Chapter IX: Part 9

Then almost at once his thoughts changed and he saw it in a different light. He asked himself by what right Elizabeth had passed judgment upon him. If she possessed nothing other than a sense of gratitude toward him for having saved her father from death, surely this should have been sufficiently strong to have dissuaded her from the step she had taken.

Yet among all the different aspects of her act which passed through his mind there was just one which never occurred to him--the true one. That she had betrayed him as the White Knight all unknowing that he was indeed the White Knight in very truth, and, still further, that Elizabeth had done this that sha might be of service to him, was never farther from his thoughts than during the time he gloomed in a Parliament House cell, waiting for the moment when he would be haled before Korvin-Klein.

In the meantime the Supreme Soviet Council, in session at the Hapsburg Palace, was in high spirits. The White Knight captured at last! It was almost too good to be true!

There they sat, the rulers of the ruined nation, discussing what would be the finest form of death to mete out--and by the finest they meant one which would give the hated Enemy of the Commune the most exquisite torture, and themselves the greatest degree of pleasurable gratification.

On one point they were all agreed. Where or how he should die did not matter so very much, but when--it could not be too soon.

"Come, comrades," pleaded Korvin-Klein, "why not hand him over to me? I can assure you he will not escape, and I shall see to it that his death is all that could be desired."

Pogany grunted: "What about Apor? Did your men keep him safe and sound?"

Klein flushed. "You cannot blame that on me. Who sent me orders by telephone?--it was lucky I happened to be there----"

"Unlucky, I think," interrupted Kunfi.

The hunchback shrugged his shoulders. "Look at it which way you like. As I was saying, who gave me orders last thing at night to drop him in the Danube without a moment's delay? Bela Kun! If Comrade Bela Kun had not 'phoned me he would still have been safe and sound in the morning."

"Nothing of the sort, Korvin!" said Bela Kun bluntly. "From the information I received, the White Knight was coming to you with a forged order for Apor's release. It must have been just luck that they were in Parliament Square at the very time your men were taking him to his death."

"Do you really believe that, my friend?" asked Klein softly.

"Of course I do!" said Bela Kun truculently.

"Well, I don't, and I don't believe you do either. You told me yourself that the detective Gunzi came to you with a story which he had heard from the lips of the man who, by Gunzi's description of him, was undoubtedly the White Knight himself. Gunzi was meant to hear that story. The whole thing was carefully planned and executed."

"What of it?" Bela Kun frowned. He might be the Dictator, but in the Soviet they were all "comrades," and though it hurt him to acknowledge equality with the others he could do nothing but suffer it.

"Nothing. I only want to point out that Apor's escape was not my fault. You fell into the trap and you alone are to blame. You are Dictator, so must take the responsibility." Klein's attitude was smoothly peaceful.

It might have developed into a stormy scene, but Szamuelly whispered into the Dictator's ear, and after swallowing a lump in his throat Bela Kun accepted the situation with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Very well, I will take the blame. What matter the escape of the sprat now that we have caught the whale?"

"Hear, hear!" agreed Bohm.

"Yes, and let us settle the question as to what to do with the prisoner."

There was a chorus of confirmative growls, and several of them would have spoken at once, but suddenly Szamuelly held up his hand.

"Let me say a few words, comrades," he said. "Now that we have at last the White Knight in our hands, why should we not have the full benefit of our triumph? I have a fancy to see this man, to see him shiver with fear, perhaps to make him howl with pain. What do you all say?"

There was not much doubt as to the opinion of the rest of the Council. Only Agoston raised a protesting voice:

"One minute, comrades! Where do you intend to see the White Knight?"

"Why, have him brought here, of course!"

"And is that safe?"

Korvin-Klein chuckled. "As I have said once before, Comrade Agoston, I am willing to take sole responsibility for his safety. Leave that to me, and if by a miracle he should escape--hang me instead."

Agoston subsided, and the motion was passed unanimously. Korvin-Klein left the meeting to transport the hapless prisoner from one side of the river to the other.

There was ample evidence that Klein valued his own neck. With all the precautions he took it would have been not only suicidal for would-be rescuers, but in addition any such plan would have signed the White Knight's death-warrant.

Not even daring to use the bridge, Klein commandeered a ferry-tug. Cleared of all but the crew, it was firstly occupied by a guard of twelve Terrorists. These Terrorists, each with a cocked revolver in his hand, took up positions round the deck. Then was ushered on board the prisoner, his wrists handcuffed, and, as an added precaution, not only were his arms bound, but he was attached by a long chain to Klein himself.

Four men, also with ready revolvers, surrounded Klein and his prisoner. Their sole instructions were to shoot the White Knight dead on the slightest hint of rescue.

Finally, eight other guards posted themselves in various positions, their duty to keep watch over the crew of the ferry.

From near by Arnold and Elizabeth watched, Arnold alert for any lead of which he might take advantage, Elizabeth dull and faint with the turmoil of her unceasing remorse. So plainly did it seem to her that the White Knight was going to his death that she clutched Arnold's arm in an agonized grip and swayed slightly; for the moment he was afraid she was about to swoon again.

Hastily he attempted to reassure her, but for all the cheerfulness he forced into his voice his heart was sick with anxiety. Too well he realized that he might be gazing upon his friend for the last time.

The Council awaited with impatience the coming of the White Knight; but when at last the doors of the large hall were thrown open, and in the midst of twelve guards the prisoner was marched within, there was a stir of interest, not unmixed with sighs of relief and exclamations of triumph.

