Chapter VI

"Ho, there!"

Two men stood outside the castle gates, cursing beneath their breath.

On the other side a Communist laughed noisily.

"Hullo, comrades! What want you at this time of night?"

"We come with a message to Comrade Grocz from Bela Kun."

The Communist laughed again, and turned to his companion, whose besotted face grinned vacantly. "A good joke, eh, my friend! A message from Bela Kun. What was it good Comrade Grocz told us? 'Open not the gates even to Bela Kun himself.' Ha, ha! You will have to come again to-morrow, friends." He swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"Open! Our message is important." Wenzel's voice hardened. "Unless Bela Kun's orders are obeyed your necks may stretch."

Imre's potent wine had done its work well. "Who cares for Bela Kun? To-morrow I may be the Dictator, or at least a commissary. Or else my friend here. Good night, brothers. Come again to-morrow." Arm in arm the two guards turned their backs and reeled into the interior of the castle, carrying with them the flask of wine.

The darkness, unrelieved by even the light of moon or stars, hid everything within a cloak of invisibility, so that even the castle itself was but a blur, revealed only by flickering gleams of illumination from a few windows. That, and one other thing. On top of the castle itself three men, working by the light of four or five lanterns, moved busily about to the accompaniment of hammering. They were erecting the gallows from which Imre was shortly to hang.

Wenzel cursed at the sudden, unforeseen obstacle in the fulfilment of his plans. "Hell! May the Devil seize him! Do you think Comrade Grocz suspected he was being followed, Arnold?"

"No, I think not," Terhune replied slowly.

"Then why the order not to let in even Bela Kun himself?"

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. "A sense of authority in the first place, but there is a worse aspect. After the hanging Grocz wishes no interruption in his filthy schemes."

Wenzel's muscles tightened. "God grant me the chance to grip his soft throat between my thumbs," he muttered between his teeth. "But now, is there another way in? Let us explore, Arnold."

Stumbling along the uneven rocky surface, Wenzel and his lieutenant proceeded to examine, as far as possible, the geography of the castle. Keeping well beneath the shadow of the outer battlements they knew they were safe from the observation of those within the castle. It would be only Communists or sentries actually above them on the battlements who would be likely to hear or see them—an unlikely contingency.

Presently they came to one corner; here the wall turned off at right angles to make a second side of the square in which the castle was built. Continuing, the two Englishmen turned also. For perhaps two hundred feet they crept along without discovering any sign of another door.

Suddenly Wenzel stopped, restraining Arnold by a touch on his arm, his keen ears having become aware of a strange, sighing echo, a noise hollowly flung at them from out of the darkness. He felt the influence of a cold wind, a sensation of space.

He looked ahead, then beneath him, and gasped slightly. Deep down below, an inestimable distance, were lights eerily waving to and fro. Another few steps and they might have hurtled into the depths before them.

The lights puzzled him; he could make nothing definite of their fantastic action. What, too, was the soughing below? All at once the solution occurred to him. The lights below were reflections of others above.

"The Danube!" he breathed softly.

"Good Lord!" Arnold was horrified. "Another few steps and——"

"Perhaps."

That was all! Coolly indifferent to the possibility of having just escaped death, the White Knight passed again to the front of Arnold and they retraced their steps. They reached the gates again, and with the utmost caution passed by in front of them, then explored the other side of the castle.

There it was just the same. After the turn, a couple of hundred yards' walk, and then the blowing wind, the sensation of space. The castle needed battlements on three sides only, for the fourth was impregnable; Nature in the shape of a precipitous drop to the river provided protection enough.

"Well?"

Arnold detected a grim note of interrogation in Wenzel's voice. "There seems no hope of admittance," he answered.

"There has got to be. Do you think I am content to let the old man hang, and his daughter be violated?"

"What can you do? If Grocz meant all he said at the station buffet, Imre Kiss will hang at twelve."

"He was deadly serious, Arnold, else why the gallows?" He pointed to the castle roof where the men had been working, to notice that there was now no sign of them. The work was finished, the deadly instrument ready for its victim.

"The swine!" In the intensity of his emotion Arnold hissed the word between set teeth. "And yet——?"

There was no need for him to complete his unspoken question. The White Knight answered it after a slight pause. "Arnold, there is one way. I am going to scale the battlements."

