She writhed at the scorn in his voice, but she knew that in spite of
his optimism escape was rapidly becoming impossible. Once the rabble
downstairs took it into their heads to make sure she was still
safe----
The noise swelled louder, as a drunken fury seized the crowd.
"Where's the girl? Hang her! ... Death to the _bourgeoise_! Where's
her room?"
Clearly the shouts echoed along the passages; and then there was a
noise of pounding steps, a clamorous yelling. Worked into a frenzy
the mob was on its way up.
Wenzel would have pulled her out in an attempt to avoid the
Communists, but her knowledge of the castle warned her that they were
hemmed in, that they were being approached from both ways.
"Too late. We are cut off." Quite calmly she informed him of the
fact, so that even he could not fail to appreciate the lack of fear
in her voice.
"You are not afraid?" he asked quickly.
"If my father is safe--no," she replied quietly.
He secured the key, and turned it in the lock, breathing a sigh of
thankfulness that the door was strongly built, the lock more so. For
a short while it would resist the onslaught of the attackers, and in
that time he might yet find a means of escape.
"Tell me quickly, is there no other way out, no other door?"
"But one door and one window."
"The window----"
She did not hear the finish of his sentence for the deafening din
outside. Like a pack of wolves the crowd was gathered to batten on
the flesh of the innocent girl, and like the animals whose human
prototypes they were they raised their voices at the scent of prey.
When they found the door locked their anger knew no bounds. With
fists and feet they beat upon the stout door till it shivered beneath
the assault. "Kill her! Hang her!" they shouted, and only one
expostulated with them.
Mad with rage at the thought of his victim escaping his clutches,
even at the end of the hangman's rope, Comrade Grocz tried in vain to
stem the flood. Above the roar of other voices his stridently rose:
"Comrades, comrades, the girl is mine. She was given to me by Bela
Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat. You shall not kill her! Stop,
stop, I say!"
He might have attempted to prevent a raincloud bursting. "Get away,
Grocz. She must die."
"But she was given to me!" he shrieked.
"Yah! Yah!" Two or three laughed boisterously, and one cried out:
"You forget, Comrade Grocz, that the Dictatorship has abolished all
private ownership."
"Ay! Kill her! Hang the girl!"
"Stop! Stop!" Grocz grew desperate. "Listen. Do not kill her ...
let us share her, as all good Communists should."
As though at a signal the wild noise now ceased, while this fresh
aspect of the situation slowly burned itself into the obtuse minds of
the Communists.
Wenzel had to close his eyes; a red filmy cloud floated before them,
summoned by the boiling fury which surged up from his heart. Only
with an effort of will did he pull himself together and think
rationally--he wanted to throw open the door, throttle the vile
laughter of the men with his hands, smash them with his fists, pound
them to death.
He knew that she had heard, for he heard her catch in her breath with
a gush of horror, and felt her trembling. This time he could not
mock her weakness.
"The window," he prompted.
"Had the worst come, I should have--have thrown myself out."
"You mean--suicide?"
"Yes," she breathed softly. "May Heaven forgive me for the thought."
"What is below?--the courtyard?"
"No, the Danube, fifty feet down."
"The Danube!" So her room was on the fourth side of the castle? A
fifty-foot drop--but if it were a clear fall into the water there
would be at least a chance. "Is it a clear drop?"
"Practically. The cliff at this part overhangs the edge of the
water, and the castle is built on the extreme edge. With a good jump
one might avoid the bank."
"Yet you spoke of suicide!"
"The current, monsieur, runs swiftly at this part. No one could hope
to swim against it."
Outside the Communists understood at last, and now, urged on by a
different kind of excitement, the tumultuous clatter recommenced.
"Break open the door! Let us feast our eyes upon her beauty." The
pressure of weight was beginning to have its effect, for the door
cracked suspiciously.
So it seemed that Death might claim him at last! Wenzel felt a glow
of contentment stealing over him. Perhaps Zita waited for him,
there, just beyond the Veil, with outstretched arms....
"Mademoiselle, are you prepared to jump?"
"Gladly. Death can be no worse than--than---- Oh, Mother in Heaven,
what has happened to our unhappy country? Monsieur, I am ready."
Not too soon. The door was groaning and splitting. She guided him
to the window, and flung it open. Wenzel felt her raise herself up
until she was standing on the ledge. He did the same, and so tall
was the window that he, for all his height, could yet stand upright.
Before them was a grim blackness, an abyss of gloom. Not even was
there the light of a star to twinkle a message of confidence. Behind
them an equal density, and men whose souls were blacker still.
Nothing but impenetrable darkness in every direction.
