, and he thrilled with admiration at her bravery.

"Speak, you, or by God! I will choke the breath out of your body with my fingers," and he waved his hands before her.

"A gentleman," she said at last, "would take off his hat in the presence of a lady."

He burst into a bellow of rude laughter. "Do you call yourself a lady? Do you know what I have called you to all my friends? I have told them you are nothing but a——"

Before the fateful word was out of his mouth she was stung into activity. With faring cheeks she sprang up from the bed, her hand flashed upward, and there was a sharp report as it came into contact with his face.

His eyes sparkled. It was just what he would have had her do. Still, he had a part to play. With a roar of rage he grabbed hold of her in his arms and pressed her to him.

He felt her shudder convulsively, and tightened his muscles in expectation of the struggle which he believed she would put up. In that he was unexpectedly surprised. Her hand strayed to his side, fumbled there for a moment, then dropped listlessly down again, and she remained passive within his grasp.

He looked down upon her face, slightly bewildered by her lack of resistance. Her eyes were closed, and he wondered whether she had fainted in horror, but even as he looked they flashed open.

There was a quizzical expression within them, a curious sense of elation; and suddenly he became conscious of a feeling of uneasiness. It was almost as if she had deliberately played for this moment.

Once again he looked into the depths of her eyes and saw therein a mocking devil which gibbered at and scorned him. A tempting, overpowering sensation gripped hold of him. Flashingly it occurred to him that never again in his life would he hold her quiescent in his arms. Her lips were there, so red and inviting, so near to his.

He knew it was the last thing he should have ever dreamed of doing, it being far from his nature to take advantage of a woman in his power, but his leaping blood, hot with a fire of passion lit by her glance and her position in his arms, mounted to his brain: the next moment he bent over her and pressed his lips gently upon hers.

It might have been any time from five to ten seconds that they remained thus; then, with a moan, she wrenched her arms upward and, placing her hands upon his face, pushed with all her might and forced him away from her.

Instantly he released hold of her, so she drew away from him and tremblingly sat upon the bed, her fingers upon her lips. Yet her expression was not one of loathsome horror as he had expected; instead it was one of bewilderment.

He wondered why, because he was not to know that during that long kiss Elizabeth had received a surprise. She had read his expression, had seen quickly what was going to happen, and had been unable to prevent it. His burning lips had come into contact with hers, and she had expected from them a bestial, sensuous kiss. Instead their pressure had been soft and loving, their contact caressing.

After that momentary pause there was a dramatic interruption, a pounding on the door, the calling of gruff voices, and the next moment six Terrorists burst into the room, Gunzi leading them. The White Knight knew then that he had reached the end of his race, that capture, imprisonment, and death were ahead of him.

He leaped for the door, and quicker than the eye could follow his fist had lifted once, twice, and two of the Red guards reeled backward with a grunt of pain; then his hand flashed to his hip-pocket, where reposed a loaded revolver, but just as his fingers touched its ready butt something dug into his stomach, and he saw that Gunzi, the detective from Aszod, had him covered.

With a shrug of his shoulders he resigned himself to his fate. He had expected it to come sooner or later, and now that it had arrived... Only one thing pained him. Elizabeth would discover that he was the White Knight. He had hoped to remain but a mythical figure in her memory, one of whom she could dream. Now, if ever she remembered him, it would be only to shudder.

Gunzi spoke. Turning to Elizabeth he asked: "Is this the man?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, the man who stands there, a prisoner in your hands, is the man for whom the Commune has long searched—the White Knight!"

During his adventures Wenzel had succeeded in schooling his expression; whatever his thoughts, they remained secret, being mirrored neither upon his features nor in his eyes, but at this his control gave way. He could not believe the evidence of his ears—Elizabeth, the woman whom he had twice saved from worse than death, to betray him thus into the hands of his enemies!

It seemed to him that he must be in the throes of a violent, unpleasant nightmare, and, as if to awaken himself, he shouted: "You lie! You lie! I am a good Communist, me! Believe her not, comrades; she only seeks revenge——"

"But who denies it?" interrupted Gunzi smoothly. "Of course she seeks revenge, and rightly so. Who are you, friend, to insult such a worthy member of the Commune? For your very threats to her she seeks revenge."

He could not understand Gunzi's words. "What mean you—threats? What have I done to this woman that she should lie about me?" His voice was hoarse, not that his race was ended, but because Elizabeth, of all people, had been the one to betray him.

Her ingratitude was beyond his comprehension; it was too ghastly that this—this vile betrayal should be her thanks for everything he had done for her and hers, as also for others of her country-people.

Gunzi, the rat-faced, smiled derisively: "You did not threaten her, my friend—you did not, then, send her—this?" From his pocket he pulled out a tiny carved piece of wood, a white knight, all-betraying, all-accusing. "You did not, I suppose, send her this as a threat, because she is a good Communist, because she would not give way to your evil suggestions, eh, my friend?" He turned to Elizabeth: "He is but a craven fellow after all; I begin to wonder if he is indeed the White Knight."

Elizabeth laughed scornfully: "Is not his letter, his threat, proof enough? Besides, doubtless he hides in one of his pockets another such proof of his bourgeois proclivities."

Gunzi smiled softly: "A good suggestion!" He plunged his hands into Wenzel's pockets. In the first two there was nothing, but when the detective tried another pocket, on the left-hand side, he laughed triumphantly as he pulled out another small piece of carved wood. Line for line it was identical with the one Elizabeth had sent him. Side by side Gunzi placed them on the palm of his hand, and Wenzel drew in his breath with a hiss of fury. Like two peas from a pod, neither differed from its twin by even a fraction of an inch. Mutely they convicted him. They would be proof enough for Korvin-Klein.

Yet how had it got there? Just as Wenzel knew that Gunzi's words were lies, lies to weave around him a mesh of evidence from which it would be impossible for him to escape, so was he positive that half an hour ago every one of his pockets had been empty of all but money, a revolver, a handkerchief, and finally a key to his room.

Suddenly he realized the truth, and his head bowed with the anguish of his thoughts. Elizabeth's eyes, her expression of triumphant manœuvre, her failure to struggle when he had first grasped her in his arms, the slight fumbling of her hand on his waist, finally his suspicions that she had deliberately encouraged him to do what he had done—now he understood. The whole story was an open book before him. Elizabeth herself had dropped the white knight into his pocket, just as Elizabeth had weaved the plot which was to be his undoing.

But Gunzi was speaking to her, and Wenzel listened, his heart sick with sorrow.

"Here you are, my girl; here is the reward for capturing the White Knight. Bela Kun told me to give it you." He laughed sourly: "You did well to mention it in your letter to him."

So she had written to Bela Kun! His temper, ever hovering near the surface, for the second time that day broke beyond control. With a flash of his wrist he knocked the pistol from the hand of the Red guard who had taken Gunzi's place, and it clattered to the ground.

Almost at once three other guards seized him, but he shook them off almost as easily as he would have flicked a fly from his sleeve. Gunzi stood before him, but Wenzel, using his arm as a flail, bowled him head-first into a corner.

He stood before Elizabeth, and she shrank back as she gazed into his flashing, murderous eyes. He seemed a fiend incarnate, and she shrieked, a long, piercing cry of terror which echoed through the building and out into the street.

"Delilah!" Just that one word he spoke, and raised his hand to throttle her. She read her fate in his expression. His scars glowed redly, his twisted mouth opened, exposing his teeth, and she closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of his terrible face.

Dimly at the back of his mind something whispered one word to him—"Elizabeth!" After all she was—Elizabeth, and his hands dropped to his sides. Then the guards were on him again, six of them, with Gunzi making a seventh.

He was invulnerable. With a fierce peal of laughter he battled with them; the struggling mass of humanity swayed to and fro. One, two, three, and yet a fourth went to the floor. He caught hold of a fifth one and wrapped his arms round the guard, gradually squeezing the breath out of the man, all the while using him as a cudgel, but—at last Gunzi saw his opportunity. The butt of his pistol lifted into the air, and, driven downward with the full force of the detective's arm, it descended with a dull thud on Wenzel's defenceless head.

The White Knight swayed indecisively. The helpless guard dropped to the floor, and then Wenzel too collapsed, sprawling across the guard.

It seemed the end. A few minutes later Elizabeth was left alone, as with difficulty the Red guards, not one of whom but displayed evidence of some injury, carried away the heavy, helpless form of their prisoner.

The door, having been burst open, would not shut properly, and Elizabeth became aware of curious heads peeping in, for now that the Communists had gone the curious neighbours and other residents of the house ventured out to ascertain the meaning of the fracas.

Not daring to venture out that night Elizabeth determined to stay where she was until morning, so she dragged the bed up to the door, and in that way kept it closed. In a few minutes' time she had the pleasure of hearing the unwelcome curiosity-mongers depart.

Her emotions at that moment were indeed mixed, for while she still trembled over what she believed to have been a narrow escape from death, she was also very relieved. By a clever ruse she had not only rid herself of a man the very sight of whom filled her with supernatural fear and loathing, but she had also done a service to one whom she loved—a fact which she had at last come to realize—the White Knight!

During her wanderings that day she had seen notices, "Death to the White Knight!" and offers of a reward for his capture. She had heard the people's vituperation, the anathemas at the mere mention of his name, and had realized how the hunt for him was up, how the Communists were searching for him high and low.

What had she done? Delivered into their hands one of their own vile crowd, letting them believe that he was the White Knight. Him they would assuredly hang, and then, with the White Knight apparently dead, the chase for him would cease, making his work of rescue twice as easy—she did not allow herself to think that through her denunciation an innocent man would hang. She consoled herself that, anyway, such as he more than deserved death.

Fondly believing that she had rendered a great service to her unknown hero, her heart beat with gratitude to the kindly Fate which had permitted her to give him a helping hand.

So ran the current of her thoughts, and intermingled with them were two distinct scenes which constantly reverted to her mind. The first was of the kiss which Wenzel had implanted upon her unsuspecting lips. It had been as sweet as that of a lover, as gentle and innocent as that of a child, when it might have been so different, and as a paradox it puzzled her. It was so absolutely foreign to his nature as she knew it, and it seemed almost as though she had gazed upon a slimy, weedy pond, from out the green vegetation of which had peeped the pure whiteness of a water-lily.

When she closed her eyes she could feel again the velvet of his lips; if she could have only thrust away the vision of his mutilated, repulsive features she believed her heart might have thrillingly responded—then she chided herself for the very thought. So with an effort she thrust from her mind the memory of the kiss, but in its place was substituted, even more vividly, the moment when he had stood before her, mad with rage.

"Delilah!" Why had he termed her Delilah? She had betrayed him, but only in self-defence. How could she have played Delilah to his Samson?

Samson! Him the name justly described—seven men hanging on to every part of his body, their united strength against his, yet it had taken a pistol-butt to defeat him, a treacherous blow from behind.

The next moment all these thoughts were driven from her mind as she heard a pounding on the door. Her heart leaped in dismay, then an icy chill settled round it, while her nerves twitched.

She feared to give her imagination full play. She seemed to see a scene in the street, the scarred man recovering from his blow, breaking loose, and returning for revenge.

The noise ceased abruptly, and suddenly the bed began to move as the door was pushed inward. A muttered shriek escaped her lips, and Arnold cursed. What was the White Knight doing, permitting her to draw attention to them like that? He pushed still harder, till at last there was enough room for him to insert his body, and he squeezed into the room.

There was no Wenzel, only Elizabeth gazing at him with an expression of horror, which rapidly changed to one of incredulous amazement and unutterable relief. The next moment she jumped from the bed and ran to him, buried her head on his shoulder, and now, with safety in sight at last, gave way to a paroxysm of tears.

Arnold smoothed her hair compassionately. He would far sooner Cecile were in her place just for that brief moment, but at some future date ... and he smiled happily.

As for the White Knight, he could only conclude that for reasons best known to himself he had changed his plans at the last moment, and had no doubt that Elizabeth's subsequent words would give him a clue which he might follow up.

"At last I have been able to reach you!" he murmured. The sound of his voice seemed to recall her. She dried her eyes and drew away.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked.

