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——"

Grocz nodded his head. "And afterwards?"

Bela Kun frowned. "Let her join her pig of a father in Hell."

Grocz was confident. "Leave that to me, comrade."

The train back was not due to leave for another hour, so Grocz sat at the station buffet, surrounded by friends, whiling away the time. It was good that his old chum Brody came along. There was a tale to tell, so he told it, and in its recital it lost nothing of the drama. As the cluster around him grew larger so his voice boomed louder. It was pleasing to be thus a centre of interest.

All the same he kept his eye on the clock. There was work to be done. He wanted to see the old man at the end of a rope, his legs kicking—better still there was Elizabeth....

At last the train puffed out, crowded to double its capacity, as were all trains in those days, but Grocz saw to it that he had plenty of room. There was one window seat occupied by an old woman. He thrust her out of it, and then took her place, stretching his long legs across to the opposite side. Having settled himself comfortably he pulled from his pocket a large cigar which had once belonged to Imre Kiss, and read The People's Voice.

Little did he know that in the same train travelled Nemesis, that among the group of Reds to whom he had boasted of what was to happen later that night were Arnold Terhune and his mysterious leader, the White Knight.

They did not speak to one another, the two Englishmen; each had thoughts of his own. But then it was not safe to talk of anything but trivialities: for instance, the man in the opposite corner, with his hawk nose, his cunning eyes, and close-cropped head might have been a detective.

Dressed in the filthiest of rags, gathered from a garbage heap, wearing the inevitable Red cockade, behaving like a bully and a brute, Terhune was not conspicuous in any respect; but the same could not be said of the White Knight. Towering above many of the tallest men, Geoffrey Templeton, alias Istvan Wenzel, could not disguise his height, his rugged strength, nor even his hideous ugliness, from which even the bestial Reds glanced away in disgust.

With his livid wounds Wenzel was a veritable ogre, an inhuman monstrosity, terrifying in appearance. There were times when Terhune turned away his own eyes, retching at the sight of his leader.

The train rumbled on through the environs of the city until it reached the country, and Terhune, comparing its impressive simplicity with its tillers and its reapers who composed the occupants of the carriage, could not arrive at any reconciliation of the situation. Crowded slum-dwellers, living in filth and grime, rubbing shoulders with the rich, imbibing the seeds of dissatisfaction, he could well understand rising in revolution; but where there was beauty and natural art, fresh air and immense open spaces—there, he felt, the spread of revolution could only be a disease, a fostered and malignant growth.

From reason for the creation of internal strife, Arnold's thoughts passed on to its victims. As always, his memory reverted to the night when he had first seen Cecile, sitting in the flickering candlelight by her mother's bedside. He realized that he wanted to see her again and again after that. Perhaps, one day, when the Bolshevik Government was overturned, when the country was released from the grip of the octopus—but that time could only be in the distant future. He sighed, and, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the White Knight.

As usual, Wenzel's face was set in hard lines, his eyes staring ahead, unblinkingly emotionless. Of what was he thinking? And Arnold, aware of the tragedy in the life of Geoffrey Templeton, could well guess.

The train steamed into a local station and the carriage cleared, so that only Arnold and Wenzel were left, even the cunning-eyed man taking his departure. Arnold, somewhat suspicious of him, watched his back disappearing into the exit of the station, and presently noticed him walking along an adjacent street. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that to all intents and purposes he had been mistaken in his assumption of the character of the man.

After a wearisome wait the train continued its journey, and looking toward the east Arnold saw that the sky was beginning to deepen into a sombre grey. Farther along the train some one was playing the Internationale on a violin, and the strains echoed along the corridor.

Wenzel did not move, but continued to sit mutely awaiting the journey's end, passively oblivious of anything other than what was passing through his mind. Arnold chafed at the silence, for now that, to a certain extent, the necessity for caution was past, his leader's attitude was uncanny.

"Geoffrey, old man, we are nearly there."

"Well?" Not a muscle of his face moved. Arnold moved across the carriage so that he sat opposite, hoping that he might read the expression of Wenzel's eyes, but he was disappointed. Nothing was to be glimpsed but an impenetrable blank, an expressionless stare.

Arnold wanted to talk. "You have made your plans?" he asked.

Wenzel nodded. "As far as possible."

"And those?"

"We will follow Grocz at a distance. Soon after he has entered the castle we will arrive with a message from Bela Kun, probably something to do with the hanging of this old man. Once inside our wits must do the rest."

There was a silence, broken eventually by Arnold.

"Geoffrey, why did you not warn me it was you who were the guard that night when we rescued the Count Bakocz? When I felt my pistol butt sink into your flesh I could have gasped with horror. God! It must have hurt you."

"Not as much as it did you. You scarcely bruised the skin."

"Even so, was there anyone else near by, save the Count, that we had to act so realistically?"

"No."

"Then—why?" he asked desperately.

"Two men only have seen the White Knight, Arnold. You are one, Apor is the other. My very plans centre on the secrecy which surrounds me. I fear even the gratitude of those I rescue. I trust no one—but you."