The moment was awe-inspiring, soul-crushing. There was a sensation
of immensity, a feeling of unfathomable depth. When they jumped it
would be--whither?--where? Perhaps, by a trickery of fate, on to the
cruel rocks which bordered the river, and which would crush their
bodies into pulp; or perhaps into shallow water where they would
split open on the river bed.
"You are still not afraid?" he asked.
"Yes, but ready." Her voice was firm and steady, and Wenzel felt a
sudden thrill of admiration at her nerve and courage. All at once it
seemed to him a pity that such a woman should die. Still...
Even as the door gave way he picked her up in his arms. Bracing his
legs he jumped....
He experienced no particular feeling, just a hotch-potch of different
sensations--of suffocation, of helplessness, the noise of raging
winds and rushing waters, eternity, and finally a shock, which left
him dazed and stunned, as they entered the water.
Down, down, and still down. His lungs were bursting. There was no
question of thought. It was instinct which made him curve his body
so that their hurtling flight to the bottom was diverted; it was the
inevitable fight for life which set his legs kicking, shooting his
body up to the surface again.
Then air, precious life-provoking air. He filled his lungs with deep
soul-satisfying gulps, and soon consciousness returned to him.
Elizabeth was still in his arms, limp and motionless, and Wenzel
believed she was stunned. Better so--she might have struggled.
Already his thoughts were turning toward life, and while before
jumping he had welcomed death, now he wanted to live, to reach the
bank, to carry his precious burden to a place of safety.
With this resolve came the knowledge that Elizabeth had not
exaggerated the strength of the current. He felt it now pulling, now
boisterously twisting and pushing them along hither and thither; but
all the time insidiously, inexorably drawing them along on its bosom.
If Elizabeth--if he--were to live he must strike out for the bank.
Somehow he shifted the girl until she was half across his back, so
that he could hold her with one hand, then with the other he
commenced to swim.
He found it easy. With sure, even strokes he gradually progressed,
and buoyed up with enthusiasm and confidence he believed it would be
a matter of minutes only before he reached the river bank. The
current, apparently, was not so strong as it seemed.
Yet the minutes dragged by. Surely now, he thought, he must be in
the shallows. He stopped short, and trod water, attempting to feel
bottom, but his feet met with no resistance.
Once again his arm and his legs thrashed out--then, all at once, he
realized the truth. No wonder the going was easy, for he was
swimming with the current instead of across it!
He turned to his right, and instantly experienced the rush of the
water, for now he made no progress forward, but was swept along,
broadside on.
He was tired, and the cold water began to chill him, but urged by an
impulse which he could not translate he struggled on, ignoring the
possibility of surrendering himself to the water and the waiting arms
of Death. Elizabeth must live--that much he knew; and so he kept
going, kept on until his body was once again racked with pain.
He had done so much that night, what more could he do? Why should he
do more? If he gave up now he could sleep so easily, so peacefully!
His mind worked sluggishly. One, two, three! One, two three! His
strong arm, though weakened by strain, continued to strike out
regularly. His limbs moved like an automaton, but he still
progressed.
The rush of the water grew louder, and Wenzel's head began to sing.
Much more and it would be the end. Much more... much more... The
words twisted themselves into a refrain, and the music was in time to
his strokes. Much more...
Something scraped the toe of his boot, again and yet again, and he
knew he had touched bottom. A few more strokes and he discovered
that he could stand. Somehow he stumbled through the water till it
dropped from his chin to his hips, from his waist to his ankles, and
then--there was no more water.
* * * * * *
When Elizabeth came to she was in a peasant's hut, lying in a crude
bed. Across the room, bending over a log fire, a woman was cooking
something, the appetizing odour of which pervaded the room.
Elizabeth gazed around wonderingly, unable to collect her thoughts
together. But presently she remembered. One after another the vivid
details returned to her, concluding with the last terrible jump into
an inky nothingness....
Where was her unknown rescuer? She looked around, but except for the
peasant woman she could see no one. Then, on a chair she saw a note.
It was so brief that it brought the tears to her eyes; just:
MADEMOISELLE,
You are safe with this woman.
_Adieu._
"_Adieu!_" Good-bye! She gazed away.
He had almost written _Au revoir_, for as he himself had laid her on
the rough blanket, and gazed upon her beauty, his lips had trembled.
It was not that she was really like the Zita he remembered, yet...
_CHAPTER VII_
The hour was past nine o'clock before the Council meeting broke up,
and Eugene Hamburger, Commissary for Agriculture, together with his
assistant, Apor, were free to leave.
For a while they walked together discussing the work of the day.
"Well, my friend, life is different from what it was in the old days.