During the time he had been waiting Arnold had concocted a story to tell her. He knew it to be thin, but hoped that, in her relief at being rescued, she would not be too critical as to details.

"By the most slender coincidence in the world. Of course, immediately the White Knight, Apor, and myself arrived at the Château Juhusz—we rescued Apor, by the way, but of that more presently—we learned of your disappearance.

"In the meantime the search-parties who had been looking for you discovered a pile of flowers dropped by the Budapest road, so, putting two and two together, we assumed that you had been kidnapped.

"You might have been taken either way, so while I came to Budapest, the White Knight went the other way, while Francis and Apor divided the rest of the surrounding country between them.

"All day long I had been looking for you, then suddenly I saw you with a very tall man. I followed you nearly here, and then, just at the last moment, lost you. All this time I have been making discreet inquiries, till at last I heard that a tall man, with a lady—and the woman who told me described you to a nicety—had come into this building. Here I am. I soon found out that none of the other rooms sheltered you, and this was the last one. When I started pushing the door I heard you call out, and voilà! I knew I had found you at last."

He chuckled to himself. It was not such a bad attempt after all. He had told his story with an histrionic ability which emphasized the strongest links and shaded the weakest points. Mentally he patted himself on the back.

Yet, had he known it, he need not have worried. Since at last she felt safe Elizabeth was too full of her successful scheme in disposing of an enemy and helping the White Knight to heed very carefully what he had been telling her.

Almost before he had finished speaking she commenced to tell him.

"Listen, Monsieur Arnold, I have done a wonderful thing! During my adventures to-day I learned how the people here in Budapest rave of and revile the White Knight, and that there was scarcely one who was not on the look out for any clue which might deliver him into the hands of the Commune.

"Listen! Supposing one were delivered into their clutches whom they believed to be the White Knight! Supposing there were sufficient proof to make them have no doubt that the right man was in their hands! Would this not be of invaluable assistance to your wonderful leader?"

"Undoubtedly, mademoiselle. Once the chase died down it would mean that for a time the White Knight could come and go with far greater safety, and it might be quite a little while before the Communists, realizing that a trick had been perpetrated upon them, took up the hunt again. But, mademoiselle, I scarcely believe such an idea could be successfully carried out."

Her eyes glowed with triumph. "Yet, Monsieur Arnold, I have done this!"

"You have done that!" he repeated in surprise. "Good God!"

"Yes," she continued. "By a most wonderful ruse I have deceived the Communists.

"While I was imprisoned in this room—I will explain how that happened later on—I came across a box of chess-pieces. Naturally there were two white knights among them. I found also pencil and paper, and I wrote to Bela Kun and threw the letter through the window into the road. I told him where he could find the White Knight, whom I had recognized as such because I had found a white knight in his pocket; and to make my betrayal all the more real I pretended I was doing this for revenge. Also I claimed the reward.

"Bela Kun acted upon my advice. He sent six Red guards and a detective to the place I mentioned. There they found the man I had described to them. There was no doubt in their minds as to the truth, but, even so, they received further proof, because another white knight was found in his pockets—a white knight which I had put there!"

"Good Lord! But, mademoiselle, you are wonderful! How on earth did you manage to put that piece there?"

She hesitated for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I do not think I will tell you that."

Arnold did not press the matter. He did not think it mattered much. Lost in admiration for her skill, only reckoning the benefit which his leader would receive from such a scoop, it mattered not to him the why and the wherefore.

"Mademoiselle, I congratulate you with all my heart. Your achievement is marvellous! But now for home—home before the man with whom I saw you returns?" There was a query in his voice. He wondered what had happened to Wenzel.

She laughed softly. "You need not worry about him any more," she said, and Arnold detected a note of triumph in her voice. For a moment he wondered at it. Had she, then, disposed of Wenzel? A horrible, ghastly suspicion arose in his mind.

"Mademoiselle, what do you mean?" His voice rose shrilly.

Elizabeth looked at him strangely. There was something in his suddenly anxious expression, a look of absolute consternation, which frightened her. Even in the uncertain light of the flickering candle she saw his face pale and his eyes gleam wildly.

"What do I mean?" she repeated vacantly, and then faltered. She felt terrified. Arnold's staring eyes—they seemed to hypnotize her. "Monsieur, I—I mean that—that the man with whom you saw me, the man who brought me here by trickery, is the man I have denounced to the Commune as the White Knight."

Arnold could only stare and stare, his face conveying nothing but a blank look of inconceivable horror and dismay. His face was now chalky white, and in contrast to the pallor his eyes seemed abnormally large—accusing.

What had she done? If he would only speak!

"Oh, Mother in Heaven!" She could bear the anxiety no longer. "Monsieur Arnold, for Heaven's sake tell me what is the matter! Your look... I am afraid, my heart trembles...."

He spoke in emotionless tones, his voice devoid of any feeling whatsoever:

"Nothing, mademoiselle, nothing, except—the man you have just denounced into the hands of the Commune as the White Knight—he—he—he is none other than—the White Knight himself."

There was a dead silence. Elizabeth did not speak, simply gazed at Arnold, then, without warning, dropped to the floor unconscious. And the Englishman laughed hysterically.

Throughout the night Wenzel's head ached abominably from the blow it had received, but by the time morning arrived, and a grinning, jeering jailer brought him a meagre pittance of mouldy bread, together with a cup of water, the pain began to ease somewhat, and he was able to think more clearly.

Purely in passing curiosity he wondered how many hours it would be before he died. Actually he cared neither how soon nor when that hour might be. The death for which he had sought after the passing of Zita and before the rebirth of love in his breast was to be his at last.

The few minutes during which he learned from Elizabeth's own lips the entire depth of her treachery had more than sufficed to wash away the work of weeks. Once again he was the sullen automaton, hating creation, its Maker, and all who breathed and lived—even the unfortunate victims of the Commune for whose rescue he was in the main responsible.

He did not think of Elizabeth. Having regained consciousness his earlier flash of temper died away and he forgave her, realizing that it was not the action itself which angered him, but the thought of what had been the real impulse which had urged her to such a course. The pitiable story was so easy to read.

In his imagination he could picture her as she probably had been during his absence, when, somehow or other, she must have discovered his identity. Aghast—nay, possibly hypnotized by his personality and satanical appearance—she had passed her knowledge on to the Communists, probably shocked that such a man as he could live and not be struck down by the wrath of God!

Then almost at once his thoughts changed and he saw it in a different light. He asked himself by what right Elizabeth had passed judgment upon him. If she possessed nothing other than a sense of gratitude toward him for having saved her father from death, surely this should have been sufficiently strong to have dissuaded her from the step she had taken.

Yet among all the different aspects of her act which passed through his mind there was just one which never occurred to him—the true one. That she had betrayed him as the White Knight all unknowing that he was indeed the White Knight in very truth, and, still further, that Elizabeth had done this that sha might be of service to him, was never farther from his thoughts than during the time he gloomed in a Parliament House cell, waiting for the moment when he would be haled before Korvin-Klein.

In the meantime the Supreme Soviet Council, in session at the Hapsburg Palace, was in high spirits. The White Knight captured at last! It was almost too good to be true!

There they sat, the rulers of the ruined nation, discussing what would be the finest form of death to mete out—and by the finest they meant one which would give the hated Enemy of the Commune the most exquisite torture, and themselves the greatest degree of pleasurable gratification.

On one point they were all agreed. Where or how he should die did not matter so very much, but when—it could not be too soon.

"Come, comrades," pleaded Korvin-Klein, "why not hand him over to me? I can assure you he will not escape, and I shall see to it that his death is all that could be desired."

Pogany grunted: "What about Apor? Did your men keep him safe and sound?"

Klein flushed. "You cannot blame that on me. Who sent me orders by telephone?—it was lucky I happened to be there——"

"Unlucky, I think," interrupted Kunfi.

The hunchback shrugged his shoulders. "Look at it which way you like. As I was saying, who gave me orders last thing at night to drop him in the Danube without a moment's delay? Bela Kun! If Comrade Bela Kun had not 'phoned me he would still have been safe and sound in the morning."

"Nothing of the sort, Korvin!" said Bela Kun bluntly. "From the information I received, the White Knight was coming to you with a forged order for Apor's release. It must have been just luck that they were in Parliament Square at the very time your men were taking him to his death."

"Do you really believe that, my friend?" asked Klein softly.

"Of course I do!" said Bela Kun truculently.

"Well, I don't, and I don't believe you do either. You told me yourself that the detective Gunzi came to you with a story which he had heard from the lips of the man who, by Gunzi's description of him, was undoubtedly the White Knight himself. Gunzi was meant to hear that story. The whole thing was carefully planned and executed."

"What of it?" Bela Kun frowned. He might be the Dictator, but in the Soviet they were all "comrades," and though it hurt him to acknowledge equality with the others he could do nothing but suffer it.

"Nothing. I only want to point out that Apor's escape was not my fault. You fell into the trap and you alone are to blame. You are Dictator, so must take the responsibility." Klein's attitude was smoothly peaceful.

It might have developed into a stormy scene, but Szamuelly whispered into the Dictator's ear, and after swallowing a lump in his throat Bela Kun accepted the situation with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Very well, I will take the blame. What matter the escape of the sprat now that we have caught the whale?"

"Hear, hear!" agreed Bohm.

"Yes, and let us settle the question as to what to do with the prisoner."

There was a chorus of confirmative growls, and several of them would have spoken at once, but suddenly Szamuelly held up his hand.

"Let me say a few words, comrades," he said. "Now that we have at last the White Knight in our hands, why should we not have the full benefit of our triumph? I have a fancy to see this man, to see him shiver with fear, perhaps to make him howl with pain. What do you all say?"

There was not much doubt as to the opinion of the rest of the Council. Only Agoston raised a protesting voice:

"One minute, comrades! Where do you intend to see the White Knight?"

"Why, have him brought here, of course!"

"And is that safe?"

Korvin-Klein chuckled. "As I have said once before, Comrade Agoston, I am willing to take sole responsibility for his safety. Leave that to me, and if by a miracle he should escape—hang me instead."

Agoston subsided, and the motion was passed unanimously. Korvin-Klein left the meeting to transport the hapless prisoner from one side of the river to the other.

There was ample evidence that Klein valued his own neck. With all the precautions he took it would have been not only suicidal for would-be rescuers, but in addition any such plan would have signed the White Knight's death-warrant.

Not even daring to use the bridge, Klein commandeered a ferry-tug. Cleared of all but the crew, it was firstly occupied by a guard of twelve Terrorists. These Terrorists, each with a cocked revolver in his hand, took up positions round the deck. Then was ushered on board the prisoner, his wrists handcuffed, and, as an added precaution, not only were his arms bound, but he was attached by a long chain to Klein himself.

Four men, also with ready revolvers, surrounded Klein and his prisoner. Their sole instructions were to shoot the White Knight dead on the slightest hint of rescue.

Finally, eight other guards posted themselves in various positions, their duty to keep watch over the crew of the ferry.

From near by Arnold and Elizabeth watched, Arnold alert for any lead of which he might take advantage, Elizabeth dull and faint with the turmoil of her unceasing remorse. So plainly did it seem to her that the White Knight was going to his death that she clutched Arnold's arm in an agonized grip and swayed slightly; for the moment he was afraid she was about to swoon again.

Hastily he attempted to reassure her, but for all the cheerfulness he forced into his voice his heart was sick with anxiety. Too well he realized that he might be gazing upon his friend for the last time.

The Council awaited with impatience the coming of the White Knight; but when at last the doors of the large hall were thrown open, and in the midst of twelve guards the prisoner was marched within, there was a stir of interest, not unmixed with sighs of relief and exclamations of triumph.

"There you are, friends! Have I not carried out my bargain?" Klein bombastically patted himself on his narrow chest, then waved his hand in the direction of Wenzel.

The Communists gazed upon their prisoner with a glance of unconcealed curiosity, in which was intermingled a soupçon of puzzlement, a suspicion of disdain.

Standing before them in an attitude of hopeless dejection the White Knight looked anything but a formidable opponent. His filthy clothes hung upon him as they would about a scarecrow, a comparison intensified by the dirty scarf which covered up the lower part of his face, and the cap which in a slovenly fashion rested low on his head, almost covering his eyes.