"There you are, friends! Have I not carried out my bargain?" Klein bombastically patted himself on his narrow chest, then waved his hand in the direction of Wenzel.

The Communists gazed upon their prisoner with a glance of unconcealed curiosity, in which was intermingled a _soupçon_ of puzzlement, a suspicion of disdain.

Standing before them in an attitude of hopeless dejection the White Knight looked anything but a formidable opponent. His filthy clothes hung upon him as they would about a scarecrow, a comparison intensified by the dirty scarf which covered up the lower part of his face, and the cap which in a slovenly fashion rested low on his head, almost covering his eyes.

Kunfi laughed scornfully: "That man the White Knight! Ha! You are having your wish, Szamuelly. Why he trembles with fear even before we speak to him! I am surprised. I expected to see at least a man, not a bundle of old clothes, a shivering worm."

The humour of the Communists was misplaced. Themselves wearing stolen clothes--suits from the wardrobes of the _châteaux_, shirts, collars, and ties from the _appartements_ of the rich--their criticism of the White Knight's garments merited the satire of Voltaire, or of the more gentle Lamb.

Korvin-Klein now took command. Walking up to the White Knight he said genially: "So you were caught napping at last, my friend! You should have remembered that history usually repeats itself. Exposed by a woman! You will be in good company, comrade, when you reach the other side, and will have many sympathizers."

"I do not know what you mean. Why have you arrested me? Why am I a prisoner?" The prisoner's voice was weak and trembling.

Klein laughed derisively, and turned to his fellow-Communists: "Do you hear that, all of you? He wants to know why he is arrested. Is that not a good joke?" He roared, and his mirth was echoed all round the large hall, even the Terrorists joining in. They were beginning to be glad of Szamuelly's suggestion. It looked as though Klein would create an interesting scene.

The head of the Detective Department turned to the White Knight again: "Just to humour you, I do not object to letting you know, comrade. It is because you are the White Knight, the self-styled Enemy of the Commune, the champion of the _bourgeoisie_, the rescuer of magnates."

There was a fresh outburst of hilarious laughter at Klein's long recital of the White Knight's many titles.

The prisoner moaned slightly. "I do not know what you are saying. I am no enemy of the Commune. I am a good Communist. Have I not plenty of friends to prove it? Please don't kill me, oh, please, Comrade Korvin-Klein! I am a poor innocent man who does not know what you mean, who has never done a crown's worth of harm to anyone except the _bourgeoisie_, and whose only fault is desiring a pretty woman."

Klein looked at him queerly: "I suppose you don't deny you were arrested last night by the Red guards?"

"Of course I don't," whined the other.

"And do you deny having fought with the Red guards to escape from them? Is that your idea of innocence?"

"I--I was nearly drunk, comrade. I met a friend just earlier in the evening, a tall man, nearly as tall as myself, who took me to a place to get a drink. He gave me two full bottles of wine all to myself."

"And then?" asked Klein sarcastically.

"Then he asked me if I would like to earn ten English pounds. I said yes. He put something in my pocket, and told me a woman was expecting him at such-and-such an address, but that he could not go. Then he hinted that if I made myself nice to her--well, Comrade Klein, you know what happens when one is nice to a woman."

Some one laughed aloud, and many of the listeners smiled, but no one spoke. Most of them were too interested. Bela Kun, Szamuelly, and Korvin-Klein were the exceptions. These three more astute men were conscious of a cold, chilly feeling.

"Well, well!" Korvin-Klein looked at the prisoner steadily. "Supposing we believe your story, perhaps you can describe the man who gave you the money and told you to go to the room of this woman."

"Certainly, comrade, certainly," said the other eagerly. "He was a broad, tall man, nearly as tall as me, in fact, but he was hideously ugly, his face was transfigured with scars. He was a monster. It nearly made me sick to look at him."

"Hell!" shouted Szamuelly, "but he has described the White Knight exactly. We have heard the same description from Garami and Gunzi, the detective from Aszod. Besides, Bela Kun has seen the White Knight."

"Of course I have," growled Bela Kun. "I can see the rogue's face before me now. Bah! the man is merely describing himself: tightening the noose round his neck. Take off that scarf!"

With rough hands Klein seized the filthy scarf from the neck of the other and tore it off. There was a stupefied silence. All eyes turned in the direction of the prisoner, then, simultaneously, switched round to the Dictator.

Bela Kun gazed with bewildered eyes at the man who stood before him, bound and chained, and then rubbed his eyes frantically. The prisoner, the man they believed to be the White Knight, had not a single scar of any kind apparent on his face or neck.

"Good God! Good God!" Bela Kun bellowed to Klein, but his next words, in the hurry to escape, stuck in his throat, so that he merely spluttered and choked. Then, with an effort, he cleared his throat:

"Good God, Klein! that man is--is not the White Knight after all! We have all been hoaxed."

There was an instantaneous uproar. The members of the Council sprang to their feet, chairs went clattering to the ground, and the hall echoed and re-echoed with the babel of tongues. There were shouts of rage; recriminations were hurled to and fro, while Bela Kun and Korvin-Klein shrank away from the volume of hard words thrown at them.

Many, in their rage, pounded on the tables with their fists, others gabbled incoherently, and there was not one present who did not help, in some way or other, to swell the noise till the din became dreadful.