You and me, what were we before the glorious days of the Revolution?
What were we all, who are, to-day, the proud leaders of the world?
Slaves of the capitalists, sweating and toiling for a meagre
pittance, living in slums and tenements, while our masters reaped the
harvest of our industry. What did they do with the money? Increase
our wages? No! Improve our houses, help our families? No! They
lazed away their useless lives in luxurious idleness; lived in
glorious palaces; travelled in handsome limousines." Hamburger
chuckled. "Times are not the same. We are the nobles now, Apor, you
and I; we are the people who count."
"How can we be the nobles? I thought we were all equal now?" Apor
dryly put the question to the commissary.
"Stuff and nonsense! You provoke me to anger, comrade; you are for
ever casting shadows upon the golden vista of Communist dreams."
"Well! Well!" mollified Apor. "You must remember that the brighter
the sun shines the blacker is the shadow. Do not think I am not
satisfied. My only question is: will it last?"
"Bah! Croaking again! Can it do otherwise? How can anything be
altered? Does not the Soviet control the country from top to bottom:
the Army, the post offices, the banks, the public services, and the
people? Do you think the people would wish to rise against us, even
if they dared? You are stupid, friend! They have never been so well
off as they are to-day. Free as the air, the poorest as rich as the
wealthiest, the affluent as destitute as the pauper. The State owns
everything, and in the eyes of the State each one of us is equal.
Could life be better?"
"And yet the members of the Soviet ride about in motor-cars, and
their humble 'equals' walk to work!"
Hamburger's cheeks flushed. "You argue absurdly, Apor. The State
merely lends the motor-cars to the Soviet for their extra
responsibility."
"I see!" Apor paused, as if thinking deeply. "But the capitalists
of the old days, were they not entitled to motor-cars for their share
of responsibility?"
The commissary growled. "You are impossible to-night, comrade. You
see matters through a smoky pair of spectacles. Much more, and I
shall suspect that you have views which do not agree with the
doctrines of Communism."
Apor answered smoothly: "Not at all, my friend. I merely argue as
one equal to another. We are as free as air, I think you said.
Except to think differently, eh, comrade? But there, my tongue is
sharp from the vinegar I swallowed to-day. I argue only that I can
have the benefit of your wisdom, to be even better assured of the
splendid principles of Communism."
Hamburger was pleased, for he laughed softly. "It is a good thing I
know you as well as I do, Apor. But there; have I not always thought
you a wise sort of a fellow, for all the queer kinks in your brain?
I think we part here. I have to-day moved into my free quarters in
the Hotel Bristol. Good night, Apor."
"Good night..." Hamburger disappeared into the darkness of the
night, and Apor continued savagely to himself: "... and may your
bones rot on a dung heap, and your flesh feed the rats."
He turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Presently, out of the
corner of his eye, he saw a lurking shadow move softly to his side
and walk with him.
"You are late to-night."
"Yes. Their rhetoric becomes wilder as their courage strengthens."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean, Wenzel? God! only what I say. Their grip on the
country becomes firmer every day. Unless something happens soon,
Hungary will be ruined beyond all power of recovery. Already she is
weakening beneath the crushing ravages of these Russian-financed
Bolsheviks. Yes, Wenzel, there is scarcely one who does not spend
Russian gold. But where have you been the last two days?"
"Rescuing Imre Kiss and his daughter Elizabeth. Have you heard?"
"Heard!" Suddenly Apor exploded with laughter. "My dear man, the
only thing which surprises me is that you did not hear the echo of
the howl which went up when the Council was made cognizant of their
escape. For ten minutes nearly every man present shouted at once.
But how did you learn of their plans on the Castle Gisella? When I
came to warn you, you had gone."
"Arnold overheard Grocz at the station. He was boasting to his
friends of what he was going to do to the father--and the daughter.
Now, what news have you for me?"
"Bad, Wenzel; bad. For once you have slipped. Your identity is
known. You are no longer safe in Budapest."
"Damn!" Aghast at the information, Wenzel unconsciously spoke in
English, and Apor started.
"Hush, for God's sake! Never more truly was it said that walls have
ears, Wenzel. Detectives swarm all over the place. A word in
English is enough to draw a dozen after you."
"Why?"
"Because already the rumour has gone round that the White Knight is
English."
Wenzel groaned. "Refugees must have been babbling. After all my
warnings, too! Yet, tell me, how came they to connect Wenzel with
the White Knight?"
"Simply! When Count Bakocz escaped they sent for you. You were not
there and they searched your rooms and found--a white knight."
Wenzel swore again, this time beneath his breath. To have left such
an easy clue behind him!
"What a fool I was, what a fool! Now must I find fresh lodgings."