Kunfi laughed scornfully: "That man the White Knight! Ha! You are having your wish, Szamuelly. Why he trembles with fear even before we speak to him! I am surprised. I expected to see at least a man, not a bundle of old clothes, a shivering worm."

The humour of the Communists was misplaced. Themselves wearing stolen clothes—suits from the wardrobes of the châteaux, shirts, collars, and ties from the appartements of the rich—their criticism of the White Knight's garments merited the satire of Voltaire, or of the more gentle Lamb.

Korvin-Klein now took command. Walking up to the White Knight he said genially: "So you were caught napping at last, my friend! You should have remembered that history usually repeats itself. Exposed by a woman! You will be in good company, comrade, when you reach the other side, and will have many sympathizers."

"I do not know what you mean. Why have you arrested me? Why am I a prisoner?" The prisoner's voice was weak and trembling.

Klein laughed derisively, and turned to his fellow-Communists: "Do you hear that, all of you? He wants to know why he is arrested. Is that not a good joke?" He roared, and his mirth was echoed all round the large hall, even the Terrorists joining in. They were beginning to be glad of Szamuelly's suggestion. It looked as though Klein would create an interesting scene.

The head of the Detective Department turned to the White Knight again: "Just to humour you, I do not object to letting you know, comrade. It is because you are the White Knight, the self-styled Enemy of the Commune, the champion of the bourgeoisie, the rescuer of magnates."

There was a fresh outburst of hilarious laughter at Klein's long recital of the White Knight's many titles.

The prisoner moaned slightly. "I do not know what you are saying. I am no enemy of the Commune. I am a good Communist. Have I not plenty of friends to prove it? Please don't kill me, oh, please, Comrade Korvin-Klein! I am a poor innocent man who does not know what you mean, who has never done a crown's worth of harm to anyone except the bourgeoisie, and whose only fault is desiring a pretty woman."

Klein looked at him queerly: "I suppose you don't deny you were arrested last night by the Red guards?"

"Of course I don't," whined the other.

"And do you deny having fought with the Red guards to escape from them? Is that your idea of innocence?"

"I—I was nearly drunk, comrade. I met a friend just earlier in the evening, a tall man, nearly as tall as myself, who took me to a place to get a drink. He gave me two full bottles of wine all to myself."

"And then?" asked Klein sarcastically.

"Then he asked me if I would like to earn ten English pounds. I said yes. He put something in my pocket, and told me a woman was expecting him at such-and-such an address, but that he could not go. Then he hinted that if I made myself nice to her—well, Comrade Klein, you know what happens when one is nice to a woman."

Some one laughed aloud, and many of the listeners smiled, but no one spoke. Most of them were too interested. Bela Kun, Szamuelly, and Korvin-Klein were the exceptions. These three more astute men were conscious of a cold, chilly feeling.

"Well, well!" Korvin-Klein looked at the prisoner steadily. "Supposing we believe your story, perhaps you can describe the man who gave you the money and told you to go to the room of this woman."

"Certainly, comrade, certainly," said the other eagerly. "He was a broad, tall man, nearly as tall as me, in fact, but he was hideously ugly, his face was transfigured with scars. He was a monster. It nearly made me sick to look at him."

"Hell!" shouted Szamuelly, "but he has described the White Knight exactly. We have heard the same description from Garami and Gunzi, the detective from Aszod. Besides, Bela Kun has seen the White Knight."

"Of course I have," growled Bela Kun. "I can see the rogue's face before me now. Bah! the man is merely describing himself: tightening the noose round his neck. Take off that scarf!"

With rough hands Klein seized the filthy scarf from the neck of the other and tore it off. There was a stupefied silence. All eyes turned in the direction of the prisoner, then, simultaneously, switched round to the Dictator.

Bela Kun gazed with bewildered eyes at the man who stood before him, bound and chained, and then rubbed his eyes frantically. The prisoner, the man they believed to be the White Knight, had not a single scar of any kind apparent on his face or neck.

"Good God! Good God!" Bela Kun bellowed to Klein, but his next words, in the hurry to escape, stuck in his throat, so that he merely spluttered and choked. Then, with an effort, he cleared his throat:

"Good God, Klein! that man is—is not the White Knight after all! We have all been hoaxed."

There was an instantaneous uproar. The members of the Council sprang to their feet, chairs went clattering to the ground, and the hall echoed and re-echoed with the babel of tongues. There were shouts of rage; recriminations were hurled to and fro, while Bela Kun and Korvin-Klein shrank away from the volume of hard words thrown at them.

Many, in their rage, pounded on the tables with their fists, others gabbled incoherently, and there was not one present who did not help, in some way or other, to swell the noise till the din became dreadful.

Only the prisoner remained quiet, his face twisted with anguish, and white with the pasty pallor of fear. But no one questioned the fact that he most emphatically was not the White Knight; of this there was not the slightest atom of doubt.

There were no disfiguring scars zigzagging across his face, transforming it into a satanic and horrific mask. It did not repel, or create a violent sensation of monstrous iniquity. Indeed, his face was, if anything, inclined to be handsome, his complexion more or less pure, and, perhaps, if it had not been for its almost deathly whiteness, it might have even created an impression of health.

The commotion died away. Szamuelly, his voice seething with fury, spoke at length to Bela Kun:

"There cannot be a mistake, Bela Kun. How can you prove that these words are correct?"

"Easily. If you do not believe me call Gunzi and Garami, both of whom have seen and spoken to the White Knight."

"Right!" said Korvin-Klein, his mouth twisting with an ugly snarl. "I will send for them both. Then we shall see."

Rapidly he issued his orders. The prisoner, his attitude already easier, was taken on one side, while the members of the Supreme Soviet Council discussed the situation.

"Hang him anyway, White Knight or no White Knight. That's what I say, my friends. At any rate we shall be safe." As usual Szamuelly voted for death, and doubtless the others would have agreed—for another life more or less made no difference—but the foxy Korvin-Klein thought differently.

"Wait a minute, comrades. Listen to what I have to say. Let us assume for the minute that a mistake has been made, that the man there," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the prisoner, "is not the White Knight. What does that mean? One of two things. Either we have been hoaxed—in which case, hang the man—or else last night the White Knight discovered that, in some way, this woman was betraying him, and knowing of the trap he really did persuade this man to take his place.

"As I have already said, if it can be proved that the first supposition is correct—well, I suggest a little better than hanging. But I ask you, friends, would any sane man deliberately put himself into our hands for the sake of hoaxing us?

"Again, in the second case, the prisoner might as well die. Now suppose it were all a genuine mistake on the part of the White Knight—after all, I dare say he likes a woman as much as the rest of us—do you not think it possible that he may try and meet this man to discover how he got on with the White Knight's lady-love?

"Let him free, if it be proved that he is innocent. Then let me set a detective to track him. Sooner or later he may meet the White Knight. Then we shall know what to do."

The point of the chief detective's arguments was too forceful not to impress even the most obtuse mind, and, after a little hesitation, that course was agreed upon by the Council.

Soon afterward came Gunzi. In the meantime Korvin-Klein replaced the muffler round the prisoner's chin.

Gunzi was asked whether the prisoner was the man he had arrested the night before.

The detective looked surprised. "Certainly," he answered, with an assured air.

"And he is the same man whom you saw drinking in the beer-tavern the night before?"

Gunzi looked at him carefully. Again he answered in the affirmative, and his tone was still as confident.

"Very well," said Klein, "now take off his scarf."

Slowly Gunzi unwound it, and as its last fold exposed the face of its wearer the detective started back with surprise.

"But—but—but——" he stammered, and stopped.

"Well!" Korvin-Klein barked out the word, and Gunzi looked nervous. The detective eyed the prisoner, carefully noting every detail of the face. Then at last he turned.

"Except for one thing," he said, "this man might be the White Knight. In many respects he is similar to the Enemy of the Commune, not only in build, but also in facial expression, but—he is not the same man."

* * * * * *

Crowds were clustered round the Hapsburg Palace, for already it had been bruited far and wide that the White Knight was within, appearing before the Soviet Council. Among those who stood well to the forefront were Arnold and Elizabeth.

At first the chatter of the people was jubilant. Then men from out of the palace, dashing to and fro, excited the attention of the throng, and soon afterward the whisper went round that everything was not as it should be.

"What is it? Why is every one talking so angrily and gesticulating so?" Elizabeth asked.

Arnold shook his head. "I don't understand. Wait! I will try to find out."

Not far from them was a small group which, judging by the number of people who approached questioningly, possessed more or less authoritative information. To it Arnold strolled casually.

"What is the matter, comrade?" he asked of one man.

The Communist swore. "I don't know, but from what I can make out the man they arrested last night is not the White Knight after all. May God smite down the fools for their mistake if it's true!"

Arnold's heart leaped, but the next moment he was convinced that the man was making up the story to provoke an interest in himself. He moved on, but again and again the tale was the same. The prisoner inside was not the White Knight!

He turned back to Elizabeth. "I do not understand it," he whispered. "Do you know what they are saying? That the man they captured last night is not the White Knight."

Elizabeth's hand flew to her lips. Only with an effort did she keep from calling out in surprise. For a few seconds her face beamed with a celestial happiness, but as quickly it altered, and there returned the engraven look of hopeless despair.

"I cannot believe it, Arnold. I, who was there, know that the man with the scars, the White Knight himself, was captured. For some reason best known to themselves the Communists are spreading the rumour—perhaps because they wish to discourage attempts at rescue."

After that the time passed slowly. From where they were Arnold and Elizabeth could see men coming and going into the palace. Firstly, although they did not know it, went in Gunzi, then later Garami. More time elapsed. Suddenly Arnold gripped Elizabeth's wrist in a steely grasp.

"Whatever you do," he muttered hoarsely, "don't make a sound, but—look!"

Coming out of the palace door was the White Knight, but only those two knew it. To the rest of the crowd he was merely another man making his exit from the palace.

He made his way somewhat in the direction where stood Arnold and Elizabeth, but, as he came nearer, Arnold's heart turned cold with disappointment. Man though he was, he felt the tears springing to his eyes, so great was the shock.

"Oh, God!" he whispered. "I have made a mistake. But in the distance he was the image of Geoffrey."

Perhaps his eyes were clouded temporarily by his feeling of despondency, or perhaps her eyes were more discerning. At any rate she recognized, not the face, but the garments.

"They are his clothes. I will swear it. Oh, Heaven! Do I not recognize every garment, every patch, every tear? Monsieur, that man must be the White Knight."

Arnold shook his head. "God knows, mademoiselle, I would willingly believe it, but—he is not the White Knight. Look at his face!"

When Elizabeth looked she had to agree. That man was not the White Knight.

The hours passed, and gradually the crowd dispersed, for at last it was officially confirmed—the Soviet had not caught the White Knight.

With the passing of time Arnold believed more and more that the report was trickery on the Council's part. It was the White Knight who had been captured. Had he not seen his leader a few hours ago at the ferry, surrounded by two dozen Terrorists?

Now, with the other people gone, for Elizabeth and him to stop where they were would have been making themselves conspicuous.

"Come," he said, and his voice was expressionless. "Let us go. We must not stop here."

"But where?"

He spread out his arms. "Back to the room where—where Geoffrey was—captured."

"That will be my—my penance," she whispered.

"I know nowhere else," he apologized. "I must guard you as I would guard myself, for—for Geoffrey will be expecting that of me."

Somehow they made their way back, though the streets were crowded, and their despondent spirits made the work of threading through all the harder. Stumbling up the stairs they reached the room and threw open the door. Arnold started. Sitting on the bed was the man whom they had seen in the crowd round the palace.

"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

Now that the man had cast aside not only his scarf, but also his hat, he could see all the more easily that, despite a slight resemblance to the White Knight, the man on the bed could no more be Wenzel than he himself. Not only was this man's face free from blemishes, but so was his head. Arnold knew well the vivid, blood-red scar which scraped Wenzel's scalp, and in the mass of straight hair—almost black when compared to the shade of Geoffrey's curly head—there was not the slightest sign of it.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" mumbled the man.

