Geoffrey nodded.
"I was frightened. There are spies, detectives, and _agents
provocateurs_ everywhere."
"Spies, detectives--I don't understand!"
"No, sir, you wouldn't. You have won the War, and we have lost. It
makes all the difference. Hungary is now a republic--worse, in fact,
for we have a Soviet Government."
"Good God!" Geoffrey was astounded, but recollections of Zita made
him urge the older man on with his story. "Tell me more," he
suggested.
"It all began with Count Michael Karolyi. He formed a republic, with
himself at the helm. Not for long, sir. The Communists took the
lead under Bela Kun, two days ago, and now we have the Commune,
another word for murder and pillage.
"I have heard it said that Szamuelly wants a three days' loot, three
days during which the comrades, the Communists, can steal and sack to
their hearts' content. It may happen at any minute. Sir, I cannot
tell you how bad it is!" Two tears forced themselves out of the
man's eyes and slowly rolled down his puckered cheeks.
"You see," he continued presently, "myself, I am too old for these
ideas. You grand folks, you treat the likes of us well. I used to
make good money before the War came and spoilt it all."
"But what of the rich people, I mean the people who used to stay
here? What of them?"
The waiter shook his head slowly. "All penniless, sir, penniless.
Their money confiscated, their property stolen." He dropped his
voice. "Many of them are ... dead, murdered."
Geoffrey seemed only to hear his voice from a distance as the man
continued. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his head was
reeling. What of Zita? What of her? Supposing that she were ...
dead!
"Oh, God!" he moaned, and with an imperious motion he stopped the
waiter, and strode up and down. Presently he turned again to the
other. "Tell me," he asked anxiously, "has anything happened to the
people in the Erzebet-Korut?"
It was in the Erzebet-Korut that Zita lived with her father and
mother, the Count and Countess Rakoczy.
The man scratched his head. "I have heard tell of--and yet--no, sir,
I am not sure."
Geoffrey could have shaken him by the shoulders. "Go, now!" he
cried, and the old man passed out.
It was too late that night to do anything. Geoffrey undressed and
threw himself into bed, yet scarcely slept. He tossed and turned
from side to side, but all the time he could picture only Zita, who
appeared to be vaguely holding out her arms to him, just as she had
done when he had left her, over four years ago.
Sick with apprehension, he heard the hours gradually strike one after
another, and never was dawn more welcome. He hastily dressed.
Not waiting for breakfast, he hurried to the Erzebet-Korut, and was
relieved to find that, if outside appearances could be taken as any
criterion, nothing had happened to the Rakoczy residence, since,
except for its dirty condition, it seemed untouched.
With a trembling heart he approached the entrance, and was presently
admitted.
Ten minutes later a white-faced man reeled out, stunned by the news
he heard, the story he had been told by the dying Countess, the tale
of how the Count, for his patriotic resistance to Communism, had been
proscribed an outlaw by Bela Kun, and had fled, accompanied by Zita,
for his life.
Zita and her kindly white-haired father outlaws in their own country,
liable to be shot at any moment! Geoffrey groaned. It seemed
unbelievable! Only by an effort of will did he become his normal
self again as he walked back to the hotel.
Fortunately the Countess had been able to give him the address to
which her tiny family had fled, a small peasant cottage in Szugy on
the Ipoly.
Thither went Geoffrey, his vague haunting fear growing stronger as
the train advanced sluggishly through the quiet countryside. The
hours passed slowly, but at length the train steamed into
Balassagyarmat. Later Geoffrey arrived at Szugy.
Everything seemed quiet and peaceful--ominously so. There was a
sense of brooding hurt, a solemn hush. Yard by yard Geoffrey
advanced nearer to his destination, and all the time his heart beat a
wild tattoo, though now it was because of his nearness to Zita. At
last he was really to see her, to feel her within his arms.
At last! A small cottage was before him. In front of it bloomed
early spring flowers, and the grass sprouted greenly. A narrow
flagged path led up to the door, and along this Geoffrey stepped.
Another few moments, a second only...
The door was slightly open, and there was no answer to his knocks.