"No, Wenzel, you must go altogether. They are hunting for you right
and left."
"Enough, Apor!" There was a steely warning in his voice, but Apor
heeded it not.
"But, Wenzel, I am Hungarian born and bred, I, who have, under a
different name, suffered untold miseries at the hands of the
Bolshevik swine, I am prepared to give my life gladly, and doubtless
shall, to bring an end to the Red Terror. But you--you are an
Englishman, a foreigner! Why, already we Hungarians owe you far more
than we can ever hope to pay. Why should you linger here, your life
forfeit the moment you are discovered?"
Wenzel did not at first reply, but when he did his voice was
curiously soft: "Dear friend, ask me not my reasons. Sufficient that
even though death means nothing to me, should I allow you to stay
here in danger, you who act as my eyes and ears in the Soviet
Council, and yet fear to come myself? Pursue not the question, Apor.
It hurts. Now tell me the latest plans."
"Conditions are more terrible than ever, as I have already said; but,
worse still, petty counter-revolutions are springing up all over the
place."
The Englishman made an angry exclamation. "Fools! Why must they set
about such hazardous undertakings, which can only end in humiliating
defeat? If they would only wait with patience just a little longer.
In Vienna there is already a movement afoot.... Yet I may not say
more--in fact, I know very little myself. Soon I expect a friend
with news, but until then..."
"Do not blame them, Wenzel. In one way--well, it is pleasing to note
that there are still Hungarians living who love their country, who
have not fallen under the thrall of the mouthing Bolshevik orators."
There was a significant undercurrent in his voice, almost of apology,
which did not escape Wenzel's keen ear. They were passing under one
of the few street lamps which were still burning, and the Englishman
put out his hand and restrained the other, then swung him round so
that they were face to face.
"Apor, you are not joining any counter-revolutionary movement?"
Beneath his steady scrutiny Apor's eyes dropped, and Wenzel knew that
he had guessed the truth.
"Apor! Why must you? Don't you realize that the time is not yet?
You will only run your head into the loop which awaits it if you
continue; and if you do not fear death, won't you please try to
remember that, situated as at present, you are a most valuable spy?
There are more saved lives to your credit than fingers on your hand."
"I know! I know!" Apor shook his head helplessly, and there was an
unhappy crease just above his eyes. "Yet my soul writhes every time
I look at the Red cockade. It is the insignia of blood. Supposing
one of the counter-revolutionary movements should turn out to be a
success and I were not in it? I should never forgive myself."
Wenzel's voice was hard when he replied: "Yet, Apor, you must work
for me alone. You cannot serve two taskmasters. You are inflamed by
a fanatical patriotism, and yet, worthy as it may seem, you are
blinded by its light, you do not foresee its actualities. Come,
Apor; if you love Hungary guard yourself from suspicion, keep free
from anything which may cast doubt upon you in the eyes of the
Council. Now of these petty revolutions! What happens?"
"Don't ask me!" His voice cracked. "It is awful! The Council tells
Szamuelly, then the brute leers, and goes off to his Death Train; the
next day--he hangs Hungarians promiscuously. Guilty or not guilty,
he strings up any man upon whom he can lay his hands and----"
There was a dramatic interruption. Some twenty yards behind there
was a sudden burst of noise, a sound of running footsteps and hoarse
shouting, then a series of flickering flashes which heralded the
ensuing staccato explosions of several rifles.
Simultaneously there was a scream and the whistling screech of
bullets. Wenzel grunted slightly. He was unhurt, but it had been
but a matter of inches. A little more to his right, and at least one
of the missiles would have found a billet.
"Quick, Apor, are you unhurt?"
"Only just."
"Then run like Hades. It is another poor victim. Whatever happens
we must not be found together."
Without another word they parted, and rapidly merged into the
darkness.
Presently Wenzel stopped, and from a distance watched. Around the
figure of a man stretched out upon the pavement were grouped half a
dozen Red soldiers, laughing and joking.
One of them kicked the helpless, stricken man, and even at that
distance Wenzel heard the moan of pain. Evidently the human hare was
still alive.
Two of the soldiers hoisted the man to his feet, then dragged him
along, and Wenzel followed, impelled by a curiosity he could not
define. Perhaps for nearly a quarter of a mile the Bolsheviks pushed
and pulled the wounded sufferer, till at last they were near the
river. The soldiers kept on until they were half-way across the
Francis Joseph Bridge, where it was pitch dark, and from where he was
Wenzel could see nothing. Yet, all at once, there was a desperate
cry for help and then--a splash. The Reds laughed boisterously, and
continued their way. Presently there was silence.