"Because it happens to be my room. Come on, comrade—outside!" Arnold was in no mood for argument, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes which should have warned the intruder.

The other man shrugged his shoulders. "I was here before you," he said. "Mademoiselle can prove that." He nodded his head in the direction of Elizabeth.

Arnold clenched his fists. "What do you mean?"

"What I say, my friend, that I was here last night, and thanks to her ladyship"—his tone was hard—"arrested in mistake for the White Knight."

"You—arrested in mistake—but——" Then it was true, and the White Knight was not in prison. But, in that case, where was the White Knight?

Elizabeth could have spoken in joy, but Arnold stopped her. He mistrusted the man. It almost seemed as if there were a trap somewhere. He felt suddenly afraid.

"I do not know what you say," he said coolly. "This lady has never met the White Knight in all her life."

The man yawned. "You said that very well, but—it isn't really the truth, is it, Arnold?" And then Arnold knew that despite the evidence of his eyes the man who sat on the bed really was the White Knight.

The faint light from the guttering candle was barely sufficient to illuminate the tiny kitchen, for a draught blew in through a broken window, twisting and flicking the flame from side to side. Yet, despite the shadows, there was no mistaking the figure of the man who sat at the table, his head buried in his outstretched arms, his shoulders shaking with emotion.

Through the cracked window watched the White Knight, and the pathos of the scene hurt him, the silent grief, the loneliness of the cottage, the very solitude of the man—a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, and yet there seemed no one to help carry the burden of the unhappy man within.

Szamuelly in his Death Train had come and gone—the White Knight had missed him by an hour—and somehow Wenzel could not doubt that the anguish he now witnessed was a direct result of that flying visit.

He moved round to the door, and gently twisting the handle pushed and entered.

The man at the table glanced up, and the White Knight saw that his face was twisted with pain.

Dully he looked Wenzel up and down. "What do you want?" he asked tonelessly.

"A word or two with you," Wenzel replied.

Immersed in the depths of his own thoughts, the man did not understand. "What do want?" he asked for the second time.

Tragedy tinged the air, and Wenzel felt its influence. "A few words, comrade," he said quietly. "I shall not keep you long."

After a time his meaning seemed to sink into the man's consciousness, for suddenly the corners of his lips puckered downward. "Go away, friend. I talk to no one to-night."

Wenzel did not move. "Yet I would ask you to listen. Tell me one thing—when I looked through the window I saw your shoulders shaking; your eyes seem red with weeping. A man does not give way without good cause. Tell me your sorrow."

The man's eyes glittered, and he half rose from his seat. "What the Hell does it matter to you? Get out!" he muttered savagely. "Leave me to myself." But from the look of desperation in his eyes Wenzel divined his purpose.

"No, my friend, not until I have spoken with you. You must not kill yourself. It is not God's will."

"God!" The man sneered. "There is no God, or if there is He has forgotten Hungary. Who are you to talk to me of God? Have you had a son butchered to death before your very eyes? Have you heard your son crying for death, shrieking with pain?—God, the murderous hounds! The devils!"

"You mean—Szamuelly?"

For a moment Wenzel regretted mentioning the name, for suddenly the man's expression changed. Sadness and heartache dissolved from his face. Instead, his features became distorted by a spasm of unrelenting hatred. His eyes gleamed wickedly, his lips drew back in a snarl, exposing his coarse and rotted teeth, while his breath hissed in the intensity of his feelings.

"Szamuelly! Szamuelly!" He choked. "May his entrails rot in Hell! May the vampires suck his blood! May God blast his soul! I curse him, he and all of his, his sons and his sons' sons; his daughters, his daughters' daughters, and all who may speak to them in friendship! Curse him, I say! Curse him!" With a sobbing cry the man's head fell on to his crooked arms.

Wenzel neither spoke nor moved. Gradually the paroxysm passed, then the man looked up again, tears frankly falling from his eyes, and dropping, with dismal splashes, upon the rough wooden table.

"The only son left to me here in the village. Pity the grief of an old man, friend, an old man who, five years ago, had a house full of healthy sons around him. Six there were—from twelve years of age to thirty. They were not a marrying sort, so remained with their old father.

"Six of them, five years ago. Two killed in 1915, one in 1916, and another in 1917—blast the War! Four sons out of five—and all for nothing. Have we not lost after all? Is not Hungary beaten, conquered, ground down? Only one came back to me; he, together with the youngest and me—we were going to start life anew, but, my God! the eldest was forced to stop in Budapest and join the railway, to sweat and toil for Bela Kun.

"I wish to Heaven both he and the youngest had been killed in the War! Better to die fighting, say I, battling against enemies, than to—to be tortured to death in front of the eyes of your father by your own countrymen. Yes, comrade, that is what happened to my youngest. Just seventeen years of age, and Szamuelly—Szamuelly had him hanged because he wouldn't wear the Red cockade. He would have killed me, because I too wouldn't have worn the cursed colour, but the swine was in a hurry.

"'Tell what I have done to all would-be Whites,' he said, with a laugh. That's what he said to me, the father of the poor butchered boy. Oh, Jesus Christ, why have You deserted us in our hour of need? Why do You not smite these heretics who spit on Your Cross? ... And now, comrade, what do you want?"

It was as though the old man suddenly recollected that there was another man present, for he ended with a snarl.

"I want—the help of you and your remaining son, comrade—I am the White Knight."

The man gazed at him with incredulous eyes, his trembling lips, his shaking hands testifying to the shock he had received, but, as the fact filtered into his brain, he dropped suddenly to his knees, and seizing Wenzel's hand in his own, he kissed it passionately, again and again, until Wenzel, in embarrassment, withdrew it.

"The White Knight! The White Knight!" With the assistance of the White Knight the old man shakily rose to his feet and tottered back to his chair. "God be praised! You, Excellency, you are the man who has sworn to kill Szamuelly, you, Excellency, are the White Knight, the Enemy of the Commune, and you need my help, and the help of my—only son...." He drew himself up and gazed with steadfast eyes at Wenzel. "God forgive me!" he muttered piously. "God forgive me for my words. He has not forgotten us.... And now, Excellency?"

His voice finished briskly, and the White Knight knew that he need fear no betrayal from this man.

"Firstly," he said, "your promise. You must not kill yourself."

The man gazed at him with reproach. "Excellency, I am yours to command."

"Good! You are a railwayman?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"You are in the telegraph service?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"And your son? I believe he also is in the telegraph department at the Budapest terminus. Is that not so?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Good! Your name, my friend, it is Hervesi?"

"Correct, Excellency."

"Now, listen, Hervesi; tell me firstly how you knew that I had sworn to kill Szamuelly."

"I heard a week ago from my son in Budapest, Excellency. He met a man named Gunzi, who was searching for the White Knight. 'For why?' asked my son. 'Because he threatens to kill our great Szamuelly,' replied this Gunzi. Then my son, so he told me, chuckled inwardly, and made inquiries about the White Knight, and heard of all your wonderful deeds, Excellency, so when I saw him three days ago he told me all."

"Does he hear much news?"

"Plenty, Excellency. He sleeps in the same room as a man named Nyistor, a labourer who is now Assistant Commissary for Agriculture."

The White Knight smiled. Matters were turning out far better than he had ever expected.

"What thinks your son, then, Hervesi, of the Commune?"

The railwayman's face twisted into a snarl. "As I, Excellency. He fought for glorious Hungary, for your country and mine, not for these filthy Russian murderers."

"Not my country, Hervesi," said Wenzel quietly.

"Not your country, Excellency?" The man looked puzzled. "I do not understand."

"I am not Hungarian—I am British."

"You—British? Then you are—an enemy!" Instantly Hervesi's face became suspicious.

"Not an enemy of you or any other honest Hungarian, Hervesi. Only an enemy of the Commune. I—I was engaged to a Hungarian lady, Hervesi, but when I got back from the War I found that the Communists had—killed her, killed her as surely as they killed your son."

"The swine, the swine! So that is why you help us? We Hungarians never wanted to fight the British, Excellency, but we were the puppets of German intrigue. Why did England fight us? We were—we are friends of England."

"England does not forget the fact, Hervesi," but Wenzel said it with a heavy heart, for even then the Peace Conference was disintegrating the unhappy country, forgetting all ties of past friendship in the wild, mad effort to punish the war-makers—and in doing so punished only the cat's-paws of Germany, while Germany herself—— At that stage the past was not yet past, and Wenzel hastened to turn the subject.

"You are a thinker, Hervesi. Good, it is so much the better. But listen. It is true what your son has told you: I have sworn to kill Szamuelly. But my task is difficult. In his Death Train he tears across the country, never remaining in any one place, only just long enough to kill honest Hungarians, and then he is gone again. I cannot catch him up. Even to-night I am an hour late, even now Szamuelly is many miles away from me.

"I must have an ally. Your son can help me. Whenever he can obtain news of Szamuelly's destination he can wire through to you, so that I can be there first, and by God's will I can fulfil my oath. Do you think he will do that for me, Hervesi?"

"Excellency, I answer for him as I answer for myself. Szamuelly must die," and all unconsciously he uttered the words which for weeks now had haunted the White Knight.

* * * * * *

The country was stirring; the faint rumblings of discontent were growing louder and more insistent, the seeds sown by the counter-revolutionaries were ripening for the crop. The honest peasants were tired of selling their goods for the worthless paper money of the Soviet, the workmen were realizing that fifty Soviet crowns were of little more use than five blue crowns of the old Austro-Hungarian Bank.

The knell of the Commune was sounding, the tocsin for liberty ringing, and the people of Hungary were muttering angrily, ominously. Only in Budapest was the call still unheeded, though not unheard, for there Bela Kun and his cronies ruled supreme, and people were afraid to express their feelings for fear of reprisals—revenge which might come from Cserni, whose red car continually raced the streets of the city, from Szamuelly with his Death Train, or from the inhuman spider Korvin-Klein, who sat in his web devouring the virulent as well as the inoffensive Whites with an impartiality only equalled by his insatiable appetite.

Away in distant parts the Whites were openly preparing for battle. The Vends of Western Hungary, forced to flee to Austria, were being joined by Hungarian officers commanded by Baron Lehar. In Szeged, where the fuel of counter-revolution burned brightest, a White Government was being formed, with Nicholas Horthy as Minister of War and Paul Teleki as Foreign Secretary, while Generals Soos and Gombos were organizing the White Army.

If the members of the Supreme Soviet Council, kept fully acquainted with the situation by their numerous spies, were experiencing the first warnings of their coming doom, under the thrall of the ranting Bela Kun they hesitated to betray the fact.

With an incredible faith in his waning star, to the Dictator, any omens of a dark future were hidden by roseate-hued visions of a World Commune, with himself second only to Lenin or Trotsky. With an unbounded nerve, of which one could scarcely dream him capable, he demanded of the Allies the fulfilment of their promise that on the cessation of hostilities against the Czechs the Tisza should be evacuated by the Rumanians, for day by day, keeping pace with the atrocities committed by the Communists upon their own people, the enemies of Hungary, Czecho-Slovakia, Serbia, and Rumania, were advancing on all sides, sometimes repulsed, but more often gaining the victory over the less organized Red guards.

That Clemenceau, President of the Peace Conference, treated his message with disdain, ordering that Hungary should observe the conditions of the Armistice before he would treat with the Soviet Council, meant nothing to the impudent Dictator, who ironically replied to Clemenceau that he, Bela Kun, doubted the power of the President to impose his will upon the Rumanians or the Czechs.

Then, in defiance of the Peace Conference, he issued orders for mobilization, and upon the walls of Hungary's villages and towns appeared huge, glaring posters of a sailor's figure, running and holding aloft a Red flag, which bore the inscription: "FEGYUERBE!" Ex-soldiers, who for long years had fought the Serbians and Russians, gazed upon the crude recruiting pictures, read the call "To Arms," and realized that fighting must continue, even while their friends and relations who remained at home were stabbed in the back by the self-chosen leaders of the nation for whom they would have to fight.

Thus Bela Kun and his satellites failed to heed the writing on the wall—the passing of the Bavarian Soviet, the miscarriage of the Austrian Soviet, the failure of the Russian Soviet to come to their assistance—and laughed at the Allies, at the threatening armies of the Whites, at the invading hordes of the neighbouring Slavs.