"Geoffrey—you can't! They must be twenty feet high or more and probably smooth as glass."

"Yet I am going to try," and there was a finality in his voice which permitted of no opposition. Arnold, knowing that his leader would make the attempt, failed to see any prospect of success. If there had been but a modicum of light, a single gleam of illumination by which to see footholds, find weaknesses in the solid structure of which advantage might be taken, then, however hazardous and foolhardy the task might have seemed, there was at least a possibility of triumph. But in the present circumstances...

The White Knight laughed slightly, and the next moment he was by the wall, his hands and feet feeling for the slightest crack, the smallest protuberance which would afford him a hold.

The moss was thick in parts, and deceiving. It felt firm and secure, yet it needed little pressure to tear its roots from the stonework, and was a hindrance rather than a help, for pieces fell into Wenzel's face, and into his eyes.

At last his groping fingers found a tiny indent where the mortar had crumbled away. Not deep enough for him to insert his finger-tips even as far as the first joint, yet he deemed it sufficient. He took a firm grip, and by sheer force lifted his tall body a few inches and pressed his toes against the wall, until one foot felt resistance beneath it. So he advanced the first step upward.

Carefully he released his left hand. His weight pulled at the fingers of the other, but he tightened his muscles, and somehow he clung, supported by the toes of one foot.

With his free hand he felt for another hold, and presently found one, scarcely better than the first, but good enough. He took hold, swung away, and, as before, pulled himself up till he could use both hands.

He moved upward, inch by inch, somehow finding fingerholds where the fierce weather had, through the centuries, crumbled the stone; but mainly it was sheer strength, fortified by force of will, which helped him up, for he held on tenaciously, even when his position was precarious, when the slightest weakening would have sent him slipping down.

Up and up! Presently, for all he knew, he might have been nearly to the top, or yet not above the height of Terhune's head, for soon he lost count of time and sense of distance.

Presently it became an effort to think; his brain reiterated monotonously: "Hold on, hold on." He must hold on; that much he knew; so he held on, step by step, inch by inch.

Something wet trickled on his face; he thought it was moisture from the squeezed moss, till it rolled upon his dry lips, and tasted warm and salty to his tongue. He knew then that it was blood from his fingers where the skin was wearing through.

Up and up! His muscles were tearing and aching from the strain; his body suffered as if it had been tortured on the rack. He felt that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the superhuman effort, but he was aware that he must continue, knowing if he fell it would mean death, and though he would have welcomed oblivion, there was work to be done first.

More important than the rescue of Imre Kiss was that of his daughter Elizabeth. A man can die but once, and hanging is short and sweet, but the girl—she would die a thousand deaths if once the foul beast Grocz laid hands upon her, and yet remain alive, and live thereafter suffering the tortures of the damned.

Up and up! Suddenly he laughed aloud. God! he had nearly gone that time. The blood streamed down his arm, spurted over his clothes, even dripped on Terhune who waited below, pressed close against the wall with outstretched arms just in case he could catch the White Knight should he fall. Terhune heard the laughter and, never dreaming that it was an escape of pent-up relief from his leader, trembled for the White Knight, believing he had heard a Communist somewhere on the battlements.

Wenzel wondered at himself. Why had he laughed? For what in Hades was he climbing the wall? Why not drop and go to sleep? Sleep, that was it! He was tired; he could move no more.

Perhaps for thirty seconds he remained still, while his brain, dazed by the tremendous strain his body had suffered, whirled and twisted in mental gymnastics. For a brief period he could not collect his thoughts; then out of the fog of uncertainty something in his heart repeated once again: "Up—up."

Up and up! Somehow he held on, even when it seemed to him that to continue was impossible, until at last the top. One final clamber and he was on the broad, level wall. Weakly he slithered down and lay stretched out, while he gasped loudly for breath.

The strain over, his brain renewed its functions, and he was able to think intelligently, so he allowed himself five minutes for recovery. This period of time he estimated, then he rose to his feet, ready for the next part of the programme.

Somewhere or other he believed there were bound to be stairs leading down into the castle courtyard. These he knew he could only find by feeling for them, so he set out along the wall, step by step.