The Englishman stood still, gazing into the blackness of the night.
The Danube sucked yet one more body into its depths. There was a
distant rumble of thunder, from where a storm played round the hills
beyond old Buda, yet it seemed to Wenzel more a rolling chuckle of
laughter from Mars, as he watched and ticked off one more life in his
already long and fearful list. To the fierce Roman god of war it
must have seemed almost as bloody a sport as a European war.
* * * * * *
Wenzel restlessly tossed and turned about in the small truckle-bed
which he had managed to secure for the night, vainly endeavouring to
woo his active mind into repose.
He found himself haunted by dreams and visions, jumbled together into
a confused sequence of events, in which but three pictures were
outstanding. First and foremost he could see, once again, the scene
on the Francis Joseph Bridge, the wounded victim of Bolshevik
persecution, struggling desperately in the arms of the brutal Red
soldiers, being gradually lifted up for the final throw over the
parapet of the bridge.
Wenzel had seen death in many guises, till his heart had become
callous through familiarity. He had himself killed Germans in hot
blood, and Hungarian Bolsheviks in cold blood, yet never had he
believed till now that death could be so ghastly, so savage and
ruthless.
It might have been the despairing cry which had rung through the
night air, the almost invisible surroundings in which the crime had
been committed; it might have been the echoing sound of the
significant splash; whatever it was, Wenzel could not altogether
dismiss the scene from his memory, it revolved, repeated, and
exaggerated itself.
Then, as the murder on the bridge faded away, it was succeeded by
another vivid picture; there on the floor lay Zita's father, his
corpse slashed and hacked, and Zita herself, dead from shock, her
eyes mirroring the terrible scene.
Yet there was one other image which floated before his eyes, hid
slightly by a multi-coloured haze--once again he held in his arms a
living, pulsating body, though limp and unconscious. In his muscular
arms she lay as lightly as a feather, yet her soaking clothes had
wrapped themselves round her limbs, revealing and betraying every
curve, every line, so that he saw she was exquisitely formed,
beautiful in her tapering svelteness, her divinely proportioned shape.
The dark tresses of her hair were massed into a mystic aureole, a
dusky halo which emphasized the clarity of her sun-burned complexion.
He remembered the symmetry of her features, the daintiness of her
nose, the soft curve of her lips.
It was this fantasy which lingered longest in his dreams, so vivid in
one sense, and yet so ethereal. When his thoughts idly hovered upon
Elizabeth he saw her so, but when he would have concentrated, have
definitely and indelibly implanted the picture in his memory, it
faded away like a puff of smoke.
Presently he realized that he was more wideawake than ever; his
brain, stirred by the imagery of his mental travels, was insistently
devoting itself to Zita--and to Elizabeth.
He was conscious of an overwhelming impulse to see Elizabeth again.
He wanted to compare her finely chiselled nostrils with those of
Zita, to discover whether they quivered sensitively with pride and
emotion as had Zita's, whether her eyes, too, glowed with an inward
fire.
He wanted to hear again Elizabeth speaking. That night in the castle
her voice had been so full of throbbing music, so liquidly clear and
steady. He wanted to feel once more the velvet softness of her skin,
the smooth, cool touch of her fingers.
He did not think it treachery to Zita to think thus, for she and
Elizabeth seemed so much alike. In the thoughts of them both, in the
rapid replacement and displacement of their images in his vision,
their differences dissolved, and merged gradually into one; and the
face which smiled at him from the happy fastnesses of his dreams was
neither that of Zita nor that of Elizabeth.
Somewhere within him, though as yet he failed to realize it, the warm
blood was beginning to flow again; chilled and frozen by the death of
Zita, it was infinitesimally thawed by the thought of Elizabeth.
Something tugged at his heart-strings: he felt an overpowering
impulse to visit the Château Juhusz, where were Elizabeth and her
father, the Bakocz family, and others whom he had rescued.
He knew he could get there and back again to Budapest on the morrow;
the inclination strengthened as he thought the matter carefully over.
Finally he decided to make the journey, and in less than five minutes
he was asleep.
When he awoke the next morning the sun was shining in a cloudless
sky, and because of the strange, unaccountable exuberance of spirits
which enveloped him it was as if it were a good omen for his journey
to the Château Juhusz.
He knew that it was dangerous to venture into the streets in broad
daylight; it was well within the bounds of possibility that he might
be seen and recognized by any one of a dozen or so people: Bela Kun,
Szamuelly, or any one of the Council; Garami or one of the Red guards
at the prison; still more likely by one of the many detectives who
swarmed the city spying out enemies of the Commune and signs of
counter-revolutions.