There was a slight smell, a tang which he could not define.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The tang was that of blood, freshly spilled blood, that of the old
Count, whose gentle heart had brought him unwavering popularity
wherever he went.
He had been playing chess at the time. Even now the chessboard and
the pieces still remained on the table: red _versus_ white, red
winning, the white king in check to them.
On the floor lay the Count--dead. Opposite sat Zita, still and
motionless, her staring, horrified eyes fixed with a peculiar
intensity in front of her.
Calmly Geoffrey inspected the scene in front of him, quietly viewing
the tragedy. Only his eyes flickered strangely. He moved more into
the room, and bent over the corpse. As he had thought. Bayonet
wounds, here, there, and everywhere. The helpless old man had been
literally stabbed to death by brutal, bestial murderers, pawns of
Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat.
Zita was untouched. She had died as she watched her father's death,
her heart giving way under the strain, her hand clutching a
chess-piece, a piece which, had she finished her move, would have
released the white king from check by taking a red pawn.
The piece was--a white knight.
_CHAPTER I_
The surging crowds, swaying, shuffling, grumbling, waited impatiently
in the grim Parliament Square, as yet lit but faintly by the dawning
from the east.
A motley crew, a corrupt community; the scene was but a typical
picture of Budapest and all Hungary in the grip of revolution, a
revolt of the proletariat for government by the proletariat, the
shadow of Lenin falling upon an unhappy country, already torn by
years of recent strife and earlier suppression.
A country, monarchist to the core, now ground down by Soldiers'
Councils and Workers' Councils, headed by the Russian-taught Bela
Kun, and the bloodthirsty tyrant Tibor Szamuelly, his Terror Boys,
and the merciless Korvin-Klein. Unhappy Hungary!
Down through the ages have trickled histories of the French
Revolution, the people _versus_ the '_aristos_.' Too well is known
the toll of Madame Guillotine, and the cruel justice of Robespierre.
There have been written histories of the Revolution, of the howling
mobs, the vampire women; readers have felt a saddened pain at the
thought of fleeing _émigrés_, driven from their own country, the land
of their birth.
Yet how many are aware that in less than a year more horrible deeds,
more bloodthirsty deaths occurred during the dictatorship of Bela Kun
than during all the years of the French Revolution?
Even in the crowd which waited this morning there were whispers of
horrible tortures: of men, whose only crime was that of belonging to
the hated _bourgeoisie_, who were strung up by the hands and gagged
with the lighted ends of cigars and cigarettes; of others who were
bayoneted by the Terror Boys, and flung into a newly dug grave and
buried, even while the breath still remained in their bodies.
Other tales there were also, all too true unfortunately, of prisoners
of Szamuelly, of the proletariat, who were, incredible as it may
sound, flayed alive by their own countrymen.
Murder, theft, blackmail! These were not crimes--merely the
prerogative of the proletariat. To be a _bourgeois_! There was no
worse sin in the calendar of Dante; and so the towns and villages of
Hungary ran red with the blood of the Hungarians, and all because the
shadow of Lenin fell upon the unhappy land.
"Well done, Bela Kun! Well done, Szamuelly!" applauded Lenin, and,
thus encouraged, these two flung the war-battered country into the
maelstrom of bloody revolution, unheeded by the outside world, for
all Europe was itself only just free of the throes of a ghastly war.
Not a soul to aid the unhappy victims, not a man to stretch out a
helping hand--save one.
* * * * * *
"They keep us waiting. See the rope swinging. It is waiting too; it
has good work to do these days. A good piece of hemp, comrade. It
must love the blasted _bourgeoisie_, it embraces them so closely.
Maybe, though, it's bullets to-day. A little piece of lead makes a
nice hole, eh! a nice hole!"
The speaker grinned evilly, and his companion chuckled likewise.
They were two of the many who waited, two Red-cockaded workmen who
were there to see men hanged to satisfy the sated appetite of
Korvin-Klein.
"They are a long time. Perhaps they are holding a trial."