"And I—I am a poor help to you, Geoffrey. Yours is the brain, I am but the muscle. Still, I am more than satisfied. All my life I shall thank God that I came across you that—that day. If I never prove of further use to the world I shall rest satisfied that I have, even in such a small way, helped to alleviate the lot of an unhappy nation, to counteract the ghastly ravages of the handful of murderers who govern the country.

"When we were at school together, you and I, Geoffrey, when we used to outvie one another to see who could be the most daring, I am sure neither of us ever dreamed that ten years later we should be here, in Hungary, doing what we are. You were always the leader, though, even in those days. I could never equal you, for strength, for daring—for anything."

"Yet, Arnold, if I was the leader, I had more than an able lieutenant, even as I have to-day. Schooldays! They were long ago! They were happy days, those. I have changed. You haven't, Arnold. You are older, a trifle more solemn, but you have still that rugged, unbendable spirit of loyalty. The Spanish Inquisition would not have persuaded you to betray a friend, Arnold."

Arnold flushed. He was not used to praise of this kind from his leader, and, embarrassed, he changed the subject.

"Once inside the castle, Geoffrey—are you not afraid of being trapped?"

"Trapped!" Scornfully Wenzel derided the suggestion. "Am I so brainless that I cannot hope to blind the eyes of the unintelligent spawn? Are my arms too weak to throttle a few of the accursed swine? No, Arnold, I have no fear on that score."

"What of a rifle bullet? Neither brains nor brawn, Geoffrey, can successfully withstand the flight of a cartridge."

For the first time that day Wenzel smiled. "Then shall I be glad, Arnold. Don't you realize that death is all I seek? What is life to me now? Hell! Hell, from morning till night. My thoughts torture me when I—I think of—Zita, poor little Zita dying from the shock of seeing her father bayoneted to death by—by the muckrake of the earth, the spewed-out refuse of the lowest type of humanity. God! All I wish is to kill, kill; murder the brutes as they murdered Zita."

So redly did his scars throb with the intensity of his passion that it seemed to Arnold they might burst with the pressure. Wenzel may have guessed his thoughts, for he laughed harshly, hideously.

"God was still not satisfied with all He had done to me. No, there was more to come, Arnold, more to come. First He took away my Zita, killed my heart, chilled my soul, and then, when I wanted to die that I might join her, when I murdered six bloody Bolsheviks and gave myself up that I might perish by their bullets, what queer prank did He play then?

"Let me be put up against the wall, let the Communists fire, let every bullet strike me here and here—here—here—so that I fell, and was left for dead, and yet—what then? Let me live, live that I might gaze in the mirror at myself and hate my own face as I hate the Bolsheviks, detest myself as I would the Devil.

"Do you think I am blind that I cannot see the hellish scars which score my face and head from side to side? God! I wish I couldn't. It hurts so, it hurts so."

No longer were his eyes expressionless. Once Arnold had looked into the eyes of a dog, his body flattened beneath the tyres of a motor-car, and what he saw then remained with him as a memory for years. Once again he saw the pictured story of unbearable pain, and this time it was in Geoffrey's eyes.

If his body were on earth, his soul was in the deepest depths of Hell. If he lived it was only to look for death, the death which was preferable to life.

The train rumbled on, and Comrade Grocz impatiently waited for the journey to finish.

* * * * * *

By the time Grocz reached the castle it was practically pitch dark. Eugene, the ex-coachman, met him at the gate.

"Back again, comrade?"

"Yes, back again, my friend, with good news."

Eugene grunted. "He is to die?"

"Ay, my friend, at the end of a rope, over the battlements. Then when it is all over we will cut the rope and he will fall 'plop' into the Danube. What more could you want?"

"Nothing more. Your scheme is excellent, yet I would give you advice, comrade." He paused.

"Well, say on," urged Grocz impatiently.

"Firstly I would, were I you, dispatch the old man to-night."

Grocz grinned in the darkness. "Worry not, comrade. I have already decided to do that—and other things. Only why do you say this?"

"Because I have heard rumours. There are certain pig-headed villagers who regard our friend as they would a god. There are hints of a rescue."

"What!" Grocz's face blackened. "Who would dare to dispute the judgment of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat? Show me them, give me their names, and I warrant good Comrade Tibor Szamuelly will soon persuade them to change their minds."

"Quietly, comrade, quietly! I know no names. I have merely overheard a conversation, and I say—to-night shut fast the gates, post sentries, and give orders that no one may pass in, not even Bela Kun himself."

Grocz thought for a moment or two, and then smacked his knee. "Good advice, my friend! We will see that this is done."

Inside the castle he rapidly issued orders and the gates rolled to; then Red guards, with loaded rifles, and a bottle of wine by their side, were set to keep watch.

Having done this Grocz made his way into the depths of the castle. Here were cells, built by Hungary's defenders, for Hungary's foes. Here in one of them lay a Hungarian defender, placed there by a Hungarian foe.

To Imre Kiss came Grocz, gloatingly. "Well, old man, you can say your prayers. At midnight sharp, to-night, you die."