Nevertheless, he was blithely contemptuous of the fact, believing it
to be one thing for them to see him, but another to catch him. His
legs were capable of covering good ground in the event of a chase;
his arms he considered more than equal to two, or even three, of the
average stunted and degenerate Bolsheviks; and if it came to gunfire
there was in his hip-pocket a fully loaded revolver which he could
use effectively.
What he did was to wrap his dirty scarf more tightly round his neck,
and to pull his cap even further over his eyes; prepared for all
emergencies he ventured out and made his way to the station.
As he approached nearer his destination he was surprised by its
unusual quietness. Where usually it was thronged with travellers,
Red guards, surly railwaymen, shouting newsboys, and all the medley
of types usually scattered around a railway terminus, this morning
there was comparatively no one to be seen, only here and there a
small group of people, gesticulating wildly, and arguing with one
another.
Not until he was immediately opposite the once handsome station did
he discover that all entrance to the platform was forbidden.
"What's the matter, comrade?" he asked of a Red guard who lounged
near.
"The railwaymen have struck for more money," replied the other.
It was grimly humorous, but Wenzel dared not display any sign of his
real feelings. He spat on the ground. "Ho! May the fires burn
brighter in Hades, but your news is anything but good, comrade!
There is a pretty wench anxiously awaiting my arrival some miles off.
How am I going to reach her?"
The guard grinned. "She will have to wait even longer than a day
unless you walk."
"Bah! I don't believe you. Wait until the Council takes the
situation in hand. The strike will fizzle out like damp gunpowder."
"Perhaps." The guard shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, I hear
Comrade Szamuelly is going to settle the dispute. He has a winning
way with him, has Szamuelly."
"Ay! Well, I hope he succeeds, that's what I say. I hope he does."
Wenzel moved away, growling, but if the words which the Red guard
caught were enough to make him grin, they were nothing compared with
the fury which inwardly consumed the White Knight.
So much for good omens! All his plans to visit the _château_ that
day, and return at night, completely shattered.
He walked heedlessly along the streets, utterly oblivious of the
people in his way, so that there were several into whom he banged,
passing on without a word, and because they were rapidly becoming
crushed and cowed by the Terror they continued meekly and
unprotestingly.
For perhaps twenty minutes he traversed the streets; not until then
did it occur to him that he might walk to the _château_. It would be
a long and arduous tramp, but had he not been hardened to such by
four years of route marches? To think the matter over he stopped for
coffee at one of the innumerable coffee-houses, many of which were
still carrying on a desultory trade.
The Château Juhusz, though more modern than the Castle Gisella, had
long ago fallen into decay, and in consequence had been deserted by
its owners. Built during times of peace, it had been designed more
for comfort than utility, and so the ravages of time, which left
older and more strongly built residences comparatively untouched, had
eaten into the delicate fabric of the building and underpinned its
less solid foundations.
It was Apor who had suggested these quarters as an admirable
hiding-place for the hunted refugees, and Wenzel, examining its
situation with a critical eye, recognized its advantages. Built deep
in a thick pine forest on the slope of a small valley, it was
encircled in every direction by well-wooded hills, and was completely
shut off from the world. The nearest village was approximately ten
miles away; with it, naturally, the nearest railway station.
Who had built it in such an inaccessible spot, and why, Wenzel had
been unable to fathom, but at any rate it was more than admirable for
the purpose suggested by Apor. If the Communists imagined for a
moment that the _ci-devant_ magnates, reared in the lap of luxury,
could eke out an existence inside the weather-scarred walls of the
_château_, they were content to leave them there unmolested; except
where prisoners came easily to their hands, plunder was of paramount
importance. A ten-mile march over the hill-tops with no prospect of
loot at the other end would be a senseless waste of time--so the
retreat sheltered many who owed their lives to the White Knight.
By train and a subsequent walk the total distance was nearly forty
miles, but, remembering that the railway track curved fairly
considerably about twenty miles out of Budapest, Wenzel had a shrewd
suspicion that by road the distance might be appreciably less.
He paid his reckoning, quickly left the coffee-house, and made his
way toward the shopping district. Some of the shops were open, but
their windows were lamentably bare. In the Communistic dictionary
the word shopkeeper is synonymous with _bourgeois_, and so the Reds
in Budapest had the happy trick of descending upon the unfortunate
shopkeepers and, in the name of the Soviet, appropriating the greater
part of their goods, for the benefit, usually, of the reformed
battalions of Red guards.
Twice, in less than a quarter of a mile, Wenzel entered a possible
shop and inquired for a road-map of Hungary. In each case the reply
was the same. One of the men had tears in his eyes.