The one who answered was a contrast to his companion, for the first
speaker was as tall as Comrade George Garami was short, and as
scarred as the other was unpleasant. They might have been a source
of humour, these two, to the hundreds who surrounded them, but people
did not laugh much these days.
"Pah!" The tall man spat. "Korvin-Klein knows how to treat the
pigs. Trials! What do they want trials for? That is what I ask
you, comrade. What do they want with trials? Hang them, I say, and
quickly."
"Me too," agreed Garami, "but Bela Kun says the Allies may interfere."
The other man scowled. "Not they. The more we kill the better they
will be pleased. It saves them the trouble."
Garami grinned. "You speak well, comrade. Only if it were the
Allies it might be you who would hang instead of the _bourgeois_
dogs. There were those fifty Italian prisoners you said you
bayoneted----"
"Stop your mouth," muttered the scarred one. "You talk too much,
you, George Garami. Your tongue wags freely, friend, and maybe it
will lead you into trouble."
Garami grunted. "What have I to fear, eh! friend Wenzel? I am a
good Communist, me."
"So well you may be; but even good Communists have talked too much
lately. It is said that they gossip too freely and that the White
Knight has long ears."
"The White Knight! What and who may he be, comrade?"
Wenzel turned his hideously scarred face toward the smaller man.
"What, dolt, do you mean to say you have never heard of the White
Knight?"
"Should I question you otherwise?" asked Garami testily.
Wenzel burst into a harsh roar of raucous laughter, and the unusual
sound attracted the attention of others around him, and they turned
his way. Wenzel, observing this, waved his arms wide, claiming their
attention.
"Sisters, comrades," he announced, "my little friend here has never
heard of the White Knight!"
There was no echoing smile of derision from his listeners; instead
Wenzel saw nothing but blank faces.
He raised his eyebrows. "What!" he exclaimed, "have none of you yet
heard of the White Knight?"
Several shook their heads, and a woman called out: "Tell us, comrade,
of him. Does he belong to the counter-revolution?"
Wenzel grinned, and the effect was so repulsive that the woman shrank
back in disgust.
"Tell you! Gladly, comrades. 'Tis not often my lot to be the
town-crier. I feel as important as a local commissary.
"Know you, then, that this White Knight is a mysterious being of
whom, so far, no one has yet any knowledge. Maybe he is a man,
possibly a woman, or perhaps a bastard brat sent up from Hell to
assist the Devil's spawn, the _bourgeoisie_.
"He was first heard of about a month ago, when the People's
Commissary at Balassagyarmat arrested the outlaw Stephen Arpad. It
was known to Bela Kun that this Stephen Arpad was indulging in
treasonable correspondence with traitors here in Budapest with a view
to establishing a White counter-revolution.
"Well, friends, Bela Kun awaited his time, but at last this dog Arpad
was arrested and thrown into the Balassagyarmat jail, and there he
was kept awaiting the time when Tibor Szamuelly should arrive to hang
him.
"On the night before Szamuelly arrived, what do you think happened,
friends? Arpad escaped."
There was a deep-throated growl from the crowd, and Wenzel, realizing
that he was working them up, and appreciating the fact that he was at
the moment the centre of interest, became more bombastically
theatrical.
"Yes, comrades," he continued, his ugly face glowing malignantly,
"Arpad escaped, and there was no one to offer any explanation. All
that was found in his cell was a small chess-piece, a white knight.
"What did Szamuelly do? Why, he did what all good Communists should
do. He hanged the commissary as a warning to others not to let good
hanging meat escape in the same way."
Wenzel roared with laughter; but there was no one to join in with
him. Steeped in bloody thoughts and deeds, familiar with ghastly
sights, insane with revolutionary lust as they were, yet Wenzel
appalled them.
At least a head higher than the tallest of his listeners, he was
conspicuous, not only by his height, but likewise by his face, his
head, and his general appearance.
In the first place, his greasy cap, gaudily illuminated by a
brilliant Red cockade, the badge of the Communist and the
proletariat, did not entirely conceal his closely cropped head of
hair, naturally parted on the right-hand side by a vivid and
extraordinarily straight scar--one of the many which disfigured his
strange features.
