Out of the corner of her eyes Elizabeth saw Imre approaching, and it
seemed to her that he leaned more heavily than usual upon his
supporting stick. At all costs she felt she must keep the mob away.
"Back, back!" She faced them desperately, and her dauntless bearing
impressed the villagers, so that once again they stopped. It did
more: wavering servants, already ashamed of their deviation from
loyalty, lined up behind her, heedless of Eugene's cajoleries and
threats.
Unseen, unnoticed, Lenin's shadow fell across the _tableau_; the
ghastly influence of Bela Kun, the example of Tibor Szamuelly,
reached even here. Sneering slightly, an ex-policeman, now a Red
guard, sighted his rifle and pulled the trigger.
The shot went wide, but only just, so that its flight whistled past
Elizabeth's ear. The blood drained from her face, but she did not
move, and at this first sign of open hostility her courage deepened.
Nor was it without effect on the invaders. Like a bone thrown into
the midst of a pack of starving wolves the shot released a flood of
pent-up passion. Gone in a moment were memories of the past;
tradition, gratitude, and common sense, all were forgotten.
Jostling, pushing, and shouting out insulting epithets, the mob
advanced, led by Comrade Grocz. Some one, she never knew whom,
caught her roughly by the shoulders, and she was flung aside like a
sack of coal, her dress tearing down to the waist and revealing her
underclothing. Even then she might have stood up to them, but a pair
of arms weakly encircled her and held her back.
"My daughter, my child! Elizabeth, you are not hurt? The beasts,
the cowards! Would that I were twenty, even ten years younger and I
would flog them out of the castle on their knees. May I be cursed
that my limbs fail me, may I----"
She put her lingers to his lips, and mutely they stood still,
helplessly watching the Communists brush past, and the castle which
had withstood Mongols, Frenchmen, Germans, Turks, and Austrians fall
to the disciples of Karl Marx and Lenin.
* * * * * *
An hour later they ventured in again. In the meantime they had
hidden in an outhouse, where one of the female servants found them.
To Elizabeth she brought another dress, though, when she looked,
Elizabeth did not recognize it.
"This is one of your own?" she said.
"Yes, mistress."
"But why did you not bring me one of mine?"
Looking everywhere but at her mistress the maid stammered an answer:
"I--I was afraid of the--the men, mistress."
Decently dressed again Elizabeth decided that her father and she
ought to return to the castle, and leaving the shelter of the
outhouse they crossed the courtyard. No one was to be seen.
They entered, only to stop, aghast. No wonder the maid had not
looked Elizabeth in the eye. On every hand were damage and
destruction, from every corner ascended a stench of vile, unwashed
humanity. The Communists were everywhere, lounging about, smoking
Imre's cigars and cigarettes, spitting on the floor, exchanging
obscene jokes.
Elizabeth closed her eyes to shut out the ghastly scene, and Imre
sobbed aloud. His grand old castle, full of heirlooms, priceless
antiques, and less valuable pieces of furniture which had become dear
to the heart from long familiarity, ruined and desecrated by the
filthy hands of the vandals!
Mechanically they moved on. Everywhere it was the same. Destruction
abounded. Tiny _objets d'art_ thrown into the grate, exquisite
tapestry pulled off the walls to clean the boots of the proletariat.
In due course Comrade Grocz saw them.
"Hullo, comrade! hullo, sister!" He greeted them familiarly. "Jolly
little place you have had here in the past. So nice in fact that it
is a pity you have not had an opportunity of sharing it before. By
order of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat your jewellery is
confiscated, together with all other objects of value. Your castle
will be shared by good Communists. I have allotted you two rooms to
yourselves, out of my generosity. The rest will be common rooms.
Pass on, comrades; remember the Dictatorship of the Proletariat has
come to stay." He moved, laughing harshly.
Dismayed, bewildered, Elizabeth and her father falteringly stumbled
along the passage. Communists passed, bearing in their arms bundles
of clothes, pieces of furniture, cushions, pillows, but not one
appeared to notice them. Were they not all equal now?
At last they found their rooms, traced them in that they were
unoccupied, and that on the floor were tossed their clothes, a paltry
few, transferred from their proper wardrobes by order of Comrade
Grocz. Just two rooms; a bedroom each to the father and daughter
who, but a few hours ago, had owned the whole castle.
"I--I will go in--for a rest." Keeping his face sedulously hidden
from his daughter, Imre mumbled the words beneath his breath and
tottered into his new bedroom. She followed and caught hold of his
arm in support, but he waved her away. "Go, my child--I want--want
to be alone." There was a break in his voice, and hearing it
Elizabeth choked, conscious that there was a suspicious lump in her
own throat.