"If you had come but the day before yesterday I could have served
you. Yesterday"--he choked--"the Red guards came in. They were
marching to the front, they said, to send the cowardly Czechs
scuttling back to their own country, and therefore in the name of the
Government they demanded all my stock. I must be patriotic, they
said. They took everything, whether it was of use or not. What they
did not want the men gave to their wives or mistresses. I am
penniless now. All I ... I can do is ... is to become a Communist
myself. Perhaps I shall be better off then."
Eventually Wenzel secured what he wanted. Poring over the map with
eager eyes he discovered that his assumption was correct. By road,
so far as he could estimate, the distance would be not more than
twenty-seven to thirty miles.
Thirty miles! A seven-hour walk at the most! Wenzel glanced at his
watch. There would just be time to get there before night blotted
out the unknown roads. He memorized the map, deeming it unwise to
consult it more than necessary, and once having fixed the route in
his mind he set out.
The hours passed by. About noon the sky clouded over, and Wenzel
cursed, afraid it presaged rain, but a westerly wind soon carried the
darkest patches along, and the sun shone again, though fitfully.
By this time he had left Buda well behind, and also O'-Buda, higher
up in the hills, built on the spot where once had flourished the
Roman colony of Aquincum. Below him the city was spread out in a
panorama, the Danube glitteringly winding its way through the centre.
He found then he was not covering the distance he had estimated--the
road seemed for ever on the upward trend, and he realized, much to
his surprise, that even in seven months the physical frame can soften
slightly.
After several heavy-going miles the grade lessened, his walk became
easier, and before another two hours had passed his long legs had
more than made up the lost time.
He had something to eat at a little roadside tavern, though it was
scanty and poorly cooked, consisting of _Gulyas_, the national
Hungarian dish, a type of Irish stew. This he washed down with an
inferior red wine. For all that it was a princely repast compared
with the food obtainable in Budapest, where watery soup and bread
were sometimes the only means of subsistence.
At five o'clock he was at the foot of a hill, and within five miles
of his destination. By now he was tired, his left heel was troubling
him; but his heart was light, and he hummed the air of a Hungarian
folk-song. The top reached, he gazed at the scene before him. The
hill dropped steeply to a valley, only to rise as quickly again to an
even higher elevation. On the other side of the farther hill was the
_château_.
The picture was delightful: Nature appeared to have permitted herself
a free hand, and her subtle brush had not wavered in her task. The
woods were dotted thickly but unevenly, and the blank spaces had been
filled up with either green patches of meadowland or else dark grey
areas of bare, rugged nakedness.
There was but one blemish: four thin, parallel lines, painfully stark
and uncamouflaged, forged their way from as far as one could see, and
betrayed the hand of man. In callous comparison with the beauties of
the valley the railway lines represented human commercialism,
inexorable progress.
The sun was dipping rapidly now; Wenzel dared waste no time, and so
he stepped forward once more on the last stage of his journey, and
crossing the iron road to Budapest he soon mounted the second hill,
till reaching its highest peak he saw, a quarter of a mile below him,
the ruined mansion.
He threaded his way through the trees until they thinned out; then
through them he could see the _château_. No wonder it was ignored by
the Communists. The mere sight of it was nearly enough to damp his
newly born sensation of--of---- He shrugged his shoulders when he
tried to analyse his emotions.
Not many of the long French windows were whole, or even unharmed.
Most of them were devoid of any semblance of glass, just a few of
them still boasted cracked and broken remains. The exterior woodwork
was dull and colourless, the tiles of the roof green with moss.
What were once gardens surrounding the building were now a wilderness
of cultivated plants turned to weeds. The flagged paths almost lost
their identity below the drooping greenstuff; a mournful Mercury,
chipped and yellow, no longer poured out a cascade of pure water into
the fountain beneath, but stood up desolate and useless.
He had seen it before, but it seemed to him that its atmosphere was
more doleful than ever, an unwritten epitaph on the straits to which
the unhappy aristocrats had fallen. He wondered what effect it had
upon its present occupiers.
His question was to be answered immediately, for even as he watched
three people issued from within, and he started slightly as he
recognized two of them.
In the middle was Terhune, with Elizabeth on his right, and on his
left one who could only be Cecile; for it was as if he were gazing at
her photograph, so vivid had been Arnold's many descriptions of her.
Eagerly he watched Elizabeth, noting every fleeting expression of her
face, every movement of her graceful body, and his heart sang a pæan
of joy as he realized that she more than fulfilled his picture of
her, built up from that brief period during which she had lain
unconscious in his arms.
For some few minutes his eyes followed her, till the vision of her as
he saw her now, her beauty emphasized vividly by the misted
background of the _château_, was engraven into his memory.