He was not long in his search. Having traversed some fifteen yards or so he came to a small tower. Suspecting that the stairs might be inside he entered, to find his surmise correct. The tower was a shield for a circular staircase leading from below.

Treading with the utmost caution he ventured down, and at length arrived at the courtyard. Even there not a single man was to be seen, though he could hear them, for inside the castle there was a noise of music and singing. Deprive the Hungarian of his music, and part of his life is erased.

The tune was dimly reminiscent; and a grim smile creased the features of the White Knight. Well might it strike a chord in his memory! It was the Marseillaise! Altered and transposed almost out of recognition so that even Rouget de Lisle might not have identified it, the song howled by the drunken villagers was basically the same as that which had fired the blood of other revolutionaries in other times, in another land.

The tune was Hungarianized, the words modernized by a local poet; but the spirit of the singers was not altered one iota. So had the people of France sung their hymn, drinking from their bottles under the frowning fortifications of Paris, and their thoughts had been the same, their aspirations similar. The uprooting of law and order, the disruption of the country—what mattered so long as they had government for the mass by the mass? That the rule of the mass proved even more despotic, still more unjust than before, was a matter of no account at all.

The large iron-bound doors of the castle proper stood wide open, and for this Wenzel breathed a sigh of thankfulness. His entrance should be comparatively easy.

From the shadows outside he looked into the large hall. Not yet had the invaders managed to destroy all semblance of its beauty. The stately walls still rose grandly up to the raftered roof; its upper panels, beyond the reach of the peasants, were still adorned with the trophies of centuries of war and sport.

It was the floor which had suffered most; its polish was irretrievably ruined, damaged by the contact of heavy boots, and the mess and filth which littered it. There, too, sprawled the filthy bodies of the Communists, drunkenly sleeping off the effects of a day's carousal.

Those who were still able to remain awake were piled around a platform which occupied part of the left side of the hall. Here were the musicians, babbling in their cups, and yet still musical.

As Wenzel glanced around he noticed one significant fact. There was not one person looking in the direction of the door. Now was his chance to gain admittance inside without becoming a centre of interest! Once within he believed he might not have to fear discovery; for one thing, they all looked too drunk to notice the presence of a stranger, and, again, even if he were seen, he trusted that the villagers would take him to be one of the Budapest contingent, while the Communists from the city might assume him to belong to the peasants' party.

Pulling his cap well over his head, swathing his chin and neck in his dirty scarf, and slouching his shoulders to lessen his height, Wenzel unsteadily crossed the threshold into the midst of the unpleasant company, and sank into a chair while he looked around. Most of them had not yet troubled to take off hats or coats, so he did not remove his either.

In front of him he saw a magnificent staircase, wide enough to take twelve men abreast, which led to the upper floor. By the platform was another door through which men staggered in, now and again, food or drink in their hands, so Wenzel assumed that it led to the kitchens.

Otherwise, barring the front entrance, through which he himself had entered, he could see no other door. He frowned slightly. He felt that there should be another exit—one by which the servants could make their way into other parts of the house without using either the kitchen or the main staircase.

If there was one he did not see it, so he made up his mind to use the stairs, for even as he looked, a Communist stumbled down, holding on to the carved banisters for support. If one could use them, why not another?

The Marseillaise finished, the Internationale rang out. There was a burst of enthusiasm, and the noise of the chorus boisterously rolled round the hall with a deafening din.

Wenzel rose from his chair, deeming the time a good one to move. He crossed the hall to the staircase. With his foot on the first stair he stopped. Some one was entering the hall by a door just two or three yards to the side of him, a panelled door which swung on its hinges, and had been invisible to him before because it merged into the pattern of the wall.

It was decidedly a less conspicuous entrance to the other part of the house. In case he should be observed he slipped and rolled to the floor. When he arose the door was in front of him, so the next second he was on the other side, and at once was conscious of a welcome silence after the noise of the hall.

The passage ahead of him was lit only in one place, by a faint light escaping from a room on the right; from a slightly discernible flicker and the soft yellowness of its gleam Wenzel guessed it to be that of an oil lamp.

There was, apparently, no one about; Wenzel wondered if it were too much to hope that all the Bolsheviks were congregated together. If so, and if he could but find where Imre and his daughter were, to escape would be a matter of extreme simplicity.