There was only one who really sensed the change—Szamuelly; in an effort to intimidate the recalcitrants his Death Train tore from one end of the country to the other, and all the time he hanged, butchered, murdered, and the trail of corpses he left in his tracks grew longer and longer.

From Szamuelly and his hangmen the innocent and guilty alike fled in terror; and the volume of their curses grew louder, till their reverberating echoes reached the ears of the spies, who in due course then reported to the fiend himself.

At the constant repetition of the threats he merely laughed: it was not the individual he feared, but the concerted whole. In his lightning trips he did not fail to notice the signs of the growing White menace, and so he said to Bela Kun, "Kill! Kill! Kill!" setting a good example.

Yet his day was to come, and Szamuelly had a hint of it one morning when he received a letter addressed to him at the Batthyany Palace.

He slit open the envelope. Inside was a plain post card on which were written six words only:

    Szamuelly shall die.
                                    THE WHITE KNIGHT

Szamuelly felt a surge of murderous hate toward the sender, and sent for Gunzi.

When the detective arrived Szamuelly handed over the card to the other.

"Look, Comrade Gunzi, look! Here is another message which I have to-day received through the post."

The detective took and inspected it with a quizzical eye. "He seems certain of himself," he muttered calmly.

Szamuelly smashed his fist down upon the table before him. "Do you think I sent for you to hear that?" he shouted furiously, but to the acute ears of the detective there was an undercurrent of fear in the voice of the other.

"Well, what do you want of me?" he asked coolly.

"Is there still no trace of the braggart?"

Gunzi shook his head, and his lips tightened. "Not yet, comrade. He is as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp, yet I shall trace him in the end. At Aszod, had not Gonnard fled to Budapest, I should have arrested the White Knight, and by now he would be but a memory."

"Bah, child's talk! Did you not arrest him here, in Budapest itself; did you not actually imprison him in a cell underneath Parliament House, and did not you and the fools on the Council let him free against my advice? I should have hanged that man whether he had been the White Knight or not."

Gunzi bit his lip. "Who could have foreseen that the White Knight had such a cunning trick up his sleeve? That day in the Hapsburg Palace I would have sworn an oath it was not he."

"Even now I do not understand. I cannot get Korvin-Klein to talk. Was it or was it not the White Knight who appeared before us that morning?"

"It was. My men trailed him for a time, and then—he disappeared entirely. They reported to me. I hurried to the room where I had arrested him the night before and there I found a message from him thanking me for my help in his escape."

"Yes, yes. All that I know. But what of his scars, the difference in his expression, in the man himself?"

Gunzi shrugged his shoulders. "The White Knight could most easily tell you that. Myself, I have only a theory."

"And that?"

"I believe that the White Knight's scars were nothing but grease-paint. During the night he wiped them off."

"Good God!" Even into Szamuelly's unwilling eyes there crept a glow of admiration, till suddenly he remembered the message he had just received, and shivered.

"Gunzi, you must catch him soon. I begin to feel nervous."

"Why should you? You are surrounded by reliable men. I do not think even the White Knight can pierce through your gang of Terror Boys."

"But the White Knight is uncanny."

Gunzi sneered. "The White Knight is human. He baffled me for a short time at Aszod, but in the end I got on his track. Give me a week or two longer and I shall bring him to you, and the next time... I hope the Council will take your advice, Comrade Szamuelly, and hang him anyway, right man or not." A spasm of rage convulsed his face. "God! to think we had the White Knight in our hands and let him go!"

* * * * * *

Hidden in a small copse some hundred yards distant from the track, two men waited for the Death Train, which was due to thunder toward them at any moment. From where they were they could just see the red light which sent out its warning ray from between the iron parallels, and behind which lay a felled tree.

"Why the red light, Geoffrey, why the warning? Would it not be better to let the Death Train crash into the obstruction, and so send it, Szamuelly, and all his hangmen to Hell together?"

"I wish I dared, Arnold, but I am afraid to take the risk. The time-table is at the best of times irregular. Supposing instead of the Death Train it were another we wrecked? Suppose an unexpected express were to come the other way? No, no, Arnold! I must rely upon this," and he fondly patted the rifle which was stretched out in front of him, significantly turned in the direction of the barricade.

"Do you think you will get the opportunity—that your courage will not fail you at the last moment?"

The White Knight laughed softly: "Would you hesitate to kill a rat, Arnold? To me the life of Szamuelly is less than that of the meanest rodent. As for the rest, I can only hope that he will not suspect the truth and cringe into the farthest corner of the coach."

"Will not your constant warnings prepare him for all eventualities? Tell me, Geoffrey, would not a swift, silent blow be just as feasible? I do not understand the reason of your repeated messages to him."

"When should I ever get an opportunity for the swift blow? He is surrounded night and day. From the very first he has had his men under an Army discipline, and set guards. No prince threatened by anarchists has ever been better protected. No, Arnold, do not think I play for melodramatic effect.

"No will however strong, no courage however deep, is proof in the long run against the insidious prickings of fear. Threats, if sustained long enough, are like the dripping of water on the hardest rock, the succession of footsteps upon the toughest stone.

"Sooner or later his nerve will crack. He will begin to suspect even his own men, and when suspicion once enters the mind nothing will drive it out again. When that time comes he will hesitate to sleep lest during those hours a knife should be plunged into his bosom. He will fear to eat lest the food should be poisoned. When he reaches that stage he will flee from the Death Train, from his Terror Boys, perhaps even from Budapest, and then he will be my prey, and I shall kill him with more pleasure than I should have in exterminating a rabid dog."

"That is, of course, if you do not succeed to-night, or at any other time?"

"To-night is my one opportunity. The trick will not work twice."

"Why not shoot him when he stops at the villages? From a near-by window..."

"And if I missed? Arnold, I have seen that butcher hang men and torture children for the mere love of cruelty. He scarcely seeks excuses for his vile work. What would happen to the villagers if, as I have said, I missed him? How many would he hang in revenge?"

"I am dull-witted to-night, Geoffrey."

"You are too happy to think of anyone or anything, my dear chap," Wenzel said softly; then he sighed. "I envy you, Arnold, but I am glad, deuced glad! You have earned your reward and Cecile...."

Arnold laughed happily: "I had not meant to say a word to her, but last night ... you must have noticed the moon, Geoffrey; it seemed to have a smirk on its face, and when I looked at it, it seemed to wink at me and then grin derisively. The next thing I knew the words were out of my mouth, Cecile was in my arms, her lips pressing against mine.... I wonder why I am telling you all this, Geoffrey? I had always thought that a man's sensations on such a night were sacred to himself alone."

In his heart Wenzel agreed, for every word that Arnold uttered flayed his soul, seared into his heart, and reminded him of another night when the moon had winked at him in the same way, and a similar torrent of passionate words had forced themselves from his lips.... Memories! Memories! Was he never going to be free of them? Memories of Zita! Memories of Elizabeth! His heart cried out in agony, but his voice was calm when he answered:

"Because your happiness is mine, Arnold." His lips curved ironically as he wondered dimly whether his lips had ever uttered a greater lie.

There was a short silence, but Arnold was bubbling over with too great a joy to remain quiet very long.

"Do you know, Geoffrey, this is the first time we have talked together, alone like this, since the day you walked free from the hands of the Communists? All this time my curiosity has remained unappeased. How in the name of God did you deceive them? Your—your scars, Geoffrey, what happened to them? Why have you avoided the château? Why have you restlessly moved about from place to place, as though some one forced you ever onwards? Before then I—I had thought——"

"Stop!" Wenzel heard the fatal words before they were even uttered. "As my friend, Arnold, do not question me; do not endeavour to awaken cherished thoughts which must be for ever buried and forgotten."

"Geoffrey, I am sorry! I did not realize. I——"

"Arnold, please!" His voice was weary. "Remember this. I have no personal feelings left. They are dead, killed in the first case by the Communists, and then again by——" Just in time he stopped himself. Another moment and he might have mentioned Elizabeth's name. "As for the scars... Arnold, I battled with myself for hours that morning. When I awoke in a cell and realized that the Communists had me at last, I knew it to be but a matter of hours before I should be dispatched from this world, but I was not unprepared. When I first became the White Knight I knew that the possibility of my being captured eventually was a hundred to one on, so I took necessary precautions. But for one thing, however, I should never have made use of them.

"You never suspected my down-at-heel boots as harbouring any means of escape, did you, Arnold? As a matter of fact, they were not down-at-heel, for both heels were hollow. Inside were two thick sticks of grease-paint, Arnold. I rubbed them well into the wounds; rubbed and rubbed until at last each scar was erased in turn, the thick grease-paint effectively hiding them. After that I powdered them well, so that nothing was noticeable except a white pallor over the whole of my face. Then, on top of it all, dirt; not just a coat of dust which might wipe off, but thick, ingrained dirt. Have you ever rubbed dirt into a greasy substance? It was perfectly effective, as you know."

"Good Lord, it is amazing! Yet—forgive me if I hurt your feelings—that much I understand; but the wound across your scalp, your eyebrow, and—and—your twisted cheek?" He choked slightly; it was hard to mention such things to the White Knight himself.

Wenzel smiled softly to himself. Poor old Arnold! How his words stumbled!

"I had prepared for all that, Arnold. I had ready a little pad, a tiny strip of flesh-coloured canvas, on to which was stuck a not inconsiderable portion of my own hair from another part of the scalp. Liquid gum, similar to that used in theatrical circles, was more than sufficient to keep the shaped canvas in its place. Then I dyed my hair, parted it on the other side—what parting I could induce my cropped hair to display—brushed the remainder the other way, and that scar was concealed.

"My eyebrow I treated in exactly the same way. As for my mouth, a tiny little ivory chip inside did the trick, by pulling and keeping the flesh more or less as it should be naturally. Incidentally, it hurt like the Devil, but against that it helped disguise my voice, so it served a double purpose.

"My changed appearance plus a likely story and a possibility of leading them on the track of the White Knight earned me my freedom. I had but one thing to fear—that they would hang me from pure spite, but—I must be more than a bad penny, for here I am."

Had Arnold been less in a state of profound fascination he might have detected the bitter tinge which crept into his leader's last words; even now there was still one question he wished to ask.

"Geoffrey, old man, I have never heard anything more marvellous in all my life, yet won't you tell me why you hesitated, that morning in your cell, to make your plans for escape, and what, at the last moment, made you change your mind?" There was a wistful note in his voice. In his present happiness he wished all his friends to share it.

Purposely the White Knight ignored the first part of the question. "The thought of this moment," Wenzel replied, and again he patted his rifle. "Szamuelly must die." Suddenly he shot out his hand and grasped Terhune's arm. "Listen!" he said harshly.

From afar off they heard a faint murmuring, a tremulous, echoing vibration.

"The Death Train!" whispered Arnold.

Wenzel laughed throatily, and for the first time in weeks there was a happy timbre in his tone.

The noise of the shrieking monster pounding toward them through the night grew louder, and some way off its fiery beacon flashed into view as it rounded a curve. Swaying in its stride it thundered forward; then with a wild groan, wrung protestingly from it by the fierce application of the brakes, it slowed up until it came to a stop, scarcely fifty yards from the warning red light, snorting its fury into the air.

The immediate neighbourhood of the Death Train was lit up by the blaze of light from within, and the two watchers were able to see the hurried exit of several men from the second coach, clambering down to the ground and running forward into the night.

With a steady hand the White Knight swung round the sight of his rifle; unwaveringly it pointed to the exit of the first coach, and there waited....

The men who had rushed forward to investigate returned once again into the radius of the light. They were gesticulating wildly. A window swung up, a smooth, purring voice, which the White Knight believed to be that of Szamuelly, rang out, questioning.

The rifle swung round, pointing significantly toward the man at the window, but the White Knight was not sure, so he waited. There must be no mistake that night.

The man withdrew his head from the window. Almost immediately he emerged from the obscurity of the exit, and the White Knight saw that he had made no mistake. It was indeed Szamuelly!