Not until then, not until he was satisfied that as often as he wished
in the future he would be able to visualize her so, did he turn his
attention to the other two.
Soon he smiled. Even if he had not been previously aware of the
romance which had quickly budded in the hearts of Cecile and his
lieutenant, he could not have remained unaware of it now. They were
both so palpably in love; both so absurdly young.
Even from the distance at which he was, decreasing every second as
they moved in his direction, he could see the smile which lighted up
their eyes as they turned to one another, and the alert, eager glance
which hovered upon their faces whenever the other spoke, eager to
drink in every word.
They reached the edge of the woods; much further and they might have
come face to face with Wenzel; but they turned in time. He let them
get back to the doorway, then he rounded his lips, and the next
moment the harsh cry of an owl floated through the air.
The effect on the trio was humorous. Terhune stopped suddenly as he
realized the significance of the call, and Elizabeth and Cecile
turned toward him in surprise. Wenzel saw him listening, uncertain
whether he had heard aright; so he hooted again, and the next moment
saw and heard Terhune replying to him.
There had to be explanations; all at once the expression on the faces
of Terhune's companions turned from bewilderment to blazing, joyful
anticipation, and he saw Elizabeth's lips speak three words, and,
almost as if the echo of them had floated to his ears, knew that she
had repeated: "The White Knight!"
Next, Terhune was emphatically shaking his head. Wenzel's eyes
twinkled--he knew well what they were pleading: to speak to the White
Knight, to see him--and then, immediately, the twinkle disappeared;
his face hardened with an inward pain. Supposing they did see him,
supposing the gentle eyes of Elizabeth or Cecile should look upon his
ghastly features....
"Geoffrey! You here! I did not expect you. You have brought some
one else?"
Wenzel shook his head. "No. I have come for no reason whatsoever.
A whimsy! I was curious to know for myself how every one is faring."
"Happily, or rather as happily as is possible. The _château_ is
heaven to most of the present inhabitants. After being robbed of
everything they possessed, turned out of their homes, and then, if
they protested, hunted high and low; some even now cannot understand
what it is to spend an easy night without fearing what the morning
will bring. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we are overlooked.
Still, if the devils should come"--his voice became grimmer--"there
is a rifle here for every man, with some to spare, and ammunition in
plenty."
"Good! Any other news?"
"Francis Bakocz has been plaguing my life to ask you to let him help
us."
"Humph!" Wenzel pursed his lips and looked toward the crumbling
pile. "What do you think of him? Would he be a good man or not? We
could do with some one else: matters are becoming worse and worse in
Budapest."
"He has enough courage for two, and if pushed to it could act a part
well. In my opinion he would have only one fault. He would be
inclined to be reckless."
"A bad failing, Arnold. Yet, all the same--I will speak to him.
Listen, friend! As I am here I would like to talk to--to--one or two
for a while, but, as you know, there are--reasons why they must not
set eyes upon me. To-night, therefore, find me a room. It must be
pitch dark. There I will receive Francis and Cecile Bakocz,
Elizabeth Kiss, and perhaps her father. Go in now, and prepare
everything for me. When you are ready, hoot, and I shall come."
Arnold returned to the _château_, a frown of puzzlement creasing his
forehead. To-day Wenzel was different: hitherto he had taken no
interest in the people he had rescued; once they were safe in the
retreat they had passed from his mind, so that what he had done for
them might have been merely helping them across a crowded street.
Why, therefore, this sudden interest in the refugees?
He was met at the door by Cecile.
"You have seen him?" The last word she uttered in a soft whisper,
breathing into it a subtle reverence.
Arnold nodded. "Yes," he replied abstractedly.
She clasped her hands together. "Oh! If he only knew how much we
all wish to meet him, to thank and express our gratitude for all he
has done for us."
"Perhaps he does!"
She turned swiftly round, so that she was directly facing him. "You
mean--he is coming--here, and soon?"
"To-night!"
"Oh! Oh!" Too full for words, Cecile could say nothing. For days
she had prayed for the opportunity of speaking to the White
Knight--to him who had snatched her father from the very gates of
death. Now at last it seemed that she was to have the opportunity.
"I--I shall see him then?"
Arnold hesitated. He realized that he was going to have difficulty
in explaining the situation.
"Yes and no," he muttered slowly. "You may be able to speak to him,
but not actually see him."
Two faint, twin lines betrayed themselves upon her forehead. "Speak
to him but not see him! I do not understand!"
"No, mademoiselle, I did not expect you to do so. The White Knight
has instructed me to prepare a pitch-dark room in which to receive
you, and only in that room will you meet him."