Six scars there were, including the one described above. There was
one which shaved his left eyebrow, one which scored his left cheek,
one which stretched from his mouth, pulling it perpetually out of
shape across to the lobe of his right ear, one small one just above,
and finally one across his throat, creating the ghastly impression
that the man had once endeavoured to commit suicide by inflicting
there, with a razor, a self-made wound.
Two of the scars, though obviously healed up, were so deeply
impressed into the skin that at times they betrayed traces of the
warm blood which flowed beneath. His emotions aroused, these two
wounds flushed redly, as if on the point of reopening.
The effect of these blemishes was to make the man so hideously ugly
that it was disgusting to cast eyes upon him.
In himself he was of broad stature, and this, with his height, made
him lumbering and ungainly. His hands were big and filthy, the nails
scratched and cracked, and worn down to the quick.
His clothes were greasy, frayed at the sleeves and at the bottom of
the trousers. His boots were laced with string.
Repulsive was the only word to describe him. Of the ravenous wolves,
of the cruel, barbarous vultures, dragged up by the Revolution from
the slums to which they belonged, this man, Istvan Wenzel, was, in
appearance at least, the most vicious, the most terrifying.
To the student of physiognomy he was a man of vice, and to his
lengthy list of undesirable traits might be added vanity. Surrounded
by a city's scum, only a little better than himself, he was conscious
that he was, for the moment, the centre of interest, that his words
were creating attention: the fact that his fellow-Communists drew
away at his ghoulish laughter did not seem to wound his
sensibilities, even if he were possessed of any.
"Yes, comrades, he was the first prisoner to escape. Yet there were
others, more of these _bourgeois_, who mysteriously vanished just in
time to escape the hangman's rope or our soldiers' bullets. Each
time there was left behind a chess-piece, always the white knight,
and so the man who has been responsible for these escapes has become
known as the White Knight."
There was a shout from the rear. "Ay, comrade, you say nothing but
the truth. I have heard of this pig, the White Knight. It is said
that he has sworn to rescue the Count Kalman Bakocz. Comrade
Szamuelly is to take a hand in the game. This White Knight will soon
be in Red Mourning, eh, friends?"
"Ay, ay," cried several, amidst a ripple of laughter.
There was a sudden stir, and the people swung round. At the far end
of the square came into view a group of Red soldiers, laughing and
joking. In their midst three prisoners walked unhappily, doomed to
die, condemned to death by the inhuman Korvin-Klein, the uneducated,
uncouth judge appointed by the Dictator to try all enemies of the
proletariat.
Pushing through the crowd, the soldiers made their way toward that
part of the square above which the stone lions proudly growled
defiance to the world. Here the three victims were made to stand,
calmly awaiting their fate.
There was silence, a muttered word of command: the sharp resonant
clash of gun-fire echoed across the square, and three patriots
slipped to the ground, killed by Hungarian bullets that were fired by
Hungarian men at the command of a Hungarian.
Scarcely had the sound of the discharge died away when Wenzel laughed
loudly and slapped his friend Garami on the shoulder.
"Three more traitors sent about their business, eh, comrade!" he
cried.
Garami, rubbing his shoulder where Wenzel's hand had caught him,
laughed too.
_CHAPTER II_
It was eleven o'clock in Balassagyarmat, and the streets were
comparatively pitch dark.
The edict of the Dictator had gone forth--no lights after ten o'clock
P.M.--so that even if the gas and electricity had not failed the
result would have been the same, for were there not detectives,
Terror Boys, and People's Commissaries to see that the word of the
Workers' Council was obeyed?
Under the present _régime_ the houses and effects of all were the
common property of every one else: books, food, furniture; there was
nothing, if the occasion arose, to which the comrades of the Commune
could not help themselves.
Not many walked the streets. Here and there drunken Red soldiers
staggered back to their billets, notwithstanding that prohibition was
in force. Here and there a lurking shadow betokened a detective, or
sometimes a daring _bourgeois_ risking his life to visit friends.
Only People's Commissaries walked about openly, or members of the
local Soviet.