Szamuelly was talking excitedly, but he was standing still; the rifle moved slightly, the White Knight's finger quivered for the fatal pull, but—the Devil protects his own! At the sight of the arch-fiend Wenzel's wrath blazed up anew, shaking him in its grip. A tiny shadow floated before his eyes, the sharp outline of the Communist against the light became dim and obscure.

Desperately the White Knight realized his prey was moving back into the coach again, doubtless to sleep while his men moved the obstruction. Unless he fired now it might be too late. His index finger tightened. The next moment the air resounded with the terrifying crash of six explosions; the glass of the coach was shattered, the bullets ricochetted in every direction, there was a moan of pain as one of the Terrorists spun round and dropped to the ground, but—Szamuelly remained upright, unhurt, and untouched. Even as Wenzel noted the fact he saw the Communist darting for cover. With a sob in his throat he realized the ghastly truth. He had failed!

The next moment there was a fusillade from the train, as the Terrorists snatched their ever-ready revolvers from their holsters and opened fire in the direction from which the shots had come; but they did no good, for Wenzel and Terhune were already speeding from the spot in the automobile by which they had arrived.

"Not yet, Arnold, not yet has Szamuelly's time come." The White Knight sobbed the words as he drove the car along the pitch-dark road. "But it will! I swear it will! Szamuelly must die! Szamuelly shall die!"

In the fading days of the Red Terror events succeeded each other with precipitance. The fury of the people against their bloody leaders grew more intense, until at length the members of the Soviet began to tremble in their shoes.

By threats and wholesale murder they endeavoured to squash the national awakening, but in vain. The starving people could not buy food, for all the thousands of white Soviet paper crowns they might flourish: the peasants would not sell their goods for worthless money.

No longer were the Red troops keeping back the Rumanians or the Czechs; the Peace Conference was awakening to a true realization of affairs in Budapest.

Now one by one the rats began to leave the sinking ship, and among the first batch was Gunzi, the astute detective, who knew which side his bread was buttered.

Well guarded, the shivering Szamuelly called at his apartment one day, to find Gunzi in the throes of packing up, for he who had come to Budapest with nothing had already collected enough from what pickings had been left by the time he arrived there to fill three large trunks, themselves confiscated in the name of the Soviet Government.

Szamuelly frowned. "Hullo, Comrade Gunzi, where are you off to?"

Gunzi laughed cynically: "To better parts, my friend, to better parts."

"What do you mean? Has Budapest meant so little to you that already you are tired of its attractions?"

The detective grinned. "Ho, ho, Comrade Szamuelly! Budapest is finished for you and for me and for all good Communists. Our day is over. You know it as well as I, friend. In my hunt for your cursed White Knight I have here and there come across traces of a vast White plot, fostered and prepared by the English devil in between times when he has not been hunting you.

"I have ears in my head, I have eyes which can see well. In a few weeks' time, perhaps not so long as that, the Commune will be finished, and God keep us all from the clutches of the White Terror! Mark my words, Comrade Szamuelly, and take heed of them if you are a wise man: there will be a White Terror, as sure as my name is—is supposed to be—Gunzi! Do you not think that the fathers, mothers, sisters, and sons of some of the men you have hanged will clamour for revenge? Eh? The answer is 'yes.' I would, so would you—if for no other reason than that it would show our sympathy with the new Government in wishing to be avenged on the old one, and it is wiser to keep on the right side of governments in these days.

"I became a Communist with my eyes open, and they are still open, my friend. That is why I go.... Whither? Well, I do not know. To Austria perhaps, or Russia, where they have a good way with Whites, or even Italy; anywhere, say I, rather than stop here."

To Szamuelly the words needed no confirmation; all that Gunzi had just said he himself had suspected for some time, but desperately he had continued to hope for the best.

"But—but you swore to get me the White Knight!"

Gunzi cursed. "I have tried, my friend, but one might as well try to catch the raindrops as they fall. He is the Devil himself!—jealous of you, perhaps, Comrade Szamuelly," and he laughed slyly at his own humour.

"May Hell burn his bones!" The Communist looked nervously around him with twitching eyes: "Gunzi, I cannot stand the strain! He is everywhere! Where my Death Train goes he is there before me with the message 'Szamuelly shall die!' I see him in the men who surround me; even among my Terror Boys he must have his spies. My nerves are fraying, my courage disappearing."

Gunzi laughed heartlessly: "You are going just the same way as did Commissary Gonnard. I have never seen such a jelly-bag in all my life as he at the end of one day. He fled here, to Budapest, but finally the White Knight caught him, and hanged him from the Suspension Bridge."

"But how can he get me—how can he?" Desperately the white-faced Szamuelly put the question, a very different Szamuelly from the one who had scornfully sneered at the first threats of the White Knight. "I am surrounded by my faithful Terror Boys—they guard me now night and day—how can he get past them?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders: "Don't ask me, friend; I do not know. All I say is that he will in the long run. Besides, didn't you yourself say you thought he had a spy among them? Take my advice. Do as I am doing. Pack and fly for it, my friend!" and with the sound of Gunzi's mocking laughter in his ears Szamuelly stumbled from the room.

By the time he reached the street his face was chalky, his lips trembled nervously. Gunzi's words haunted him; somehow they had rung so prophetically in his ears. He felt his nerve cracking. His only hope, the one man he felt could have tracked the White Knight, was fleeing, not only from the city, but from the country altogether. Now there was no one to guard him against the machinations of the White Knight! His Terror Boys ... in their brutal way they were brave enough, possibly thoroughly loyal, but Szamuelly had no faith in them; all their bravery was of no use compared with the White Knight's cunning, all their loyalty was likely to evaporate at the sight of the White Knight's well-filled purse.

Two Terror Boys walked by his side. "What's the matter, comrade?" asked one. "You do not look yourself."

Szamuelly shrugged his shoulders helplessly: "I am not, my friend. To-day I have received bad news—news which affects you—I—all of us."

"Bad news which affects us all! What can that be? The only bad news you could give us would be that neither wine nor women remained in the world."

Szamuelly laughed shortly: "Yet, my friend, what I have to say is worse than that. The Commune is finished, the days of commissaries ended."

The Terror Boys looked at him as if they wondered what madness had come over their leader.

"You are not well," growled the second guard, who had not yet spoken.

Szamuelly turned upon him in a temper: "Fools, fools! So you think I am mad! Blockheads, can't you see the truth when it is thrust before you? Let me put it to you in a way you will understand. To-night I leave Budapest for Russia, or Austria, or Italy—anywhere, so long as I escape."

The two Terror Boys stopped in their walk and gazed at Szamuelly with strained expressions. He had spoken in words which they understood. If he were fleeing, he, after Bela Kun the leading light of the Red Terror, then indeed the good days must be finished. They knew their Szamuelly, and no longer did they doubt the truth. It was no trick to get rid of them.

Yet a certain suspicion suggested itself to one of them. "It is not the White Knight?" he queried.

Szamuelly shivered at the mention of the name, yet he would have hotly denied the imputation had he not realized the fruitlessness of so doing. Besides, a plan was formulating in his brain.

"I will be frank with you, comrades," he said, after a pause. "I am afraid of the White Knight. Yet listen. If I thought that the Soviet were likely to last I would dare the Enemy of the Commune to do his worst, for I should have all of you, my friends, to guard me against this cursed bourgeois; but ... let us continue in our walk. I want to make all the necessary arrangements...."

"To scuttle?"

"Ay, my friends, to scuttle."

There was food for thought in what he had said, and each of his guards digested in his mind the astounding news of which he had just been made cognizant. The one who spoke little thought the harder.

"My friend," he said softly to Szamuelly, "even though you flee there is still—the White Knight!"

"Well!" Szamuelly turned on him savagely. "Do you not think I know that as well as you?"

"Yes, yes. But listen, Comrade Szamuelly. Would you not feel safer if you had a comrade—or, say, two good comrades—with you when you escape?"

The second Terror Boy laughed shortly. "My God You are right. Two good comrades, eh, Szamuelly! Three of us—we three—could put up a fight against even the White Knight."

Szamuelly's eyes gleamed. So easily had they fallen into the trap which he had laid for them! "Bravo my friends! Then that is settled. We will go together but ... listen! Supposing that the rest of our comrades hear the news. They too will want to come."

"Why should they?" asked the soft-tongued one.

"Exactly!" agreed Szamuelly. "Then when shall it be?"

"The sooner the better, if what you say in true."

Could the guard have been at the Soviet meeting taking place at that very moment he would not have needed to add that last rider. Amidst an atmosphere of stark tragedy Bela Kun was resigning the Dictatorship of the Proletariat. In a halting, tearful tone he was informing his followers of the truth—that the Red Army had collapsed, the Rumanians had crossed the Tisza, the Whites had already brought about their coup d'état, while all over the country red geraniums were being discarded for white roses, and the Red ensign of bloody Communism was being supplanted by the national flag.

Forcefully he drove home the truth: the day of the Commune was ended, and those who valued their necks more than the power they had wielded for the last six months could do worse than resign; he himself set the example.

So fell the Dictatorship of the Proletariat on July 30, 1919, and the government of Hungary was transferred to the Presidency of Peidl, who appointed ministers instead of commissaries, and called his government a "Workmen's Government."

In the meanwhile, with the assistance of his two comrades, Szamuelly prepared for flight, blithely abandoning his fellow-murderers to their fate.

In less than an hour he was packed, while outside the building throbbingly awaited the motor-car which was to rush him and his two Terror Boys to the station to catch the first train to Austria.

With a hasty look to see that he had left nothing behind, for the last time he closed the door of the apartment which he had confiscated a few months previously.

There was a grin on the faces of the two Terror Boys who sat in the car. They saw nothing of treachery in their flight, only a satisfaction that they were one jump ahead of their fellow-Terrorists, that they were escaping the threatened upheaval, of which the others, left behind, would have to bear the brunt. That is why they smiled—or at any rate why one smiled. The soft-tongued guard smiled because the White Knight had paid even more handsomely than usual for certain information, and several crisp Bank of England notes reposed comfortably in the lining of his dirty regimental coat.

For the first time for weeks Szamuelly actually felt light of heart—not because he was giving up his position of official murderer, not really because he feared the White uprising, but because he was leaving the White Knight behind, escaping beyond reach of the White Knight's vengeance.

He nodded cheerfully to the Terrorist who sat at the steering-wheel: "Go ahead, comrade! There is just time in which to catch that train."

The guard depressed the clutch, and with a grinding whine of annoyance the engine slipped into low. Szamuelly settled himself comfortably. A few hours now and he would be able actually to breathe without feeling a queer catch somewhere inside just near his heart.

He looked round, a last parting glance at the streets of Budapest, then suddenly he sobbed with a consuming terror, one which clutched his heart in a violent, chilling constriction, a fear which fluttered through his body, freezing his very marrow, draining the blood from his face and leaving it deathly white.

Barely five yards behind followed another car; beside the driver sat the White Knight, tense and expressionless like the grim figure of Fate.

There was no doubt as to his identity. His face pale with a consuming fury, his scars throbbed redder in contrast. His steely eyes bored hypnotically into Szamuelly's, and in them the Communist read a mocking surety of victory—his death-warrant.

A month ago he would have plucked his revolver from its holster and opened fire on the audacious pursuer, but now—he was paralysed with fright, his nerve entirely gone. He could only gasp, and crouch further into the body of the car.

"Oh, God!" he moaned. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" Then with a shriek he raised his voice, "Quicker, quicker!" and the Terrorist who was driving looked round with a startled air. "Quicker!" screamed Szamuelly, and the pace increased till the already shaky sides of the automobile began to rock unsteadily.

Szamuelly looked back; the relative positions of the two cars had scarcely changed ... once again he looked into the eyes of the White Knight....

He leaned forward. "Comrade, for God's sake ... the aerodrome! ... Behind us the White Knight ... lose his car, we will fly to Russia...."

The driver looked behind him, and the car swayed ominously toward an oncoming automobile as his nerveless fingers suddenly lost their firm grip on the wheel. Just in time the smooth-tongued one clutched and held the wheel on a straighter course.