"And my daughter?" Imre's voice quavered. All day long, since he had been dragged from above and thrown inside, he had neither heard nor seen Elizabeth, and, sick with anxiety, he had lain on a rough, mouldy heap of straw, hour after hour, praying to his Creator for his daughter's safety, no thought of self, of his own fate, content to die if his daughter be saved, unharmed. In the light of the lantern Imre saw the Communist nod his head. "Don't you worry! She is quite all right."

"You—you are not going to kill her? For God's sake let her remain safe and sound! Kill me, but leave her."

"Don't you worry, we will do that all right," replied Grocz brutally.

"You swear you will look after her?"

"Yes, I will look after her."

"God bless you," Imre murmured. Then as he left the cell Grocz laughed slightly. Once again Imre saw his face clearly betrayed in the light, and at that moment realized the fate in store for Elizabeth.

The horror was too much for his heart. With a tiny sigh he slipped back, unconscious, to the straw-strewn floor.

In the meantime Elizabeth knew naught of what had happened to her father. So far as she was aware, the only occurrence was that some time after she shut herself in her room the key clicked in its socket. When she tried the door it was locked. From this she assumed that her father had been treated in a like manner.

At midday one of her own servants, with downcast eyes, brought her up a simple meal, set out upon a tray, and putting it down upon a small table quickly made her exit without a word.

The afternoon dragged on interminably till it merged into the evening. Once again a meal was brought to her. This time she questioned the maid.

"Why do you not speak to me, Lenke?"

The woman glanced fearfully at her. "Mistress, I have been forbidden to speak to you or to answer any questions."

Elizabeth gazed with scorn at the trembling servant. "Are you afraid of the—the—animals?"

Lenke whimpered slightly. "Mistress, they—they threaten to—to kill me unless I obey their commands."

Elizabeth laughed. "And you believe they would dare to do so?"

"Mistress, they would dare. They—they are beasts!" Her voice sank to a whisper. "Mistress, I heard a cry just before noon like a man who—who had been mortally injured. The voice was like that of Ernest, the butler. Mistress, mistress—" Lenke fell on her knees, and catching hold of Elizabeth's dress buried her face in its folds, and sobbed—"Ernest—has—disappeared. In his room were only—bloodstains."

"Oh, Lenke!" Elizabeth whispered to herself, and her face went suddenly white. It did not seem possible; Ernest to disappear so! She tried to convince herself that the maid was lying, but if Elizabeth needed any confirmation of the truth it was in Lenke's attitude.

If that had happened, without any knowledge of it having reached her until now, what other awful deeds might already have taken place? Her father...

Frantically she bent down and clutched Lenke by the shoulders till the servant moaned with pain. "Lenke—Lenke—my father—your master, is he safe?"

Lenke gazed with horror at her mistress, then she broke free from Elizabeth's grasp, ran across the room to the door, and disappeared outside. The key turned. Elizabeth was once again alone.

The terror depicted in the maid's face—her significant dismay at the question—her orders to answer no questions—seized with consternation Elizabeth sank into a chair as she felt her limbs trembling.

Question after question raced through her mind, queries which could not be answered. As though an icy blast were blowing through her room she shivered with a cold fear. The unconquerable spirit which did not wilt beneath the horror of the day was stricken down at the thought of her father. Where was he now, what had happened to him? Feverishly she crossed to the door and hammered upon it till her hands turned red. For a long time there was no movement, but presently she heard a shuffle along the passage outside.

The door opened, a Red guard stood there.

"My father, where is he? Quick, for the love of mercy tell me!" she pleaded.

The Red guard scowled at her. "Is that all you want?"

"Yes, yes. Tell me, please, I cannot bear the anxiety."

He did not reply. Instead he seized his rifle, and placing the butt to her waist pushed with all his might. Elizabeth went hurtling across the room, to fall with a crash against the wall.

The man laughed brutally and slammed the door.

More hours passed. Elizabeth never knew how many, but it seemed a score or so. The room was in pitch darkness. Racked with physical pain from her bruised body, mentally a prey to an overwhelming fear, she sat in a chair, sick and dazed. So Grocz found her when, bearing aloft a flickering candle, which he set down, he visited her to make her acquainted with the orders of the Dictator of the Proletariat.

"I have brought you a light."

She looked up at him dully. "My father—won't you tell me, please? Where is he? What are you going to do with him?"

Grocz frowned. "Swing the old man to perdition."

The shock paralysed her muscles. She could only look up at him dumbly, trying to pull together her scattered thoughts, to make some coherency of his words.

"So shall suffer all enemies of the Commune," he boasted. "So should you too, my pretty lady, and yet—" he moistened his thick, sensuous lips—"it would be a pity if the world lost such a charming young person. My efforts with the Soviet have served you, sweet Elizabeth, and they have put your life in my hands.

"Fear not, you shall not die, though your father hangs at midnight. I shall myself see that the work is faithfully carried out." He paused, and unconsciously his fingers touched his head, still bruised and tender where Imre's stick had caught it. "Afterwards—" he bowed—"afterwards, pretty lady, you may expect me here. Your life is mine, I shall make good use of it. See, I will leave you this candle till then. It shall not be said that I was unkind to the little lady whose life I have saved." With which he withdrew from the room, his eyes flickering as he shut the door.