There was no object in moving secretively; he shuffled along the passage until he was level with the lighted room. With a quick sideward glance he looked within, but it was empty.

He moved on, and the passage turned sharply to the left.

Having turned the corner Wenzel found the darkness more accentuated, for there were no other lights to be seen, and the illumination from the lamp in the room he had just passed had no effect.

Feeling his way along by the wall he penetrated further into the heart of the castle. He came to another corner, and as he turned he became conscious of approaching footsteps.

The castle seemed all corners. The next moment a man walked suddenly into view from the left, carrying a candle in his hand. Wenzel darted back into the shelter of the passage from which he had just emerged, a plan of action already forming in his brain.

The other man came nearer. Wenzel crouched for a spring. Then as the Communist turned into his passage Wenzel moved. With his left arm he grasped the man round the body in an unavoidable embrace, while he used his right hand to seize the man's throat, and gently squeeze the windpipe between thumb and first finger.

The candle dropped and sizzled out; the comrade tried convulsively to free himself, but he was helpless. Wenzel increased the pressure of his arms and felt his victim sag limply. Then he released his hold on the man's throat, but quickly transferred his hand to the mouth, pressing it fiercely so that no sound could escape.

"Quick, you dog," he said in a low voice, "tell me, where is Imre Kiss?"

He released his hand from the man's mouth so that the other might speak. The man breathed hoarsely, his body panting as he pulled the air into his lungs with deep gulps.

"Down in the cells," he croaked.

"You know the way?"

The Communist hesitated. Wenzel tightened the arm which encircled the man's waist till the unfortunate prisoner felt the air leaving his body again with a rush.

"Yes, yes," he muttered hoarsely. "I have just come from there."

"For what reason?"

"Comrade Grocz sent me with this message: 'Tell the old man to say his prayers; it is nearly time for him to die.'"

In his fury Wenzel unconsciously increased the pressure of his arm, and the Communist whimpered in agony.

"Mercy, mercy," he gasped, "you are killing me!"

Wenzel grunted, but eased up. The man might yet prove to be of use, otherwise...

"Pick up that candle, light it, and lead me to Imre Kiss. If you fail, or if you raise the slightest alarm—the Devil has a special reception for such as you, my friend, so if you do not want to see him yet awhile——"

Without a word the Communist pulled some matches from his pocket, and, striking one, looked for the dropped candle. This he picked up and relit. Holding it with fingers which shook and trembled in fear he began to retrace his steps.

Presently they came to stairs which led downward; cold, stone stairs which, in the past, many a prisoner had trodden but once—going down. The air was fetid from the moss-covered walls and lack of ventilation, the atmosphere chilly and gruesome.

The Communist pointed to the dark depths: "Imre Kiss is in the second cell on the left."

Wenzel did not waste time in words. He roughly caught the man by his arms, and with a jerk swung him forward, and the unwilling guide crept down.

There was a murmuring cry from one of the cells.

"Hear my prayers, O Lord! Guard Elizabeth from the foul hands of the beast; take my life but save hers. In Thy infinite justice destroy the man who would dare lay hands upon her. In Thy Omnipotency, protect her this night; show mercy to her who hath ever revered Thy Name."

Conscious, suddenly, of intruders, Imre ceased his invocation. He saw the light of the candle, the two Communists—his call had come.

He threw himself on his knees, his arms outstretched toward them. "Save my daughter! for God's sake rescue her from the arms of that brute! You shall be well rewarded. But tell the truth to my friends, and on my sacred oath you will receive a thousand crowns, ten thousand crowns, the whole of my fortune, my castle! I will give you a note of hand; it will be honoured I swear."

His voice broke; he could say no more, and, believing his appeal futile, he collapsed to the floor with a sob.

The door of the cell was locked. Wenzel turned to the guide with a growl. "The key."

"Comrade Grocz has it."

Wenzel swore. The door was an unexpected obstacle. Unsuspecting the cells he had not worried about keys. There was no door made to withstand the force of his shoulders, but the iron-barred gate...

He seized the candle from the hand of the other. If there were one single flaw, a weakness... But he found no sign of such, only that the rust of ages had eaten into the metal. Wenzel passed the candle back to the Communist.