The narrow escape from a terrible collision only served to make the driver turn still whiter, but at the same time he was filled with a desperate desire to escape, and instinctively he turned his attention to the car—anything to draw away from the dreaded White Knight—and his foot pressed still harder on the accelerator.

He knew the streets well, did Szamuelly's driver, for once upon a time, before he had been imprisoned for robbery with violence, he had been a chauffeur. Filled with a determination to lose their pursuer, without the slightest slackening, without a warning note, he shot off down a side road.

The car rocked over to a dangerous angle, but by a miracle settled down again, and the next second was away in the distance, even while Francis Bakocz, who was driving the pursuing car, little suspecting the sudden manœuvre, overshot the road and, with the brakes shrieking and wailing, came to a stop too late, so that he had to reverse and back. By the time he was in the side road Szamuelly's car had disappeared.

Francis looked at the White Knight inquiringly, but Wenzel was puzzled. As the car turned the Terrorist in his pay had shot his arm up into the air, and his pointing finger had waved in the direction of the heavens. It was a signal; that much Wenzel could guess; but what was its portent he could not gather.

Francis drove wildly on, tearing down the side road at breakneck speed, unheeding the cursing pedestrians who shook their fists and growled; but Szamuelly's Terrorist knew his work, and there was no sign of the car in front. To stop and inquire would be waste of time—in the meantime Szamuelly would escape—but there was apparently nothing else to be done; but, even as Francis slowed up, Wenzel suddenly turned, an idea germinating in his mind.

"Francis, quick, is there an aerodrome in this direction?"

The boy, for he was scarcely more in years, even if the last few months had aged him in experience, nodded.

Wenzel laughed. "That is where he has gone. For God's sake, get there quickly!"

In the meantime Szamuelly's car was nearing the aerodrome. Aeroplanes were waiting—he could see them, their outstretched wings gleaming whitely in the sun, their pilots scattered about the field.

The car drew up, steaming, and Szamuelly tumbled out.

"Comrade," he gasped to one of the pilots, "I am Comrade Szamuelly, a People's Commissary. I ... I seek a consultation in Russia with Lenin, concerning the glorious future of a united European Soviet. You will take me there. I will pay you well—very well—many thousands of crowns."

"Why shouldn't I, comrade? I am fond of money. Come to-morrow and I will see what I can do."

"To-morrow? To-morrow is of no use—I must go now, at once ... this very minute!" His voice rose, and the pilot looked at him with a questioning glance.

"You are in a hurry, comrade! What bites you? Lenin is not dying, is he?"

"Delay not, for God's sake, comrade! The White Knight is after us. He may arrive at any minute now." It was the smooth-tongued one who spoke.

His words were not without effect. The pilot's face creased into ugly lines, and he turned upon Szamuelly with a threatening air:

"Oh, ho, my friend! You do not speak altogether the truth. The White Knight! I have heard of him too often for my own peace of mind. You had best find some one else to take you. I do not relish hanging from the Suspension Bridge." He turned away.

"I will make it ten, twenty thousand crowns, comrade, if you will but take me." He was sobbing now.

The pilot laughed harshly. "Of what use are twenty thousand crowns in Hell, my friend? I prefer to spend them in Budapest. Find some one else."

With streaming tears Szamuelly begged the pilots, one after another, to take him to Russia. Once there, so he told them, they would be safe from the White Knight's vengeance. But his pleas were of no avail. They—who did not yet know the Commune was cracking up, even at that very moment—had no wish to abandon Hungary yet, and besides, they sneered, there were Rumanian planes and Czech planes to pass before Russia was reached, and they had had enough fighting to last them for a while.

Before five minutes had passed Szamuelly knew his quest was useless, and also by that time the train to Austria would be gone; before the next went, God alone knew what might happen! There was only one way out of the country.

He turned to his fellow-Terrorists. "Comrades, drive like Hell for the Austrian frontier. It is the only thing left now."

They bought petrol, for Szamuelly was afraid to confiscate, and started off, five minutes before Wenzel and Francis arrived. While the White Knight remained under cover Francis made inquiries.

The pilots looked at him with suspicion when he asked if Szamuelly had been there, but he seemed too young to be connected with the White Knight, so they grinned and told him that he was not likely to see the commissary any more.

"Why?" They laughed when Francis put the question. "Because he is on his way to Austria. The White Knight is after him."

"The White Knight! Who the Hell is he?" asked Francis naïvely. In asking the question he had meant to be diplomatic, but when ten minutes passed before they had finished telling him all about the White Knight he cursed himself for being such an idiot.

At length he got away. Wenzel's face hardened when he heard the news.

"Well?" he said, and gazed at Francis.

The boy grinned. "I am ready, monsieur."

Wenzel's eyes softened. "Good lad!" he exclaimed quietly, and Francis suddenly lost his fear of the hideous White Knight, whom he had met personally for the first time only a few days previously.

So they started off. Later they reached the road to the Austrian frontier, and not until then did Francis open out the throttle.

For the first hour they saw nothing of the car ahead, but when they made inquiries, at different farmhouses on the road, they heard that Szamuelly's car had passed about half an hour previously, so Francis increased the speed—so much so that by the time they had covered another thirty miles Szamuelly's car was but ten to fifteen minutes in advance of them.

While Francis was increasing his speed, the Terrorist in the car in front was slowing down. For the last two hours there had been no trace of the White Knight, and gradually the spirits of the Terror Boys, and even those of Szamuelly himself, rose higher.

Now there did not seem so much need for haste they began to linger, to talk more boldly and exchange reminiscences. Even the smooth-tongued one spoke a little more, for supposing the White Knight did not catch up again there was certainly enough money hidden in his clothes to last him for some time; and he was equally prepared to desert the White Knight as he had been his Communist leader.

The time passed by, and steadily the distance to the Austrian border decreased. Then suddenly Szamuelly saw, perhaps a mile back, a trail of dust rising into the air.

"By God! Look!" The words burst from hie lips unconsciously. The two Terrorists glanced back.

The chauffeur groaned: "The White Knight!" But his companion unconsciously scratched the palm of his hand—more good English money for his little store!

The Terrorist pressed down his foot, the car shot forward, and underneath the wheels the road slid past too quickly for the eye to follow; but Francis had seen them, and had the better car.

It was a long and thrilling chase; both cars were speeding to their limit, but yard by yard the White Knight crept closer, till Szamuelly was damp with a cold sweat.

A mile, half a mile, quarter of a mile, until at last the two cars were within pistol-shot of one another, and the hour of the White Knight's vengeance seemed very near.

Perhaps another fifteen minutes would have seen the two cars level, and then... Fate for once was against the White Knight. With an internal choking his car came to a gradual halt, and Francis swore. "Petrol," he said briefly. Fortunately there were spare tins behind, but in the meantime Szamuelly drew away.

What were the feelings of Szamuelly when he saw the pursuing car come to a sudden stop will never be known, but it must have seemed to him then that some kindly angel had come to his aid, and his fear dropped from him, so that, all at once, he was in the highest of spirits. He laughed, sang, and joked, confident that he had seen the last of the White Knight.

The car drove on; there was an intoxicating spirit of cheerfulness surrounding them. On ... on to Austria!

Szamuelly gave one final glance back, and saw, in the far distance, a rising cloud of dust, approaching with incredible rapidity, but fear no longer reigned in his heart, for, as the Communist glanced from side to side, he recognized Lajta Ujfalu in the distance, and knew that before many minutes passed he would be safe in Austria. Derisively he waved his hand. "Good-bye, White Knight!" he called out mockingly. "Good-bye, Hungary!"

On ... on. One thousand yards to safety, five hundred, four hundred ... and then—Nemesis!

As they passed a tiny copse there was a rain of bullets, and they saw a group of hidden, uniformed men—Hungarian gendarmerie, already self-organized at the first rumours of the Soviet's downfall. The driver sighed gently and collapsed. The car jumped forward for twenty yards—there was a tearing, rending crash—and the battered skeleton of what just before had been a live, pulsating automobile overturned.

Szamuelly staggered from out the wreckage. Through the bloody film which mistily obstructed his vision he saw men running toward him, shouting and shooting; suddenly he felt a burning, searing pain which vibrated through his body. He wanted to fall, to give up, but an instinct for life urged him forward. He braced up and staggered on—the frontier was just ahead—three hundred yards and he would be safe....

The fear of death lent him wings—the excitement of the chase blinded the eyes of the pursuing gendarmes—and suddenly Szamuelly knew he was across the frontier.... Safe! ... Safe! The Hungarians would never dare to shoot now.... He lurched on and on, smiling grimly, triumphantly.

The gendarmes clustered together on the borderline, cursing, and watched their prey escape. There were no Austrian Volkswehr to be seen, but, scarcely recovered from the heavy yoke of the Soviet, they feared to advance or to fire, and thus provoke international complications.

Such was the position when, with a sobbing grind, Francis brought his car to a stop. The White Knight jumped out, but there was no need for words. Szamuelly had all but escaped ... two minutes more and he would be beyond all hope of revenge.

With a rapid gesture Wenzel seized a rifle from out the hands of one of the gendarmes, and, putting it to his shoulder, sighted the staggering Communist. The figure was small and moving erratically.... Wenzel's hands shook unsteadily. With an effort of will he steadied them, and suddenly Szamuelly was clearly before his eyes, dead between the forked sight.

The rifle flashed—for one vibrant, palpitating second nothing happened. Then Szamuelly just dropped—never to move again....

"Too good a death," grumbled the awakened people of Hungary when they heard the news.

* * * * * *

That night Bela Kun, Weiss, Schwarz, Vago, Pogany, and Landler, together with all their families, stole quietly into one of the Budapest stations where a train was ready for them, steam up, impatiently awaiting the guard's command. The rats were fleeing—escaping with the connivance of the new Peidl Government, but, still more paradoxically, protected from their own people by an escort supplied by the Italian military mission stationed in Budapest.

Only one was missing from the party—Szamuelly! The clock ticked on, the time passed rapidly. In the end they could wait no longer. The guard signalled, the train steamed out, en route to Austria; and so passed out of the pages of history Bela Kun and his colleagues. Once again justice was denied the people of Hungary, for with the help of the Allies the train reached and crossed the Austrian frontier, and the Communists were safe—safe to live thereafter a life of ease, when they ought to have hanged, while those they left behind, betrayed by their leaders to the last, later suffered the extreme penalty. Even to this day it is said that somewhere in Russia Bela Kun still lives.

Peace at last! With the occupation of Budapest by the Rumanians a sane Government was formed, inspired by a proclamation of the Archduke Joseph, and if the city were still systematically robbed by the Rumanian occupiers of what little was left to it, at any rate the thefts, under the name of reparations, were more legal, and less bitter.

To the gasping, starved citizens of Budapest the change was well worth it. At least they could walk the streets openly by day or night without fear of sudden death, of molestation and imprisonment which meant worse than death; they could, at any rate, obtain what food there was, without producing red or blue tickets.

For the first time in months there was peace and happiness in the hearts of the Hungarian people. Their chins uplifted, their eyes sparkling, they walked the streets of the cities, the highways and the byways of the country. Once again they had come into their own.

In less than a week the Château Juhusz was empty of all those who had been living there: empty of them all save one. No longer did the decaying walls echo with the sound of voices, no longer were its derelict rooms embellished with flowers, decorated with pieces of carved wood and crude charcoal drawings.

No more did the Count and Countess Bakocz hold court in their pitiful apology for a salon, nor did Imre Kiss, leaning still more heavily on his walking-stick, pass from room to room, his head bowed with thought, longing only once more to work upon his beloved manuscript, to write "Finis" to his tale of the glories of the Kings of Hungary.

If the drooping château sighed for the absence of the elder victims of the Red Terror, how much more did it miss the youthful Francis, with his tales of the White Knight's daring, with his unconcealed pride in his first adventures under the Enemy of the Commune's leadership, the infectious laughter of Elizabeth Kiss, and best of all the flowering romance of Cecile and Arnold, their 'chance' meetings in darkened corners, their timid whispers, their hidden blushes.