Only the prisoner remained quiet, his face twisted with anguish, and white with the pasty pallor of fear. But no one questioned the fact that he most emphatically was not the White Knight; of this there was not the slightest atom of doubt.

There were no disfiguring scars zigzagging across his face, transforming it into a satanic and horrific mask. It did not repel, or create a violent sensation of monstrous iniquity. Indeed, his face was, if anything, inclined to be handsome, his complexion more or less pure, and, perhaps, if it had not been for its almost deathly whiteness, it might have even created an impression of health.

The commotion died away. Szamuelly, his voice seething with fury, spoke at length to Bela Kun:

"There cannot be a mistake, Bela Kun. How can you prove that these words are correct?"

"Easily. If you do not believe me call Gunzi and Garami, both of whom have seen and spoken to the White Knight."

"Right!" said Korvin-Klein, his mouth twisting with an ugly snarl. "I will send for them both. Then we shall see."

Rapidly he issued his orders. The prisoner, his attitude already easier, was taken on one side, while the members of the Supreme Soviet Council discussed the situation.

"Hang him anyway, White Knight or no White Knight. That's what I say, my friends. At any rate we shall be safe." As usual Szamuelly voted for death, and doubtless the others would have agreed--for another life more or less made no difference--but the foxy Korvin-Klein thought differently.

"Wait a minute, comrades. Listen to what I have to say. Let us assume for the minute that a mistake has been made, that the man there," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the prisoner, "is not the White Knight. What does that mean? One of two things. Either we have been hoaxed--in which case, hang the man--or else last night the White Knight discovered that, in some way, this woman was betraying him, and knowing of the trap he really did persuade this man to take his place.

"As I have already said, if it can be proved that the first supposition is correct--well, I suggest a little better than hanging. But I ask you, friends, would any sane man deliberately put himself into our hands for the sake of hoaxing us?

"Again, in the second case, the prisoner might as well die. Now suppose it were all a genuine mistake on the part of the White Knight--after all, I dare say he likes a woman as much as the rest of us--do you not think it possible that he may try and meet this man to discover how he got on with the White Knight's lady-love?

"Let him free, if it be proved that he is innocent. Then let me set a detective to track him. Sooner or later he may meet the White Knight. Then we shall know what to do."

The point of the chief detective's arguments was too forceful not to impress even the most obtuse mind, and, after a little hesitation, that course was agreed upon by the Council.

Soon afterward came Gunzi. In the meantime Korvin-Klein replaced the muffler round the prisoner's chin.

Gunzi was asked whether the prisoner was the man he had arrested the night before.

The detective looked surprised. "Certainly," he answered, with an assured air.

"And he is the same man whom you saw drinking in the beer-tavern the night before?"

Gunzi looked at him carefully. Again he answered in the affirmative, and his tone was still as confident.

"Very well," said Klein, "now take off his scarf."

Slowly Gunzi unwound it, and as its last fold exposed the face of its wearer the detective started back with surprise.

"But--but--but----" he stammered, and stopped.

"Well!" Korvin-Klein barked out the word, and Gunzi looked nervous. The detective eyed the prisoner, carefully noting every detail of the face. Then at last he turned.

"Except for one thing," he said, "this man might be the White Knight. In many respects he is similar to the Enemy of the Commune, not only in build, but also in facial expression, but--he is not the same man."

* * * * * *

Crowds were clustered round the Hapsburg Palace, for already it had been bruited far and wide that the White Knight was within, appearing before the Soviet Council. Among those who stood well to the forefront were Arnold and Elizabeth.

At first the chatter of the people was jubilant. Then men from out of the palace, dashing to and fro, excited the attention of the throng, and soon afterward the whisper went round that everything was not as it should be.

"What is it? Why is every one talking so angrily and gesticulating so?" Elizabeth asked.

Arnold shook his head. "I don't understand. Wait! I will try to find out."

Not far from them was a small group which, judging by the number of people who approached questioningly, possessed more or less authoritative information. To it Arnold strolled casually.

"What is the matter, comrade?" he asked of one man.

The Communist swore. "I don't know, but from what I can make out the man they arrested last night is not the White Knight after all. May God smite down the fools for their mistake if it's true!"

Arnold's heart leaped, but the next moment he was convinced that the man was making up the story to provoke an interest in himself. He moved on, but again and again the tale was the same. The prisoner inside was not the White Knight!

He turned back to Elizabeth. "I do not understand it," he whispered. "Do you know what they are saying? That the man they captured last night is not the White Knight."

Elizabeth's hand flew to her lips. Only with an effort did she keep from calling out in surprise. For a few seconds her face beamed with a celestial happiness, but as quickly it altered, and there returned the engraven look of hopeless despair.

"I cannot believe it, Arnold. I, who was there, know that the man with the scars, the White Knight himself, was captured. For some reason best known to themselves the Communists are spreading the rumour--perhaps because they wish to discourage attempts at rescue."

After that the time passed slowly. From where they were Arnold and Elizabeth could see men coming and going into the palace. Firstly, although they did not know it, went in Gunzi, then later Garami. More time elapsed. Suddenly Arnold gripped Elizabeth's wrist in a steely grasp.

"Whatever you do," he muttered hoarsely, "don't make a sound, but--look!"

Coming out of the palace door was the White Knight, but only those two knew it. To the rest of the crowd he was merely another man making his exit from the palace.

