Chapter V: Part 5

"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."

_CHAPTER IX_

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!

_CHAPTER X_

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.