Chapter VIII

An unrelieved blackness settled over the countryside before Arnold intimated to Wenzel that everything was ready. Only from the mansion itself was there any illumination, for, despite all possible precautions, from two or three windows came the dull gleam of candlelight. There were no curtains by which the unfortunate refugees could conceal the light, so overcoats, cloaks, and other articles of wearing apparel were made to serve instead.

Wenzel proceeded toward the château until he was near enough to glance in turn through several peep-holes. The scene was anything but cheering, and despite his hardened heart he could not help feeling a tinge of pity for those inside.

The rooms within were bare of any semblance of furniture or decoration other than what the occupiers themselves had made. Naked walls grimly frowned down upon bare floors, and in the general decay one room was no better than the next. In the majority of the bedrooms the only beds consisted of dried leaves over which were flung ladies' petticoats as sheets, men's overcoats as blankets.

Wenzel soon noted that the hands of the fairer sex had not remained idle any more than those of the men. Here and there were bunches of wild flowers, their beautiful colours serving, in some cases, to help hide some of the worst patches on the walls. Pieces of fantastically shaped wood had been tied round with pieces of ribbon, lace, or other trimmings, and these were placed in positions where they could best ornament the rooms.

In several cases the scene had been brightened by cleverly executed charcoal drawings portrayed on the walls, and here and there Wenzel glimpsed colours, though how the artist had obtained them he could not guess.

The men had apparently set to work with a will, aided by what carpenter's tools Arnold had managed to obtain for them, for there were crudely fashioned chairs scattered about, or else uneven three-legged stools. In one room was a rough table.

Somehow Wenzel was grotesquely reminded of the Swiss Family Robinson, of Crusoe, and other similar tales of boyhood days. As he looked in upon the château it seemed to him as though the people inside might also have been cast away on some desert island. To think that they were in the centre of a supposedly civilized continent....

Arnold was waiting for him by the door.

"Everyone is madly anxious to speak to you," he said.

"I can see only a few," Wenzel answered curtly.

He knew beforehand that he was going to be embarrassed by their gratitude, and it annoyed him. "Haven't you told them, Arnold," he continued testily, "that I am doing all this purely for revenge, and to have a chance of killing some of the Communist brutes? Haven't you explained that their lives mean nothing to me?"

Arnold grinned in the darkness. Perhaps he knew his leader better than the White Knight knew himself. "No, I haven't. I have left that for you to do. However, who will you see first?"

"I think—Francis Bakocz! Now take me to the room."

To the White Knight came Francis.

"Monsieur," he said to Wenzel, "I want to become one of your lieutenants."

"Lieutenants! Who told you I have assistants?"

Curtly the words were hurled at him through the dark, and Francis started with surprise. The mysterious White Knight's voice was hard and cruel.

"No one," he faltered; "but there is yourself, and Monsieur Terhune, and I believed there might be others."

"Why should you believe so?"

"I—I—— Monsieur, I do not understand you! I imagined what I did because the escapes you arranged were so wonderful, so marvellous. It seemed to me that you must have many more to aid you. Do you not want me to—to—speak thus?"

Wenzel laughed grimly. "I questioned you to discover whether they were your ideas or some you might have heard."

"They were my own," Francis said quickly. "No one knows anything of you, though we often discuss you when Monsieur Terhune is away," he admitted frankly.

"And you think I am a supernatural being?"

"Almost, monsieur! My father, for instance! When that hideous brute of a jailer was put to guard him he gave up all hope. Only you, monsieur, could have got the better of that monster."

There was a brief silence, broken eventually by Wenzel: "You think so?"

"I am certain of it," replied Francis, with boyish enthusiasm. "From what my father says of the jailer the man must have been an ogre. Ugh! the very description of him makes the ladies shudder." He laughed slightly. "Father's description might be that of the missing link. If ever he and I meet I shall kill him for all he did to my father."

Again a silence, so long that Francis could not maintain his composure. "Monsieur!" he said.

"Go, go!" Wenzel spoke in a muffled voice. "I will let you know if you can help me. Only go now, and tell Terhune to come to me in ten minutes' time."

The boy went, and Wenzel was left to thoughts which seared and blistered. "The missing link!" He, who had once been handsome, who could have once looked at himself in the mirror, and been satisfied with its reflection of healthy, youthful virility, now "an ogre"! Not even could he pretend to himself that his ugliness had been exaggerated in the Count's eyes by the ghastly surrounding of the prison, the apparent cruelty of the jailer. He was not blind; there were times when he was himself appalled by the picture thrown at him out of the looking-glass.