If only his arms had not suffered from the strain of that gruelling climb, if only his hands were not still raw and hard with dried blood; but Wenzel knew he would have to make the attempt even if his back broke. There was still echoing in his memory Imre's prayer....

He stood with his back to the door, which was composed solely of iron bars. His arms hung down by his side, his hands gripping a cross bar. Carefully he placed his feet into position. He was ready.

With a slowly increasing force he pushed, with his feet, his hands, his back, pushed until his limbs were as taut as the iron bars themselves. Nothing happened, so he increased the pressure, and the sweat burst from his forehead and trickled down his face.

A little more and he would be finished, his strength exhausted. Despairingly he thrust again—the rusted iron lock moved, bent beneath the strain, and then burst; the door swung in, and Wenzel, lurching forward with it, tumbled to the floor, while the Communist felt his knees weaken at the joints, wondering whether it were the Devil himself he watched. For twenty seconds no one moved, then Wenzel rose to his feet and turned to Imre Kiss: "Come, there is no time to waste."

Heavily the old man followed Wenzel out, his legs scarcely bearing him. Not yet did Imre realize that he was being rescued. "I am ready," he whispered.

In the meantime Wenzel stood before the trembling Communist, his lips twisted in an ugly grin. "The candle," he ordered, and hypnotized by the fierce eyes the agitator from Budapest passed the guttering tallow over.

There was no mercy in Wenzel's soul then. Somehow he must dispose of the Communist, otherwise there would soon be a warning shout. He could not lock him up. His arm leaped upward as he clenched his fist. There was a dull thud as it came into contact with the man's chin. The Communist's head jerked back, and he slithered to the ground. There would be no fear of disturbance from him.

Imre felt sick. "Why did you do that?" he murmured.

"It was the only way," Wenzel replied harshly. "Otherwise he might have raised an alarm."

"An alarm!" Imre's trembling fingers waveringly flew to his mouth, and slowly his eyes brightened in hope. "You—you are here to rescue me?"

"You and your daughter, Elizabeth."

Imre tried to speak, his lips quivered; but his brain was overwhelmed by a rushing flood of relief, and the words refused to come. He could only stare at Wenzel; yet all his unspoken gratitude was in that look, in the curving smile, in the fading lines, and in the eyes which streamed with tears of joy and happiness.

"Come, we must not stop here." Wenzel's voice was gentle; more so than it had been for many months. "First you must show me the way to the roof."

"The roof? ... But ... but ... why?"

Wenzel's face hardened. "Question me not, but lead." And Imre Kiss, who, because of the way in which his rescuer had wrapped his face, could see nothing but his eyes, led the way without another word.

There was an incident on the way up to the roof. They heard approaching voices: Imre turned round helplessly to the White Knight. Wenzel picked the other man up and flung him across his shoulders like a sack of flour.

Two Communists staggered into them. "Ho, ho!" leered one. "Our friend carries a man to his room. Why is it a man you choose to take to your room, comrade?" and he dug Wenzel in the ribs. "What is the matter with him?"

"He is fuller with wine than a barrel."

"Oh, ho! Have they found some more?"

"It flows like the Danube in the hall. I am just going down to have my fill."

The two Communists exchanged glances. "It will be a big one," said one, "we had better get there first."

When Wenzel set Imre upon his feet again, the old man turned to him. "That was clever," he said simply.

At last they reached the roof, and crossed to where the gallows stood awaiting its victim. Imre shuddered.

The long length of rope with its running noose, the noose which was never to tighten, was there, prepared. Wenzel observed the fact grimly. It was for this that he had come. He stepped forward and pulled the rope from the supports, and having untied the noose estimated the length.

"Seventeen feet," he surmised, "a drop of from four or five feet, allowing for tying." Turning to Imre he asked: "Is there a direct way from here to the battlements on the right, or must we descend to the courtyard and cross?"

"No; there is an exterior staircase—a modern innovation. My own, as a matter of fact."

"Huh! It may save your life." Wenzel laughed shortly. "You scarcely foresaw this when you had it built?"

"God forbid!"

A few seconds later they were on the battlements at the spot where Wenzel had climbed scarcely an hour ago. He formed his lips into a circle, and a hoot of an owl rang through the quiet night, to be echoed from below.

