Chapter XVIII

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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