Yet the hurt of Francis' words, though they cut deep into his sensibilities, did not compare with the mental pain of his own thoughts. If a man thought that of him, what would be a woman's feelings, how much worse would be the reaction on the more fragile ideals of a young girl?

A seething disgust of himself swept upward from his heart; soon it seemed to him that such a monstrosity, such a caricature of a man, ought not to live. Grimly it occurred to him that one day he might be held up as an example to bad children, the threat of becoming like him being used as a means of inducing them to yield to parental authority.

His thoughts became more self-accusative and gruesome. When the door opened and some one entered he cursed that he had not said half an hour to Francis instead of ten minutes.

"Arnold! For God's sake leave me alone, man, for another twenty minutes."

"Monsieur, it is not Arnold."

Wenzel sat perfectly still. The low, vibrant intonation echoed the music of the voice which had persistently rung in his ears the last few days.

"Mademoiselle! I did not expect you,"

'You know who it is then, monsieur?"

"You are Elizabeth Kiss."

She laughed softly. "You must be able to see in the dark, monsieur. My eyes cannot pierce the veil of blackness to observe even my hand, and yet you recognize me!"

"It is not your face I recognize, mademoiselle, but your voice."

"But you heard it for so short a time that—that awful night."

"Yet I have not forgotten it. It reminded me of some one I knew many years ago." A surging memory of his last day with Zita carried him quickly back into the past, but it hurt so that he forced himself to forget, to think only of the present. "How came you here? I was expecting Terhune."

"I know," she replied softly. "I overheard Francis telling Monsieur Terhune. I was afraid that perhaps you would refuse to see me, so I slipped in beforehand."

"You did wrong! Why did you?"

"Because I shall never rest with an easy conscience until I have told you of the gratitude which is in my heart for all that you have done for my father and for me."

"Stop! Mademoiselle, believe me, I do not doubt that gratitude for one minute, and if you wish to express it you can do so in no better way than by dropping the subject immediately and never renewing it again."

"But, monsieur, it seems so—so callous, so cold, to let it pass in that way. Yet, if you will not listen to all I would like to say in regard to what you have done personally for my father and me, will you at least let me tell you of what you have done for the nation?

"For years my father has been engaged in a stupendous literary task, that of writing up the personal history of the Apostolic Kings of Hungary, and the evolution of our race. He has nearly finished—a year, two years may see his task completed. If he—he had died, the history would have perished with him, for only he knows where the work is hidden. Monsieur, do you not feel proud that you have done this for the nation?"

He was deeply stirred by the story she told him.

"I am glad you have told me," he said simply.

Beneath the thrall of her presence it did not occur to him then that the saving of the history, or ten histories, should have meant nothing compared with one human life, but at that moment he was conscious only that she was speaking to him, and that slowly, inexorably, he was beginning to fall in love with her.

This meeting only served to emphasize the attraction for her which, almost against his will, had pulled him to the château, away from Budapest. He wished he could see her, watch her ever-changing expressions, behold her again as he had beheld her outside the château, and begrudged the cloak of darkness which blacked out her marvellous eyes from his vision, the eyes which, close to, he had seen covered by alabaster eyelids.

"Mademoiselle, there is a chair just here. Will you not come closer so that I can put you into it?" Even to himself it was obvious that his voice was deeper, more alive, and throbbing with an emotion he could not control.

Elizabeth was conscious of the change, for she hesitated. "I do not mind standing, monsieur."

"Come! I should feel more easy if you would sit." He heard her move slightly, then his outstretched hand came into contact with her arm. Gently he slid his hand down to her wrist, and guided her to the seat. He felt her quivering gently within his grasp, and, aware of her lack of fear, his heart leaped when it seemed to him that there could be but one reason for her nervousness.

Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, and in doing so experienced a sensation of chilling self-abnegation, and forcibly realized that roseate-hued dreams were blinding his sense of reality. The voice of conscience interpolated its everlasting chant: to feel thus was disloyalty to Zita; while revealed in a colder light the suggestion that Elizabeth could reciprocate his sudden feelings in so short a time became impossible.

His heart cried out in protest, so that when he next spoke there was an unshed tear in his voice.

"Won't you tell me of yourself, mademoiselle? Elizabeth Kiss! It is a pretty name."

"It is an old Hungarian name."

"It is prettier still in my language. You know it?" he questioned.

She answered him in English. "A little. I learned it many years ago when I was still at school."

The music of her voice seemed to echo and re-echo in the quietness of the room. Never had his own language sounded so exquisite. Behind each carefully pronounced word whispered a faint suggestion of an accent, liquid and sibilant, like the ripple of a pure mountain rivulet. Each passing moment revealed to him a new charm in her, and every new discovery wrapped him deeper in the meshes of a growing adoration.