He made his way somewhat in the direction where stood Arnold and Elizabeth, but, as he came nearer, Arnold's heart turned cold with disappointment. Man though he was, he felt the tears springing to his eyes, so great was the shock.

"Oh, God!" he whispered. "I have made a mistake. But in the distance he was the image of Geoffrey."

Perhaps his eyes were clouded temporarily by his feeling of despondency, or perhaps her eyes were more discerning. At any rate she recognized, not the face, but the garments.

"They are his clothes. I will swear it. Oh, Heaven! Do I not recognize every garment, every patch, every tear? Monsieur, that man must be the White Knight."

Arnold shook his head. "God knows, mademoiselle, I would willingly believe it, but--he is not the White Knight. Look at his face!"

When Elizabeth looked she had to agree. That man was not the White Knight.

The hours passed, and gradually the crowd dispersed, for at last it was officially confirmed--the Soviet had not caught the White Knight.

With the passing of time Arnold believed more and more that the report was trickery on the Council's part. It was the White Knight who had been captured. Had he not seen his leader a few hours ago at the ferry, surrounded by two dozen Terrorists?

Now, with the other people gone, for Elizabeth and him to stop where they were would have been making themselves conspicuous.

"Come," he said, and his voice was expressionless. "Let us go. We must not stop here."

"But where?"

He spread out his arms. "Back to the room where--where Geoffrey was--captured."

"That will be my--my penance," she whispered.

"I know nowhere else," he apologized. "I must guard you as I would guard myself, for--for Geoffrey will be expecting that of me."

Somehow they made their way back, though the streets were crowded, and their despondent spirits made the work of threading through all the harder. Stumbling up the stairs they reached the room and threw open the door. Arnold started. Sitting on the bed was the man whom they had seen in the crowd round the palace.

"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

Now that the man had cast aside not only his scarf, but also his hat, he could see all the more easily that, despite a slight resemblance to the White Knight, the man on the bed could no more be Wenzel than he himself. Not only was this man's face free from blemishes, but so was his head. Arnold knew well the vivid, blood-red scar which scraped Wenzel's scalp, and in the mass of straight hair--almost black when compared to the shade of Geoffrey's curly head--there was not the slightest sign of it.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" mumbled the man.

"Because it happens to be my room. Come on, comrade--outside!" Arnold was in no mood for argument, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes which should have warned the intruder.

The other man shrugged his shoulders. "I was here before you," he said. "Mademoiselle can prove that." He nodded his head in the direction of Elizabeth.

Arnold clenched his fists. "What do you mean?"

"What I say, my friend, that I was here last night, and thanks to her ladyship"--his tone was hard--"arrested in mistake for the White Knight."

"You--arrested in mistake--but----" Then it was true, and the White Knight was not in prison. But, in that case, where was the White Knight?

Elizabeth could have spoken in joy, but Arnold stopped her. He mistrusted the man. It almost seemed as if there were a trap somewhere. He felt suddenly afraid.

"I do not know what you say," he said coolly. "This lady has never met the White Knight in all her life."

The man yawned. "You said that very well, but--it isn't really the truth, is it, Arnold?" And then Arnold knew that despite the evidence of his eyes the man who sat on the bed really was the White Knight.

_CHAPTER XIX_

The faint light from the guttering candle was barely sufficient to illuminate the tiny kitchen, for a draught blew in through a broken window, twisting and flicking the flame from side to side. Yet, despite the shadows, there was no mistaking the figure of the man who sat at the table, his head buried in his outstretched arms, his shoulders shaking with emotion.

Through the cracked window watched the White Knight, and the pathos of the scene hurt him, the silent grief, the loneliness of the cottage, the very solitude of the man--a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, and yet there seemed no one to help carry the burden of the unhappy man within.

Szamuelly in his Death Train had come and gone--the White Knight had missed him by an hour--and somehow Wenzel could not doubt that the anguish he now witnessed was a direct result of that flying visit.

He moved round to the door, and gently twisting the handle pushed and entered.

The man at the table glanced up, and the White Knight saw that his face was twisted with pain.

Dully he looked Wenzel up and down. "What do you want?" he asked tonelessly.

"A word or two with you," Wenzel replied.

Immersed in the depths of his own thoughts, the man did not understand. "What do want?" he asked for the second time.

Tragedy tinged the air, and Wenzel felt its influence. "A few words, comrade," he said quietly. "I shall not keep you long."

After a time his meaning seemed to sink into the man's consciousness, for suddenly the corners of his lips puckered downward. "Go away, friend. I talk to no one to-night."

Wenzel did not move. "Yet I would ask you to listen. Tell me one thing--when I looked through the window I saw your shoulders shaking; your eyes seem red with weeping. A man does not give way without good cause. Tell me your sorrow."

The man's eyes glittered, and he half rose from his seat. "What the Hell does it matter to you? Get out!" he muttered savagely. "Leave me to myself." But from the look of desperation in his eyes Wenzel divined his purpose.

"No, my friend, not until I have spoken with you. You must not kill yourself. It is not God's will."

"God!" The man sneered. "There is no God, or if there is He has forgotten Hungary. Who are you to talk to me of God? Have you had a son butchered to death before your very eyes? Have you heard your son crying for death, shrieking with pain?--God, the murderous hounds! The devils!"

"You mean--Szamuelly?"