Wenzel turned to Imre: "Listen carefully to my instructions. I shall drop you by means of this rope to where my friend stands below. It is five feet short. When it reaches its capacity I shall tug it twice. Then you must untie yourself and drop. When you meet my friend you and he must go at once to the nearest village. Afterwards Terhune—my lieutenant—will know what to do. You understand? You must set off at once."

"But—but my daughter?"

There was a rasp in Wenzel's voice when he answered: "You must obey me."

It did not take a moment to fix the rope round Imre's waist. Afterward the old man climbed over the parapet, and Wenzel commenced to lower him. Foot by foot the hemp passed through his hands till it came to the end. He lifted it slightly and lowered it. Then he raised it again for the second tug, and a calamity occurred.

The rasping fibre bit into his tender hand, where it suddenly scraped a nerve. Involuntarily his hand unclasped—and Imre dropped, the rope with him.

The loss of it was a blow: Wenzel had been relying on it to let down Elizabeth and himself. But there was no time to waste in vain regrets. It was more than possible Grocz might send down further insulting messages to his prisoner, and once the escape was discovered it would be awkward for both the girl and himself unless they were away by then.

Awaiting only Arnold's signal that Imre was safe, Wenzel commenced cautiously to feel his way to the roof and back again to the stairs which led into the castle. He had learned from Imre the position of Elizabeth's room and now he made his way toward it.

There was no one about. Still more fortunate proved the fact that the key was in the door. He unlocked it and entered.

The room was in pitch darkness; the candle which Grocz had left had already burned down to nothing. Hearing him, Elizabeth gave a muffled shriek.

"Fear not, mademoiselle."

Three simple words, but to Elizabeth they represented a suggestion of unexpected comradeship. The deep, resonant tone of his voice echoed round the room.

"Fear not!" A cultured voice at last, when all she had heard that day had been the slurring accents of the uncouth, the uneducated.

"Fear not!" Whatever words that voice might have conveyed to her hearing none could have been more superfluous, for the deep notes inspired trust, revealed the voice of a gentleman.

Just as her father had done, Elizabeth sobbed slightly at the unexpected possibility of succour which was so suddenly held out before her, dazzling in its promise. Once again the strain of the occult within warned her that the man whose voice had floated to her through the darkness was a friend, even though he had not told her so.

"Mademoiselle, I have come to rescue you." If she had needed proof his words supplied it.

"Oh, thank God!" she murmured. "For if—if that man had come to me I would have died.... But—my father——"

"Is already safe and sound."

Wenzel heard a soft, cooing laugh. "Oh, monsieur, how can I thank you? Whatever can I say or do to show my gratitude? My father safe! It sounds—wonderful. You have done this?"

"I have." Impatiently he replied, but if his manner was brusque she did not notice it.

In a low, vibrant voice, which grew softer as she approached him, she poured out her gratitude in full measure: "Monsieur, what you have done this night will for ever live within my memory. On every anniversary of this date I shall bless your name, remember every word you speak, picture to myself every line of your face——"

"Stop!" Fiercely, passionately he hurled the word at her, for the pain of her gentle thoughts seared into his heart with a rending, tearing gash. "Every line of his face." God! Why had she said that? How well he knew that once she saw his face each line of it would indeed be for ever depicted in her memory—but not in the way she believed. Its forbidding distortion would haunt her, its satyr-like grimness would represent a horror from which she would turn away in fear and loathing.

"I want neither your thanks nor your remembrance. Do you not realize that at any moment your father's escape may be discovered? Get ready!" he ordered, and his words cut through the intervening space with the sharpness of a rapier.

Bewildered and confused by his attitude she could only answer in a low undertone: "I am ready." What type of man was it who had so suddenly slipped into her life? Intuition, her sense of hearing, everything suggested that her unseen rescuer was a gentleman, yet his last words were those of a blustering bully, a coarse and domineering adventurer.

"Then come." He stretched out his arm, and his hand came into contact with her wrist. He seized it firmly, and pulled her roughly to the door.

With the other hand upon the door-handle he stopped dead, as suddenly from below there was a reverberating shout, a rumbling yell of rage. Wenzel's lips compressed, and unconsciously he tightened his grip upon her arm, till she could stand it no longer, and she screamed slightly with the agony.

He thought it was fear: "Keep quiet; there is still time to escape."

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...