"You speak it splendidly, mademoiselle. You must continue to talk to me in English. You were telling me of yourself."

"Was I?" She laughed softly. "There is so little to tell you. Until the night you rescued us my life had been uneventful, monsieur. I have lived all my life at the Castle Gisella, except only during my schooldays, or whenever my father journeyed to Berlin, Paris, or London. Then he took me with him.

"I have been shut off from the world since 1914, though I have been happy and content, except when hearing of the wounds my unhappy country has suffered. Not even of the Commune had my father and I heard anything until a few minutes before we were invaded by the villagers."

"You must suffer all the more then, now that your eyes are open?"

"Indeed, yes. It has been terrible! Each day we hear worse news, until it seems that the woes of Hungary are unending." Suddenly she choked. "Yesterday I received the worst information of all."

Wenzel frowned, wondering why he had not been informed by Terhune of fresh facts. Then he remembered that he had seen his lieutenant for a few minutes only.

"Yes, yes," he impatiently prompted her.

"Yesterday Monsieur Terhune arrived at the château with a fresh visitor from Budapest——"

"Dregely?"

"Yes. Poor Gobor Dregely. He too has lost everything like the rest of us. This morning he and I were talking together of old times. He knew all my relations in Budapest, and—and—oh, monsieur, he told me of the murder in the streets of my cousin, Coloman. Coloman and his friend were walking home one night; they met a group of drunken Communists who demanded of them to hack the royal crown from their uniforms. Coloman refused and—and then—oh! it seems impossible—one of the Communists snatched a revolver from his pocket and shot down my cousin and his friend." Her voice broke, and Wenzel heard the sound of a stifled sob.

He breathed hoarsely. Suddenly all other feelings were gone save those of blind, murderous hate. His hands clenched till the nails of his fingers bit into the flesh of his palm, but he felt nothing of the physical pain, only an overpowering mental anguish at the thought of the brutal murder. Always he felt thus upon hearing fresh Communist horrors; this time it was intensified by the fact that one of the victims was Elizabeth's cousin.

"Dregely—knows he who was that Communist, by any chance?" Fiercely he put the question to her, not daring to hope that she would be able to reply in the affirmative.

Her voice hardened: "Yes. Dregely was Coloman's friend, and by some means found out. He wanted revenge, but the Communist left Budapest."

"Yes, yes; but who was the murderer?"

"He was a People's Commissary, by name Comrade Gonnard. When Dregely searched for him he heard that Gonnard was touring the country, preaching on behalf of the Commune for sanguinary measures against the bourgeoisie. Dregely would have followed, but he was proscribed an outlaw, and so had to flee himself from the clutches of the Communists. Only now is he safe, thanks to the White Knight."

"Yes, I heard of Dregely's danger, and sent Terhune to help him. But this Comrade Gonnard"—his voice boomed with fury—"for what he has done he will have to settle with the White Knight. Do not worry, mademoiselle; the White Knight will avenge your cousin, I swear by the blood that Gonnard shed that the Communist shall die if I have to follow him from one end of Hungary to another!"

"Oh, monsieur!" She sighed. "I believe I am gentle-natured, it hurts me to see a fly struggling to escape the ruthless clutches of the spider, yet my heart leaps with joy to hear you say that. If only I could be of assistance to you!"

"Perhaps you can," he breathed softly.

"Tell me quickly," she said eagerly.

He had not meant to let the words slip out, they were an echoing murmur from his heart, and now he felt embarrassed, unable to think what to say. Once again the battle between his desires and his sensitive conscience waged fiercely. There was much he wished to tell her, but all the time a mocking voice taunted him on his forgetfulness. What was his love worth, it asked, that he could forget Zita so soon? Less than two months ago he had stood over her dead body and vowed remorseless revenge, and yet already his heart was stirring at the proximity of another woman!

With pitiless insistency the hammer-strokes of his self-inflicted arguments flayed his soul till he writhed in agony. He forced himself to thrust away the mental pictures of Elizabeth which constantly depicted themselves in his imagination, and hardened his voice in an endeavour to deceive himself as well as her.

He had nearly led himself into a trap. There seemed to him only one way out of it. "You can help me by never mentioning a word to anyone that I am going after Gonnard."

"Monsieur!" Reproach battled with anger in her voice.

"I am sorry, but prattling tongues, even in this château, can do inestimable damage. Already some one, who, I do not know, has in his—or her—gratitude kindly betrayed the fact to my enemies that I am an Englishman. Whether by accident or design I do not know. In any event, a word in English now is sufficient to raise a horde of amateur and professional trackers on the trail of the unfortunate speaker."