In some houses there was peace; here lived Communists who ran with
the hounds. In some there was a significant quiet--_bourgeois_ who
were still left in safety, but who might yet run with the hares.
In one home, the residence of Count Kalman Bakocz, there was only
sorrow, a dull, hopeless, heart-gnawing despair.
A week ago Terror Boys had found their way into the house and
arrested the Count. In vain his wife had pleaded for her husband's
liberty, unsuccessfully had his daughter Cecile added her pleas. The
Red officer merely flicked his fingers, gave marching orders, and the
Count was torn from the bosom of his family and flung into jail, only
to be transferred the following morning to Budapest to await the
justice of Korvin-Klein.
Later his son, Francis, returned, and only with a great effort did
Cecile and her mother keep him back from invoking his friends to
assist him in what could only result in a futile attempt at rescue.
For one week the Countess lay prostrate, unable to eat for the fear
which gripped her heart in a vice. Only the tender solicitude of
Cecile and the brave optimism of Francis kept her alive.
This was the seventh night after Count Bakocz's arrest, and again no
news other than that he was still alive. The news-bringer thought
fit to withhold the fact that he was nigh on starving.
Despite the commands of the Dictator there was a tiny particle of
candle throwing a flickering light upon the shrunken, careworn
features of Countess Bakocz as she lay in bed, her daughter sitting
on one side, her son on the other. Heavy curtains protected the
windows, so that not a gleam of light could escape the room, yet
nevertheless each one was quivering with tension which could not
altogether be concealed, and every time footsteps echoed in the
street outside Cecile held her breath in terror and Francis clenched
his fists.
Countess Bakocz weakly turned her head toward her son. "What news,
son, what news to-night?"
Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turned his eyes away as
he felt them filling with tears. "Still no further news. Father is
still--alive." He swallowed hard.
"Nothing else, Francis?" Even despair did not dim her proud eyes so
much that she missed the trembling of his lips.
"Nothing else."
His mother shook her head. "Poor boy, poor boy. You cannot lie,
Francis." She stretched out her emaciated hand and placed it
tenderly upon his, which lay idly on the coverlet. "Tell me, son, I
can bear it."
Unconsciously Francis turned a questioning gaze upon Cecile, who
nodded slightly.
"They say," he commenced chokingly, "that Father is--is to be tried
on--Mon--Monday."
There was no sound from the Countess, not a movement, but Francis
felt the hand clasping his jump convulsively, and her lower lip
twitched unceasingly.
"Mother dear, Mother darling, do not give up hope." Cecile leaned
forward and kissed her on her bloodless forehead. "Many things may
happen. God will save him. God will save him."
"God must have many tears to shed on our unhappy country," she
replied softly, and from this Cecile knew that her mother could not
even have it in her heart to put her trust in Heaven.
Nor could she blame her mother, for she wondered what evil any of
them could have done that they should be visited with this calamity.
For twenty years the Count and his family had lived in this selfsame
house, leading a God-fearing life.
To the house of his forefathers he had brought his wife twenty years
back, and there his daughter Cecile had been born a year later, and
two years afterward Francis.
During the War he had fought courageously for his country. Now, with
the War scarcely at an end, he was seized by his countrymen and
thrown into jail. His crime? Raising his voice on behalf of his
unhappy people, beseeching the peasants to look into their hearts,
where, he said, they would find they wanted nothing of revolution,
wanted only peace to till the land and rear their children.
There was silence in the room; the candle burned smaller. When that
was gone Cecile had another bit to put in its place, but after that
... In future they might not have even the welcoming flame of the
candle to cheer them; nothing but the dismal dark of the night.
Suddenly Francis raised his head. He heard the hoot of an owl.
"'Tis Kirchhoff!" he cried, and running lightly across the room he
disappeared downstairs.
Cecile shivered ominously. Kirchhoff brought only news, and "no news
was good news." Was it that Francis had been misled? Perhaps the
trial of her father had been that morning. A little cry arose to her
throat, and her hand flew up to stop it, but too late. Her mother
had heard; she looked at Cecile with the expression of a hunted deer.