For a moment Wenzel regretted mentioning the name, for suddenly the man's expression changed. Sadness and heartache dissolved from his face. Instead, his features became distorted by a spasm of unrelenting hatred. His eyes gleamed wickedly, his lips drew back in a snarl, exposing his coarse and rotted teeth, while his breath hissed in the intensity of his feelings.

"Szamuelly! Szamuelly!" He choked. "May his entrails rot in Hell! May the vampires suck his blood! May God blast his soul! I curse him, he and all of his, his sons and his sons' sons; his daughters, his daughters' daughters, and all who may speak to them in friendship! Curse him, I say! Curse him!" With a sobbing cry the man's head fell on to his crooked arms.

Wenzel neither spoke nor moved. Gradually the paroxysm passed, then the man looked up again, tears frankly falling from his eyes, and dropping, with dismal splashes, upon the rough wooden table.

"The only son left to me here in the village. Pity the grief of an old man, friend, an old man who, five years ago, had a house full of healthy sons around him. Six there were--from twelve years of age to thirty. They were not a marrying sort, so remained with their old father.

"Six of them, five years ago. Two killed in 1915, one in 1916, and another in 1917--blast the War! Four sons out of five--and all for nothing. Have we not lost after all? Is not Hungary beaten, conquered, ground down? Only one came back to me; he, together with the youngest and me--we were going to start life anew, but, my God! the eldest was forced to stop in Budapest and join the railway, to sweat and toil for Bela Kun.

"I wish to Heaven both he and the youngest had been killed in the War! Better to die fighting, say I, battling against enemies, than to--to be tortured to death in front of the eyes of your father by your own countrymen. Yes, comrade, that is what happened to my youngest. Just seventeen years of age, and Szamuelly--Szamuelly had him hanged because he wouldn't wear the Red cockade. He would have killed me, because I too wouldn't have worn the cursed colour, but the swine was in a hurry.

"'Tell what I have done to all would-be Whites,' he said, with a laugh. That's what he said to me, the father of the poor butchered boy. Oh, Jesus Christ, why have You deserted us in our hour of need? Why do You not smite these heretics who spit on Your Cross? ... And now, comrade, what do you want?"

It was as though the old man suddenly recollected that there was another man present, for he ended with a snarl.

"I want--the help of you and your remaining son, comrade--I am the White Knight."

The man gazed at him with incredulous eyes, his trembling lips, his shaking hands testifying to the shock he had received, but, as the fact filtered into his brain, he dropped suddenly to his knees, and seizing Wenzel's hand in his own, he kissed it passionately, again and again, until Wenzel, in embarrassment, withdrew it.

"The White Knight! The White Knight!" With the assistance of the White Knight the old man shakily rose to his feet and tottered back to his chair. "God be praised! You, Excellency, you are the man who has sworn to kill Szamuelly, you, Excellency, are the White Knight, the Enemy of the Commune, and you need my help, and the help of my--only son...." He drew himself up and gazed with steadfast eyes at Wenzel. "God forgive me!" he muttered piously. "God forgive me for my words. He has not forgotten us.... And now, Excellency?"

His voice finished briskly, and the White Knight knew that he need fear no betrayal from this man.

"Firstly," he said, "your promise. You must not kill yourself."

The man gazed at him with reproach. "Excellency, I am yours to command."

"Good! You are a railwayman?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"You are in the telegraph service?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"And your son? I believe he also is in the telegraph department at the Budapest terminus. Is that not so?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Good! Your name, my friend, it is Hervesi?"

"Correct, Excellency."

"Now, listen, Hervesi; tell me firstly how you knew that I had sworn to kill Szamuelly."

"I heard a week ago from my son in Budapest, Excellency. He met a man named Gunzi, who was searching for the White Knight. 'For why?' asked my son. 'Because he threatens to kill our great Szamuelly,' replied this Gunzi. Then my son, so he told me, chuckled inwardly, and made inquiries about the White Knight, and heard of all your wonderful deeds, Excellency, so when I saw him three days ago he told me all."

"Does he hear much news?"

"Plenty, Excellency. He sleeps in the same room as a man named Nyistor, a labourer who is now Assistant Commissary for Agriculture."

The White Knight smiled. Matters were turning out far better than he had ever expected.

"What thinks your son, then, Hervesi, of the Commune?"

The railwayman's face twisted into a snarl. "As I, Excellency. He fought for glorious Hungary, for your country and mine, not for these filthy Russian murderers."

"Not my country, Hervesi," said Wenzel quietly.

"Not your country, Excellency?" The man looked puzzled. "I do not understand."

"I am not Hungarian--I am British."

"You--British? Then you are--an enemy!" Instantly Hervesi's face became suspicious.

"Not an enemy of you or any other honest Hungarian, Hervesi. Only an enemy of the Commune. I--I was engaged to a Hungarian lady, Hervesi, but when I got back from the War I found that the Communists had--killed her, killed her as surely as they killed your son."

"The swine, the swine! So that is why you help us? We Hungarians never wanted to fight the British, Excellency, but we were the puppets of German intrigue. Why did England fight us? We were--we are friends of England."

"England does not forget the fact, Hervesi," but Wenzel said it with a heavy heart, for even then the Peace Conference was disintegrating the unhappy country, forgetting all ties of past friendship in the wild, mad effort to punish the war-makers--and in doing so punished only the cat's-paws of Germany, while Germany herself---- At that stage the past was not yet past, and Wenzel hastened to turn the subject.

