Throughout the night Wenzel's head ached abominably from the blow it
had received, but by the time morning arrived, and a grinning,
jeering jailer brought him a meagre pittance of mouldy bread,
together with a cup of water, the pain began to ease somewhat, and he
was able to think more clearly.
Purely in passing curiosity he wondered how many hours it would be
before he died. Actually he cared neither how soon nor when that
hour might be. The death for which he had sought after the passing
of Zita and before the rebirth of love in his breast was to be his at
last.
The few minutes during which he learned from Elizabeth's own lips the
entire depth of her treachery had more than sufficed to wash away the
work of weeks. Once again he was the sullen automaton, hating
creation, its Maker, and all who breathed and lived--even the
unfortunate victims of the Commune for whose rescue he was in the
main responsible.
He did not think of Elizabeth. Having regained consciousness his
earlier flash of temper died away and he forgave her, realizing that
it was not the action itself which angered him, but the thought of
what had been the real impulse which had urged her to such a course.
The pitiable story was so easy to read.
In his imagination he could picture her as she probably had been
during his absence, when, somehow or other, she must have discovered
his identity. Aghast--nay, possibly hypnotized by his personality
and satanical appearance--she had passed her knowledge on to the
Communists, probably shocked that such a man as he could live and not
be struck down by the wrath of God!
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.