"He is a long time," she said. Cecile knew her mother's thoughts had
been following the trend of her own.
Was Francis never coming up again? She wanted to scream
hysterically. Surely he must know that they would be anxious. The
seconds ticked by. Not a movement from below, not a sound to be
heard.
Another moment and Cecile would have called, but there was a cautious
step, and almost as soon as she recognized the footsteps of Francis
she was conscious that there was some one with him.
Hypnotically she watched the door until it swung open. So Francis
was bringing Kirchhoff up. Why? Why? She trembled, but the man who
entered was not Kirchhoff, but a stranger.
"Mother dear, do not be excited, but there is news, wonderful news.
This gentleman has come from Buda. He is Mr Arnold Terhune, of
London."
Countess Bakocz flashed a startled glance at her daughter. An
Englishman! A late foe, countryman of an enemy land with whom peace
had not yet been signed! How could he bring good news?
Cecile did not meet her look, for she was gazing upon the young man
who entered, raptly assimilating the picture he presented. Her
thoughts were that here was a man connected with good news. If he
bore information which should hearten them all what matter his
nationality?
The Countess inclined her head coldly as the Englishman bowed.
"You must forgive my intrusion, Countess, but there is a matter of
great importance which I must discuss with you."
"I am at your service, monsieur." Try as she might she could not
keep the chilling hauteur from her voice.
How different from Cecile, whose eyes were sparkling, and whose
cheeks were flushing! He possessed a wonderful voice, this
Englishman who spoke their language with scarcely a trace of foreign
accent.
Arnold Terhune glanced around him.
"We are alone?"
A tear welled into the eyes of the Countess. "Absolutely," she
replied, and the tinge of bitterness and hopelessness in her voice
betrayed its story of tragedy, its tale of faithless servants, of
forbidden friends.
The Englishman inclined his head. "Then I may speak, for it is of
vital importance that what I have to say goes no further. Countess,
I bear a message to you from one who is known as the White Knight."
"The White Knight!" The exclamation was from Cecile. With those
three words banished hope returned in full force. The White Knight!
If the rumour of this mysterious person had not yet reached the
proletariat, the same could not be said of the persecuted
_bourgeoisie_ and the hunted aristocracy. Like the spread of a
forest fire, the name of the White Knight had passed from mouth to
mouth with inconceivable rapidity.
Stories of his wonderful rescues had penetrated into every house and
home which sheltered one of the hated _bourgeoisie_, his saga was
told in whispers and in snatches. To the gentle families of the
forgotten people his name was a glimpse of blue breaking in between
the heavy thunderclouds of revolution, a veritable star of hope,
shining undimmed through an overpowering blackness.
Countess Bakocz raised herself slightly on her elbows, and the blood
flowed into her face. "The White Knight!" she whispered. "God be
praised! Then he knows of my husband's plight?"
"Too well, Countess. Moreover, he plans to rescue him--has sworn to
do so."
"Sworn to rescue him!" The Countess faintly repeated the words,
unable to credit the fact. Then joyfully she spoke again. "Cecile,
Francis, listen! The White Knight is to return your father to us.
Oh, children, children, tell me I am not dreaming! Make me believe
what I hear is true!"
Cecile's lips trembled suspiciously as she flung her arms around the
invalid. "Oh, Mother darling, of course it is true!" Across her
mother's shoulder her glance met that of Arnold Terhune.
His eyes held hers, clearly and firmly. In that brief second there
was a change in both of them, though neither was conscious of the
fact. They only felt an inexplicable stirring somewhere deep down
within them.
Arnold Terhune, though dressed in the dirty shapeless clothes of the
Hungarian labourer, with a three or four days' growth of hair upon
his chin, and a very close-cropped head, could not entirely conceal
the lithe, athletic grace with which he carried himself, any more
than his unshaven chin hid its firm strength.
Dressed more suitably, he would have been the personification of
virile English manhood. He was inclined to be tall, just under six
feet, yet his hands and feet were unusually small. His broad
shoulders hinted at robust health and physical strength; his slimmer
waist at a healthy life and arduous exercise.