"You are a thinker, Hervesi. Good, it is so much the better. But listen. It is true what your son has told you: I have sworn to kill Szamuelly. But my task is difficult. In his Death Train he tears across the country, never remaining in any one place, only just long enough to kill honest Hungarians, and then he is gone again. I cannot catch him up. Even to-night I am an hour late, even now Szamuelly is many miles away from me.

"I must have an ally. Your son can help me. Whenever he can obtain news of Szamuelly's destination he can wire through to you, so that I can be there first, and by God's will I can fulfil my oath. Do you think he will do that for me, Hervesi?"

"Excellency, I answer for him as I answer for myself. Szamuelly must die," and all unconsciously he uttered the words which for weeks now had haunted the White Knight.

* * * * * *

The country was stirring; the faint rumblings of discontent were growing louder and more insistent, the seeds sown by the counter-revolutionaries were ripening for the crop. The honest peasants were tired of selling their goods for the worthless paper money of the Soviet, the workmen were realizing that fifty Soviet crowns were of little more use than five blue crowns of the old Austro-Hungarian Bank.

The knell of the Commune was sounding, the tocsin for liberty ringing, and the people of Hungary were muttering angrily, ominously. Only in Budapest was the call still unheeded, though not unheard, for there Bela Kun and his cronies ruled supreme, and people were afraid to express their feelings for fear of reprisals--revenge which might come from Cserni, whose red car continually raced the streets of the city, from Szamuelly with his Death Train, or from the inhuman spider Korvin-Klein, who sat in his web devouring the virulent as well as the inoffensive Whites with an impartiality only equalled by his insatiable appetite.

Away in distant parts the Whites were openly preparing for battle. The Vends of Western Hungary, forced to flee to Austria, were being joined by Hungarian officers commanded by Baron Lehar. In Szeged, where the fuel of counter-revolution burned brightest, a White Government was being formed, with Nicholas Horthy as Minister of War and Paul Teleki as Foreign Secretary, while Generals Soos and Gombos were organizing the White Army.

If the members of the Supreme Soviet Council, kept fully acquainted with the situation by their numerous spies, were experiencing the first warnings of their coming doom, under the thrall of the ranting Bela Kun they hesitated to betray the fact.

With an incredible faith in his waning star, to the Dictator, any omens of a dark future were hidden by roseate-hued visions of a World Commune, with himself second only to Lenin or Trotsky. With an unbounded nerve, of which one could scarcely dream him capable, he demanded of the Allies the fulfilment of their promise that on the cessation of hostilities against the Czechs the Tisza should be evacuated by the Rumanians, for day by day, keeping pace with the atrocities committed by the Communists upon their own people, the enemies of Hungary, Czecho-Slovakia, Serbia, and Rumania, were advancing on all sides, sometimes repulsed, but more often gaining the victory over the less organized Red guards.

That Clemenceau, President of the Peace Conference, treated his message with disdain, ordering that Hungary should observe the conditions of the Armistice before he would treat with the Soviet Council, meant nothing to the impudent Dictator, who ironically replied to Clemenceau that he, Bela Kun, doubted the power of the President to impose his will upon the Rumanians or the Czechs.

Then, in defiance of the Peace Conference, he issued orders for mobilization, and upon the walls of Hungary's villages and towns appeared huge, glaring posters of a sailor's figure, running and holding aloft a Red flag, which bore the inscription: "FEGYUERBE!" Ex-soldiers, who for long years had fought the Serbians and Russians, gazed upon the crude recruiting pictures, read the call "To Arms," and realized that fighting must continue, even while their friends and relations who remained at home were stabbed in the back by the self-chosen leaders of the nation for whom they would have to fight.

Thus Bela Kun and his satellites failed to heed the writing on the wall--the passing of the Bavarian Soviet, the miscarriage of the Austrian Soviet, the failure of the Russian Soviet to come to their assistance--and laughed at the Allies, at the threatening armies of the Whites, at the invading hordes of the neighbouring Slavs.

There was only one who really sensed the change--Szamuelly; in an effort to intimidate the recalcitrants his Death Train tore from one end of the country to the other, and all the time he hanged, butchered, murdered, and the trail of corpses he left in his tracks grew longer and longer.

From Szamuelly and his hangmen the innocent and guilty alike fled in terror; and the volume of their curses grew louder, till their reverberating echoes reached the ears of the spies, who in due course then reported to the fiend himself.

At the constant repetition of the threats he merely laughed: it was not the individual he feared, but the concerted whole. In his lightning trips he did not fail to notice the signs of the growing White menace, and so he said to Bela Kun, "Kill! Kill! Kill!" setting a good example.

Yet his day was to come, and Szamuelly had a hint of it one morning when he received a letter addressed to him at the Batthyany Palace.

He slit open the envelope. Inside was a plain post card on which were written six words only:

Szamuelly shall die.
THE WHITE KNIGHT

Szamuelly felt a surge of murderous hate toward the sender, and sent for Gunzi.

When the detective arrived Szamuelly handed over the card to the other.

"Look, Comrade Gunzi, look! Here is another message which I have to-day received through the post."

The detective took and inspected it with a quizzical eye. "He seems certain of himself," he muttered calmly.

Szamuelly smashed his fist down upon the table before him. "Do you think I sent for you to hear that?" he shouted furiously, but to the acute ears of the detective there was an undercurrent of fear in the voice of the other.