Once again was the aged château desolate, the sport of the wind which mockingly howled round its crumbling gables, and of the rain which dripped through its dissolving mortar, percolating into the interior, revivifying the moss; once again the weeds grew bolder in the grounds, already beginning to sprout where the amateur gardeners had stamped them out, and, as they grew, so for the second time the spirit of the château decayed, after having been revived for a brief period by the occupation by the pursued and outlawed nobility.

Dank and dismal, the château drooped, cheerless and uninviting—a home for nothing except for rats and mice, which once again invaded its unfortified barriers, burrowing through its rotting wood, and for the owls which snuggled back into their usurped corners.

Yet there was one who lived there still, one whose heart was as cold as the draughts, whose spirits were as mournful as the dismal moaning of the wind.

His work was finished. The task of the White Knight was ended, and here, where the woman he now cherished had lived, he attempted to forget, to wash from his mind all thoughts of his two Hungarian loves.

He was successful in weaning his thoughts from Zita, for Time, the master-healer, had washed his wound of the hurt: she was a lingering memory, a sweet fragrance of yesterday.

It was his recollection of Elizabeth which tortured him. She seemed so real, so near, and yet so far away. She was of the immediate present, as real as Zita was just a fairy phantom from some delicious dream.

When Geoffrey knew Hungary to be free at last from the tentacles of the Red octopus he realized that his work was ended. No more need to rescue unhappy victims of the Terror, no longer the necessity to counteract the evil purposes of the Communists, to hurry refugees across the border, to assist the Whites in preparing their great coup d'état.

What more could the world want of him now? Bitterly he answered his own query. Nothing! The world had no use for a vile, scarred, atrocious specimen of humanity such as he. It forgets so easily, and once the world ceased to remember the honour, the glory, of the scars of war, he would remain only a being of disgust, a revolting spectacle, an object of pity.

Pity! That would be worse than anything. Pity! Perhaps it would be: "Poor Geoffrey—but, you know..." The fatal "but." There would be no invitations for him—he might frighten the other guests! Not that he cared a damn; but supposing he married? ... And, like all mental arguments, his thoughts finished where they began—with Elizabeth.

Because of his attempted suicide—for he did not blink his eyes to the fact that it was attempted suicide deliberately to invite the Reds to murder him—he must bear a cross during the rest of his life. That was his punishment—his face his cross. Or was it rather his hopeless love for Elizabeth?

Those were days of bitterness! His brain no longer busy with schemes and plans for the succour of others, his time no longer fully taken up, his thoughts turned to himself and his future, and in desperation he fled to the empty château to work out his own salvation, to forget!

To forget! It was not long before he realized that of all the places in which to do this he had chosen the worst. What chance was there of forgetting when every corner reminded him of Elizabeth—perhaps she had sat there—or there—or there? She—she had slept in that room, he remembered—and that room became his shrine.

In the woods were the flowers she had loved so much—their sweet, dewy smell was reminiscent of her, as was the purity of the white flowers, for they were her soul, the richness of the red flowers, for they were her cheeks, the softness of the pansies, for they were her eyes.

The insects chirruped of her, the whispering of the wind through the forest trees sang of her, the tiny brooklet running near by babbled of her. Worst of all the moon, the broad, round face of the moon, as it majestically rose into the clear heavens, winked derisively at him, or frowned at him, shedding its silver beams through the interlaced boughs of the trees.

So the days passed, the heart of Geoffrey growing more sullen and more cold, until the spirit of the White Knight wilted beneath the triple load of misery, self-torture, and hopeless love.

The time arrived when he could not bear to look upon his own reflection, so he ceased to shave and grew a long, silky beard and a moustache.

He fed on what stores the refugees had left behind, and slept on the rough bed which Arnold had used when he was at the château, living the life of a hermit, trying to forget ... trying to forget ... and failing!

* * * * * *

The moon was rising, just skirting the trees, when one night Geoffrey became conscious of voices.

He was going to swear, but even as the words trembled on his lips he started, for he recognized the voices. Arnold and Elizabeth! What were they doing near the old château? He was in one of the front rooms, but like a wraith, and with as little noise, despite his great size, he slipped out into the surrounding forest, suspecting that they might enter the château.

The voices came nearer; they were chattering idly of current events in Budapest, but half-way across the clearing Elizabeth raised her hand and restrained Arnold.

"Please, monsieur," she said, and the sound of her voice stole through the quiet air to where Geoffrey was hidden. "Please, monsieur, I would like to stop here."

Arnold obediently halted. Then suddenly Elizabeth saw the old fountain, and, crossing to it, stood there, watching it in the light of the moon.

"Poor Mercury," she said wistfully; "he seems so solitary—alone in this big forest with no one near. He must have been a merry little chap in the old days, before he became overgrown with moss. I am going to sit down. Won't you rest beside me, Monsieur Arnold, so that I may talk to you?"

She seated herself on the edge of the large empty basin, and gazed around. From his place of concealment Geoffrey watched, and the beauty of the scene tortured him so that he closed his eyes. The silver rays of the moon bathed the clearing and the château in a pure white light which softened the decay, till one could almost picture it as it must have appeared in those far-off days when it had been the centre of life and love, of activity and of idleness: the playground of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, with their colours and their swords, with their lace petticoats and their fans.

Never had Elizabeth looked so beautiful; it seemed to Geoffrey that never before had a background so admirably become her. If it were he who sat beside her, if it were only he! He caught his breath in a little gasp.

"How you must have wondered at me, Monsieur Arnold!" Elizabeth was saying to him as he sat beside her. "Did you think me mad, asking you to escort me here one night?"

"Indeed no," Arnold replied in his deep voice. "On the contrary, mademoiselle, I myself was more than pleased to come. This château has wonderful memories for me—memories of one night, just like this, not so long ago, when ... when Cecile..." He stopped awkwardly.

"Why, of course. I had forgotten," and it seemed to Geoffrey as if there was a sigh in her voice. "You are very happy, monsieur?"

"Happy!" There was a wealth of gladness in that one word which spoke for itself. "Mademoiselle, a short while ago, in the middle of the Terror, I would have said that this world was a Hell for some other and better world. Now it seems to me that it must be Heaven itself."

"Heaven!" she repeated in a whisper. "Heaven! Well, it might be, if..." She turned to Arnold suddenly. "What of the White Knight? Where is he?"

"Heaven only knows, mademoiselle," Arnold groaned. "Some time after the Rumanians took control he disappeared without a word. Since then I have hunted high and low for him without success."

"Are you not—afraid?" There was a catch in her voice.

"Afraid!" repeated Arnold, puzzled about her meaning. Then he realized what she meant. "No, mademoiselle, not of that. Only four people know who the White Knight was—Apor, Francis, you, and I. Besides, the Reds are being imprisoned in their hundreds. Many will hang. The rest are too busy hiding to worry about revenge."

"Then why has he fled from us all?" she demanded.

"Because—because of his scars," he answered slowly. "Poor Geoffrey. You see, he was so handsome before—before they came. And now! Somehow I cannot blame him; I feel everything he suffers. They make him horrible, mademoiselle, horrible—almost too hideous for a man to look at unmoved, and still less a—a woman!"

There was an unconscious undercurrent in his voice as he spoke the last few words, and she turned to him.

"Why do you say that? Why should he be more hideous to a woman?"

Arnold was embarrassed. "I—I do not know, but you see, mademoiselle, it always seems to men that women should be brought into contact only with the—the pretty things of this world. We try to keep the ugly things to ourselves."

"I know—and yet some women say men are selfish." She paused, but only for a few seconds. "Monsieur, supposing I brought you here for two reasons? One for the sake of—of memories, and the other to talk to you, alone and privately!

"Listen! That awful, terrible day when I betrayed the White Knight he called me 'Delilah.' Why, why did he say that to me? Has he ever explained to you?"

"No, mademoiselle," Arnold answered sadly. "He would not let me speak to him on the subject of his capture."

"Why not?" she demanded, but he was silent. "Yet I believe I can answer myself. Was it because he thought I had deliberately betrayed him?"

"I—I do not know."

"But you suspect...? Again you are silent, monsieur, and your silence is your answer. Holy Mary! Why cannot he realize the truth? I—I to betray the White Knight! Sooner would I have cut off my own tongue than willingly betray the man who saved my father from death, and me from far worse. Oh, Mother in Heaven, why can he not realize the truth?"

Arnold did not speak. He felt as if he were being permitted to look upon a woman's soul—that it would have been sacrilege for him to speak.

There was a sob in her voice, and she struggled with her emotion, but presently conquering it she continued: "Is that the only reason the White Knight has disappeared, Monsieur Arnold? Is the mere fact of a woman betraying him sufficient to drive him away for ever, or is there another reason? Tell me. I command you, monsieur, if you value a woman's happiness, answer me the truth."

"The truth ... mademoiselle, he worships the ground you walk on, but ... but ... because of his scars..."

"And what of my betrayal of him?"

"He would ... he has, I am sure ... forgiven you that."

"Monsieur, for those words I could almost love you. And I believe you. God be praised! But now, listen carefully, monsieur, I have a message for you to give the White Knight if ever you shall meet him. Tell him that his love for me is no deeper than my love for him, that—that—oh! what can I say save that I love him so?" And suddenly she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with the sobs she could no longer repress.

At that moment there came, from the forest, a crackling of disturbed undergrowth, and a tall, white-faced man staggered toward them, to sink on the turf at her feet, clasping her hands, kissing them, again and again, till his burning lips were bruised.

With scarcely a sound Arnold disappeared, and they were left alone in the clearing, alone with the moon.

"My love, my love," he muttered again and again. "And yet ... it is impossible. I am dreaming, just dreaming. Soon I shall wake up, to find myself alone, with the rats and the mice—alone!"

"Hush, dear one!" she placed her hands to his lips. "Hush!"

For a while neither spoke, till in the end Geoffrey broke the silence, and his voice was changed.

"It must be impossible. How can you care for me? My scars..."

"Do you think a woman loves a man only for his face?" she asked.

"Not ordinarily, perhaps. But my face is ghastly—evil. For the moment you have forgotten it. Your love is blinding you. When your eyes are opened you will see—you must see—my features in their true colours, and you will shudder.... Oh, God! Believe me, Elizabeth, I know it to be the truth."

"It is not the truth!" she murmured passionately. "Have I not thought till my brain has ached with weariness? Have you forgotten that I am a daughter of Hungary, descended from a long line of fierce warriors? Each scar on your face is a scar of honour, every wound only one more reason why I should cherish you even more. I am not a dressed-up doll of the West, who must be surrounded by pretty things lest she droop. Unless you wish to wreck two people's happiness you must—must believe me, dear!"

"If only I might!" he murmured.

"Then test me," she challenged defiantly; "test me!"

"Ay, I will, dear," he agreed. "I will light a match, hold it to my face, and then look into your eyes. I shall assuredly read the truth there."

So his hand fumbled for a box of matches in his pocket, but when he found it his fingers trembled. What would the light reveal? Slowly he took out a match, but even then he hesitated. If they could only live for ever thus—in the dim light of the moon!

"Geoffrey!" she commanded gently.

"I am a coward. I am afraid." Then suddenly he struck it, and held the spluttering flame close to his face, so that its light might also reflect upon hers, and thus he could read her eyes.

So they sat, face to face, till the flame died away. In her eyes he had seen, not shuddering, unwilling horror, but tender love and, above all, overwhelming surprise.

Surprise!

"What is it?" he asked roughly.

"Geoffrey! Geoffrey!" She could hardly speak in her excitement, she was almost incoherent. "Oh, God! Oh, Mother in Heaven!"

So after all she had failed! His life was shattered. He rose to his feet, and would have moved away, but she clung to him desperately, forcing his arms around her.

"Geoffrey, you don't understand! Almost you are handsome. Your scars—your scars—I cannot see them, only one, just across your eye. That could not hurt me."

"You cannot see my ... my scars! Oh, God! You are deceiving yourself, Elizabeth ... your love is blinding you."

"No, no, I swear it! Don't you understand, Geoffrey? Your beard, your moustache——"

His hand wandered to his chin, his fingers felt the silky hairs, curling, concealing. Then suddenly he realized that he too was receiving his reward.

A wave of happiness flooded his body. Life once again opened out before him.

He drew her closer ... they were alone together ... just Elizabeth and he ... and the moon!