Chapter IV: Part 4

"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...

_CHAPTER VII_

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.

_CHAPTER VIII_

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."