"Well, what do you want of me?" he asked coolly.

"Is there still no trace of the braggart?"

Gunzi shook his head, and his lips tightened. "Not yet, comrade. He is as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp, yet I shall trace him in the end. At Aszod, had not Gonnard fled to Budapest, I should have arrested the White Knight, and by now he would be but a memory."

"Bah, child's talk! Did you not arrest him here, in Budapest itself; did you not actually imprison him in a cell underneath Parliament House, and did not you and the fools on the Council let him free against my advice? I should have hanged that man whether he had been the White Knight or not."

Gunzi bit his lip. "Who could have foreseen that the White Knight had such a cunning trick up his sleeve? That day in the Hapsburg Palace I would have sworn an oath it was not he."

"Even now I do not understand. I cannot get Korvin-Klein to talk. Was it or was it not the White Knight who appeared before us that morning?"

"It was. My men trailed him for a time, and then--he disappeared entirely. They reported to me. I hurried to the room where I had arrested him the night before and there I found a message from him thanking me for my help in his escape."

"Yes, yes. All that I know. But what of his scars, the difference in his expression, in the man himself?"

Gunzi shrugged his shoulders. "The White Knight could most easily tell you that. Myself, I have only a theory."

"And that?"

"I believe that the White Knight's scars were nothing but grease-paint. During the night he wiped them off."

"Good God!" Even into Szamuelly's unwilling eyes there crept a glow of admiration, till suddenly he remembered the message he had just received, and shivered.

"Gunzi, you must catch him soon. I begin to feel nervous."

"Why should you? You are surrounded by reliable men. I do not think even the White Knight can pierce through your gang of Terror Boys."

"But the White Knight is uncanny."

Gunzi sneered. "The White Knight is human. He baffled me for a short time at Aszod, but in the end I got on his track. Give me a week or two longer and I shall bring him to you, and the next time... I hope the Council will take your advice, Comrade Szamuelly, and hang him anyway, right man or not." A spasm of rage convulsed his face. "God! to think we had the White Knight in our hands and let him go!"

* * * * * *

Hidden in a small copse some hundred yards distant from the track, two men waited for the Death Train, which was due to thunder toward them at any moment. From where they were they could just see the red light which sent out its warning ray from between the iron parallels, and behind which lay a felled tree.

"Why the red light, Geoffrey, why the warning? Would it not be better to let the Death Train crash into the obstruction, and so send it, Szamuelly, and all his hangmen to Hell together?"

"I wish I dared, Arnold, but I am afraid to take the risk. The time-table is at the best of times irregular. Supposing instead of the Death Train it were another we wrecked? Suppose an unexpected express were to come the other way? No, no, Arnold! I must rely upon this," and he fondly patted the rifle which was stretched out in front of him, significantly turned in the direction of the barricade.

"Do you think you will get the opportunity--that your courage will not fail you at the last moment?"

The White Knight laughed softly: "Would you hesitate to kill a rat, Arnold? To me the life of Szamuelly is less than that of the meanest rodent. As for the rest, I can only hope that he will not suspect the truth and cringe into the farthest corner of the coach."

"Will not your constant warnings prepare him for all eventualities? Tell me, Geoffrey, would not a swift, silent blow be just as feasible? I do not understand the reason of your repeated messages to him."

"When should I ever get an opportunity for the swift blow? He is surrounded night and day. From the very first he has had his men under an Army discipline, and set guards. No prince threatened by anarchists has ever been better protected. No, Arnold, do not think I play for melodramatic effect.

"No will however strong, no courage however deep, is proof in the long run against the insidious prickings of fear. Threats, if sustained long enough, are like the dripping of water on the hardest rock, the succession of footsteps upon the toughest stone.

"Sooner or later his nerve will crack. He will begin to suspect even his own men, and when suspicion once enters the mind nothing will drive it out again. When that time comes he will hesitate to sleep lest during those hours a knife should be plunged into his bosom. He will fear to eat lest the food should be poisoned. When he reaches that stage he will flee from the Death Train, from his Terror Boys, perhaps even from Budapest, and then he will be my prey, and I shall kill him with more pleasure than I should have in exterminating a rabid dog."

"That is, of course, if you do not succeed to-night, or at any other time?"

"To-night is my one opportunity. The trick will not work twice."

"Why not shoot him when he stops at the villages? From a near-by window..."

"And if I missed? Arnold, I have seen that butcher hang men and torture children for the mere love of cruelty. He scarcely seeks excuses for his vile work. What would happen to the villagers if, as I have said, I missed him? How many would he hang in revenge?"

"I am dull-witted to-night, Geoffrey."

"You are too happy to think of anyone or anything, my dear chap," Wenzel said softly; then he sighed. "I envy you, Arnold, but I am glad, deuced glad! You have earned your reward and Cecile...."

Arnold laughed happily: "I had not meant to say a word to her, but last night ... you must have noticed the moon, Geoffrey; it seemed to have a smirk on its face, and when I looked at it, it seemed to wink at me and then grin derisively. The next thing I knew the words were out of my mouth, Cecile was in my arms, her lips pressing against mine.... I wonder why I am telling you all this, Geoffrey? I had always thought that a man's sensations on such a night were sacred to himself alone."