Well might he have appealed to Cecile, who, herself, was remarkably
beautiful, and of a dusky, gipsy type. Her dark, rippling hair
admirably set off her almost black eyes and pure olive complexion,
while her tiny lips curved seductively into a Cupid's bow.
Perhaps her only fault was a strained, pinched look, the result of
four years' privation, so soon succeeded by the worse rigours of the
revolution, and subsequent Commune.
Countess Bakocz turned eagerly to her visitor. "Tell us, monsieur,
of this rescue. When and how? Oh, how I long to clasp my husband in
my arms again! God be pleased to grant the White Knight success,
monsieur. You will tell us his plans?"
Terhune smiled, then slowly shook his head. "The White Knight alone
knows his plans, Countess. He alone plots his _coups_."
"But you, monsieur, you know this White Knight?"
Terhune's face broke into a smile again, but this time there was
something of hero-worship, of reverence, in it.
"Yes, Countess, he is my friend, and leader."
"Your leader? You work for the White Knight?" Cecile it was who put
the question, and she clasped her hands together in her eager
excitement.
"Yes, m'selle. I am his lieutenant. I do what I can; it is so
little. I wish I could do more, much more, for it makes my heart
bleed to see the Hungary I have always loved plunged into the present
chaos."
"You love Hungary, monsieur, yet you are an Englishman, an enemy!"
There was a gentle reproof in her tones as the Countess spoke.
"We are not our masters in war-time, Countess. I fought for my
country, not for myself."
"Forgive me, monsieur." The Countess was contrite. "I should not
have said that, but I must plead my awful worry in excuse. I was
surprised. To fight against us--and now----!"
"We are already forgetting. Deep in our hearts we English feel for
your nation. We feel you have been the cat's-paw of German
diplomacy. Now that humanity is being outraged by bestial tyranny,
we wish only to aid and assist. Were circumstances different England
might do more, but her people do not know of your plight, have no
idea even of the revolution here. Russia, yes, but Hungary ... Our
papers are full of peace and future prosperity."
"The White Knight, is he English too?"
Terhune nodded. "Yes, Countess, he is, but I beg you not to question
me with regard to him. It is his wish, his policy too, that he
remain merely a name, a myth. His mystery is his second lieutenant."
The Countess buried her face in her hands and quietly sobbed, while
Terhune shuffled his feet uncomfortably, wondering what he had said
to have this effect.
Presently she looked up and smiled faintly. "Forgive a woman's
tears, monsieur, but it grieves me that our unhappy country must look
to enemies for succour against our own people."
"Not entirely, Countess, for there are those in Vienna and in
Budapest who seek to form a counter-revolution, a White Army instead
of a red. I may not mention names, but----" His eloquent gesture
was expressive, and the three Hungarians who listened to him felt a
glow of warmth stealing through their bodies.
"But now, Countess, for the reason of my visit here. There is
information I require, knowledge I must acquire. Listen...."
It was half an hour later when Terhune slipped away, leaving behind
three people who in less than an hour had been pulled from the depths
of misery into the heights of hope and confidence. While the
Countess dreamed of the future, of the time when she should see her
husband again, Francis pictured the adventure and the thrill of the
rescue, and wished he could help. Cecile was quiet and thoughtful.
Too full for words at the thought of having her father with her once
again, she could not, nevertheless, banish the constantly recurring
picture of Arnold Terhune, standing in the light of the flickering
candle, his glance meeting hers across her mother's shoulder.
_CHAPTER III_
Consternation reigned at the meeting of the Workers' Council. Bela
Kun had been sorting out his papers preparatory to suggesting fresh
edicts for the suppression of the _bourgeoisie_.
"Comrades," he had begun, when suddenly his eyes caught sight of a
paper on his table, on which his startled eyes read his own name, in
handwriting which he did not recognize, signed by the name "White
Knight."
Stopping short in his speech, he picked it up and hastily read its
message:
To BELA KUN,
Do not hope to execute the Count Bakocz. I have sworn to rescue him,
and I never fail.