Elizabeth bit her lip, and wished it were within her power to understand her mysterious rescuer. In the first place, from what little she had seen of him, he was utterly unlike the evenly balanced, phlegmatic Englishmen whom she had previously met. His moods changed with the rapidity of a temperamental woman: he was tender, fierce, calm, and tempestuous by turns. At one moment his voice throbbed with sympathy, the next it grated with bitter cynicism.

His lack of trust hurt her. The pitch-dark room! She tried to persuade herself that there was some other reason, but in vain. It could only be that he feared to reveal his face even to her, in case of treachery. She rose to her feet.

"I must go, monsieur. There are others who wish to express their gratitude to you beside myself." With an effort she kept her tone at an even level, concealing the disappointment which she felt.

His thoughts were chaotic. He did not want her to go so quickly—there were still many questions he wished to put to her, anything to keep her near him; but his lips seemed paralysed.

He was saved a final decision. The door opened and Terhune's voice rang out:

"Geoffrey, I am sorry to interrupt, but Apor is here with grave news."

Instantly his brain cleared. "Mademoiselle, you will excuse me!"

Her lips twitched bitterly. There was a faint note of pleasure in his voice. Evidently he was pleased to get rid of her! "I will go at once," she said.

Terhune guided her to the door, and when he came back Apor was with him.

"Shall I light up now? The window is well covered," asked Terhune.

"Yes, yes. I am tired of the gloom."

When the candle was alight Apor turned to Wenzel.

"My only hope was that you would be here, though how I even guessed that you might be I do not know. Telepathy, no doubt. How did you get here? There is not a single train running."

"Walked here," Wenzel grunted.

Apor whistled in surprise, and gazed at his leader with admiration in his eyes. "It must have been a hard walk, Wenzel. For myself, I confiscated a motor-car and left it in the woods three miles away. Wenzel, if ever your help is needed, it is now, at once. The Devil's let loose.

"Just after three to-day the news came through to the Council that a counter-revolution had broken out in Bira. There was an uproar. Szamuelly said that if the Soviet were to reign supreme all counter-movements must be squashed. For three hours he pleaded for a free hand to take his Death Train to Bira to settle the revolution his own way, but there were some there who hesitated at the idea. In the end he won. I left at once and searched Budapest for you or Terhune. I found no trace, and something prompted me to try here.

"Wenzel, some time to-night the Death Train will leave Budapest for Bira. If it ever gets there, God help the poor devils! Szamuelly is a fiend incarnate. Something must be done to stop him arriving. If we can but delay him twenty-four—or even twelve—hours one of us might get there in the meantime, break the movement up, and get the ringleaders of it to flee for their lives."

Wenzel nodded his head. "You are right, Apor. How many miles is it to Bira from here?"

"Seventy."

"Good! Then give Arnold your car. Arnold, you must go at once to Bira. Fortunately only to-day I bought a map. Here it is. Drive like Hell! You ought to be there at the very most in six hours. In the meantime somehow or other we must delay the Death Train."

"But how?" It was Apor who put the question.

Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. An eloquent answer! There followed a silence while each of the three men racked their brains in an effort to elucidate the problem. The minutes ticked by. Then, suddenly, Wenzel turned to Apor:

"The line which runs in the valley the other side of the hill—is that the direction to Bira?" There was hope in his voice.

Apor nodded. "Yes!" he said, but his expression was puzzled.

Noticing it Wenzel laughed slightly. "Our course is clear, Apor, but we must hurry. You and I have work to do. While Arnold hurries to Bira we will go down into the valley. There are plenty of tall trees there."

"Well?" Still Apor did not understand.

"Don't you see?" explained Wenzel impatiently. "Arnold has a saw. We will fell one of the trees and drag it across the lines. It will be apt to stop any train which comes along; the quicker it is travelling the better havoc there will be."

There dawned in Apor's eyes a smile of triumph which slowly travelled down to his mouth. "What a wreck! If there arc not a few dead Lenin Boys afterwards——" Suddenly he snarled: "The murderous brutes! I hope to God it may kill every one of them and smash the Death Train to pieces!"

Wenzel smiled cruelly. "Maybe it will, Apor. Maybe it will. Now go, you, Arnold, to the car, and on to Bira, and you, Apor, bring me that saw."

He chuckled as his two followers rapidly made their exit from the room. Then he blew out the candle, and moving to the window drew aside the overcoat which covered it and gazed into the night. There was no compunction in his heart for what he was about to do—in fact, it was not of Szamuelly and the Death Train of which he thought, but Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's cousin.

"And afterwards," he whispered to himself—"afterwards.... Take heed, Comrade Gonnard, the White Knight is on your track. May you sleep well to-night! You have not many more nights left."