In his heart Wenzel agreed, for every word that Arnold uttered flayed his soul, seared into his heart, and reminded him of another night when the moon had winked at him in the same way, and a similar torrent of passionate words had forced themselves from his lips.... Memories! Memories! Was he never going to be free of them? Memories of Zita! Memories of Elizabeth! His heart cried out in agony, but his voice was calm when he answered:

"Because your happiness is mine, Arnold." His lips curved ironically as he wondered dimly whether his lips had ever uttered a greater lie.

There was a short silence, but Arnold was bubbling over with too great a joy to remain quiet very long.

"Do you know, Geoffrey, this is the first time we have talked together, alone like this, since the day you walked free from the hands of the Communists? All this time my curiosity has remained unappeased. How in the name of God did you deceive them? Your--your scars, Geoffrey, what happened to them? Why have you avoided the _château_? Why have you restlessly moved about from place to place, as though some one forced you ever onwards? Before then I--I had thought----"

"Stop!" Wenzel heard the fatal words before they were even uttered. "As my friend, Arnold, do not question me; do not endeavour to awaken cherished thoughts which must be for ever buried and forgotten."

"Geoffrey, I am sorry! I did not realize. I----"

"Arnold, please!" His voice was weary. "Remember this. I have no personal feelings left. They are dead, killed in the first case by the Communists, and then again by----" Just in time he stopped himself. Another moment and he might have mentioned Elizabeth's name. "As for the scars... Arnold, I battled with myself for hours that morning. When I awoke in a cell and realized that the Communists had me at last, I knew it to be but a matter of hours before I should be dispatched from this world, but I was not unprepared. When I first became the White Knight I knew that the possibility of my being captured eventually was a hundred to one on, so I took necessary precautions. But for one thing, however, I should never have made use of them.

"You never suspected my down-at-heel boots as harbouring any means of escape, did you, Arnold? As a matter of fact, they were not down-at-heel, for both heels were hollow. Inside were two thick sticks of grease-paint, Arnold. I rubbed them well into the wounds; rubbed and rubbed until at last each scar was erased in turn, the thick grease-paint effectively hiding them. After that I powdered them well, so that nothing was noticeable except a white pallor over the whole of my face. Then, on top of it all, dirt; not just a coat of dust which might wipe off, but thick, ingrained dirt. Have you ever rubbed dirt into a greasy substance? It was perfectly effective, as you know."

"Good Lord, it is amazing! Yet--forgive me if I hurt your feelings--that much I understand; but the wound across your scalp, your eyebrow, and--and--your twisted cheek?" He choked slightly; it was hard to mention such things to the White Knight himself.

Wenzel smiled softly to himself. Poor old Arnold! How his words stumbled!

"I had prepared for all that, Arnold. I had ready a little pad, a tiny strip of flesh-coloured canvas, on to which was stuck a not inconsiderable portion of my own hair from another part of the scalp. Liquid gum, similar to that used in theatrical circles, was more than sufficient to keep the shaped canvas in its place. Then I dyed my hair, parted it on the other side--what parting I could induce my cropped hair to display--brushed the remainder the other way, and that scar was concealed.

"My eyebrow I treated in exactly the same way. As for my mouth, a tiny little ivory chip inside did the trick, by pulling and keeping the flesh more or less as it should be naturally. Incidentally, it hurt like the Devil, but against that it helped disguise my voice, so it served a double purpose.

"My changed appearance plus a likely story and a possibility of leading them on the track of the White Knight earned me my freedom. I had but one thing to fear--that they would hang me from pure spite, but--I must be more than a bad penny, for here I am."

Had Arnold been less in a state of profound fascination he might have detected the bitter tinge which crept into his leader's last words; even now there was still one question he wished to ask.

"Geoffrey, old man, I have never heard anything more marvellous in all my life, yet won't you tell me why you hesitated, that morning in your cell, to make your plans for escape, and what, at the last moment, made you change your mind?" There was a wistful note in his voice. In his present happiness he wished all his friends to share it.

Purposely the White Knight ignored the first part of the question. "The thought of this moment," Wenzel replied, and again he patted his rifle. "Szamuelly must die." Suddenly he shot out his hand and grasped Terhune's arm. "Listen!" he said harshly.

From afar off they heard a faint murmuring, a tremulous, echoing vibration.

"The Death Train!" whispered Arnold.

Wenzel laughed throatily, and for the first time in weeks there was a happy timbre in his tone.

The noise of the shrieking monster pounding toward them through the night grew louder, and some way off its fiery beacon flashed into view as it rounded a curve. Swaying in its stride it thundered forward; then with a wild groan, wrung protestingly from it by the fierce application of the brakes, it slowed up until it came to a stop, scarcely fifty yards from the warning red light, snorting its fury into the air.

The immediate neighbourhood of the Death Train was lit up by the blaze of light from within, and the two watchers were able to see the hurried exit of several men from the second coach, clambering down to the ground and running forward into the night.

With a steady hand the White Knight swung round the sight of his rifle; unwaveringly it pointed to the exit of the first coach, and there waited....

The men who had rushed forward to investigate returned once again into the radius of the light. They were gesticulating wildly. A window swung up, a smooth, purring voice, which the White Knight believed to be that of Szamuelly, rang out, questioning.

The rifle swung round, pointing significantly toward the man at the window, but the White Knight was not sure, so he waited. There must be no mistake that night.

The man withdrew his head from the window. Almost immediately he emerged from the obscurity of the exit, and the White Knight saw that he had made no mistake. It was indeed Szamuelly!