Imre sank into a chair, his head bowed. Elizabeth tiptoed from the
room and quietly shut the door.
Not far away was a bathroom. She would have washed, but she found
the bolt wrenched off. Under the Bolshevik _régime_ there was to be
no privacy. It was part of their policy, a Communistic theory, that
the sexes be thrown promiscuously together. Even modesty was to be
State-owned.
Hardly conscious of her actions she returned to her room. It seemed
hot, stuffy, and smelly from contact with the Communists. She
crossed to the window and flung it open, breathing in the spring air
with deep gasps. That at least was pure, perhaps the only pure thing
left in unhappy Hungary.
Somehow it surprised Elizabeth that Nature still smiled. It did not
seem possible for anyone or anything to smile now. Yet it was so.
The gentle breeze whispered its lullaby, the sun shone gaily, and the
fleecy clouds, leisurely wafting along, served to emphasize the
sparkling sapphire hue of the sky.
Below her, a sheer drop of fifty feet, the broad Danube flowed,
undisturbed in its course by human outrage. Elizabeth was fascinated
by its tranquillity, its absolute disinterestedness. It did not dash
more fiercely against its rock-bound walls, nor sing its song the
louder. What meant war or revolution, massacre or murder to it?
Inexorably its waters flowed onward, unheeding mankind's plight.
Cruel Nature, heartless Danube!
In the meantime Imre, in the next room, suffered. Though of late
years he had remained away from the wide world, given up the last
years of his life to scholarly pursuits, there had been a time when
he was young, when he had sipped of its pleasures, tasted lightly of
its vices. As then he had known the world, and mankind in
particular, so now he trembled for his daughter.
What would happen when the wine cellar was opened, when the mellow
Tokay stirred up the passions of the men? God! he dared not think.
Yet he knew he must think, and plan escape for Elizabeth. What were
his castle, his lands, his money, compared to her?
He must be polite to the Communists; escape would be easier if they
did not suspect him. He must think--carefully. He gazed around, and
the scene--the clothes on the floor, the missing ornaments, the
disturbed bed--angered him, and he felt his temper bubbling over,
blinding his clarity of vision.
There was only one place to which he could go--his beloved study. So
he made his way there, keeping guard on himself, and ignoring the
jeering Communists. Once there he knew its atmosphere would assist
him to think more coherently, to plan a way to get the better of the
scum.
The study door was closed and no one about. With a quick movement,
which twisted his lips with pain, he entered, and shut the door
behind him, breathing with relief.
So the _tableau_ was set, Imre Kiss by the door, leaning on his
stick, and Comrade Grocz by a massive desk, a bundle of manuscript in
one hand, a lighted match in the other.
And Imre--for the moment he did not fully comprehend the significance
of what he saw. His brain was blank, chilled by the disappointment
at finding even here the sacrilegious presence of Communists.
Then the devouring flame of realization fired his blood. His papers,
his sacred manuscripts, the work of years about to be destroyed!
Another few seconds and the match would have been applied. There was
no fear within him at that moment, only a consuming rage, a murderous
hate, and a flaming, unquenchable spirit which oiled his limbs, swept
aside for the moment the ravages of time. With a bellow of rage he
raised aloft his heavy walking-stick, and, rushing forward, crashed
it down upon the skull of the Communist.
Without a sound Comrade Grocz dropped to the ground.
By the time he came round again the papers were hidden where no
Communist's hands would ever find them, but the black soul of Grocz
shrieked for revenge.
It was nothing to him that, the precious manuscripts saved,
gentle-hearted Imre was bathing the Communist's head. He only saw
the man who had stunned him. He rose quickly to his feet, leaving
Imre on his knees. Now was his chance. He swung his foot forward.
His heavy-soled boot crashed into the old man's face, and Imre,
racked with pain, gently slid backward to the floor with a groan.
_CHAPTER V_
Budapest, and Comrade Grocz pleading to Bela Kun for satisfaction.
Bela Kun was sympathetic. "Of course, comrade. An insult to you is
an insult to the Soviet. Go back to Castle Gisella and hang the old
man. Do just as you like, but do not let him escape." His eyes
flashed. "Remember, Grocz, I shall hold you responsible. The
_bourgeoisie_ must be exterminated."
Grocz smiled savagely. "Thank you, comrade. Do not fear. I know of
a very good method of hanging. It does it gradually. But, comrade,
there is another matter. There is a daughter."
"Ha! A daughter. Is she young?"
"Deliciously so."
"And pretty?"
"None more so."
Bela Kun grinned all over his misshapen face. "Comrade Grocz, if I
were you----"