PROLOGUE

I

"Say again you love me," she pleaded.

"Silly one! Have I not already told you more times than I can count?" he chided.

She pouted slightly. "Yes, dear one; but a woman can never hear too often the words which mean so much to her."

"A woman!" The man laughed softly. "You are not a woman, Zita. Why, you have yet to see your nineteenth birthday. You are still nothing but a child—yet—I love you, Zita."

"Are you then a grandfather, big Mr Englishman?" she mocked.

"No, but it is more than a month ago now since I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday."

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they walked along the shady paths of Margaret Island. Romance infused the soft, warm air of the July night with its subtle infection; the surroundings in which these two walked were reminiscent of Paradise.

On their right the darkness of the night was emphasized by the many beautiful trees, the shadows of which, cast by the silvery light of the moon above, were delicately traced upon the soft sward beneath, and the simple majesty of the woods was disturbed only by the bright lights of an electric tramcar, as it flashed past, raucously, clangingly making its way from one end of the island to the other.

On their left the scene was still more beautiful, for past them swiftly flowed the broad Danube, silently racing toward its outlet in the Black Sea, carrying on its bosom the broad-bottomed boats of commerce.

Just now these barges seemed like quaint, black shadows, moving with an eerie silence. There were, however, other craft, steamboats, which shimmered and twinkled, their reflected lights dancing merrily up and down upon the water. These were the vessels which conveyed the people across from either end of Margaret Island.

On the bank opposite was the old town of Ofen, better known as Buda. From where the couple stood, quiet in the thoughts which gripped them, they could see the lights of the royal palace scintillating in the darkness.

From the upper end of the island they could hear faintly the plashing of superfluous water as, from the bath-house, it falls in a pretty cascade into the pond beneath.

Geoffrey Templeton wondered if there could possibly be any other place in the world so wonderful as this, while Zita looked up at his strong profile, thrown into relief by the ethereal light above, and smiled slightly to herself, for she too was idealizing, contemplating whether there could be another man in this world so splendid as he.

She looked at the moon, and even as she gazed upward a small black cloud passed beneath, quite obscuring its silvery sheen. Coincidently she remembered that on the morrow Geoffrey was to return to England, his holiday at an end.

"Oh, Geoffrey, dear heart," she murmured softly, "must you indeed depart to-morrow for your cold, cheerless England?"

He turned toward her, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, seized her dainty hands within his and pressed them passionately.

"I wish I could say otherwise," he muttered hoarsely, "for I would ask nothing better than to stop here with you always; but I have no option. We must part, darling, for six months. It shall not be longer, I swear it. After all," he continued, "six months is but a short time, and then, when I return, we can be married. Cheer up, little one, only twenty-four weeks, and then.... Smile, Zita, for this night is our last one together, and it hurts me to see you sad."

Gently releasing her fingers, and catching her chin with his right hand, he lifted her face gently so that they gazed into one another's eyes. Pluckily she attempted to smile, but instead a tiny tear, escaping, rolled down her cheek, and seeing this Geoffrey drew nearer to her, kissing it away before it found time to drop.

Quickly the hours sped by while they talked of the past.... Once again he made her laugh as he reminded her of the time when he could talk no Hungarian, when she, taking pity on his plight, instructed him, until now he was proficient in the Magyar language.

They spoke of the future, the far-off time when he should return to Budapest and claim her for his own, and together they planned the time-to-be, discussed how long they would spend in England with his people, and how long in Budapest with hers.

From not far away there was a discreet cough from Zita's chaperon, and Geoffrey looked, dismayed, at his watch.

"Come, darling, this must be good night ... and au revoir."

Quickly the ferry conveyed them from the island back to Buda again, where he hired a fiacre.

Back at her home, the wise and kindly chaperon discreetly disappeared; once again Geoffrey clasped his future wife in his arms, and, kissing the brimming tears away, made his adieux.

"In six months I shall return," were his last words, and the next moment he was gone.

Early the next morning Geoffrey left for Paris; before him England, behind him Budapest, the city of smiles, gaiety, and happiness.

"In six months I shall return."

The words echoed in his ears, and the hum of the wheels of the wagon-lit repeated after him: "Six months, six months!"

Once he looked out of the window, but he saw only an ominous haze away in the east, heavy banks of thunder-laden clouds, obscuring his last view of Budapest.

Even as the looming storm rolled up from the east that morning so did other clouds spring up, this time political, born of a tiny puff of blue smoke which was slowly emitted from the barrel of a revolver, held in the hands of a fanatic; and less than a month later followed the whirlwind, and the upheaval of Europe. Geoffrey's dream was past, buried in the heart of the bloody battlefield.

II

The War was over! Peace had come again to Germany, France, England, Italy, and the United States. Over these countries there was once more contentment, the happiness of a quickly reviving industry. The echoing boom of guns was no longer heard, air-raids were already but a memory, telegraph boys ceased to be of heartrending significance.

Already war-scarred warriors were being demobilized; ex-soldiers were returning to more peaceful employment; food, diverted from its destination—headquarters—was becoming plentiful, of a better quality.

War was over! Now only time was needed, and these countries would be their old selves again. In Paris the statesmen were collecting to discuss peace terms and reparations.

This was the position in March 1919 of the victors, and even of some of the vanquished. Germany, beaten and cowed, was now putting its house in order. Turkey, philosophically shrugging its shoulders, was merely resuming life where it had been left off.

So busy were the victors celebrating victory, so engaged were the vanquished making the best of their defeat, that the world overlooked one country where peace had failed to find a harbour, where post-War conditions were worse than during that awful period of war itself, the country in which human jackals and vultures were already gathered to disrupt and dissect an already breaking empire—Hungary.

Upon Hungary Lenin, from the fastnesses of Moscow, had already cast his eyes, and so he sent out his lieutenants, schooled in fiendish cruelty, inculcated with inhuman conceptions of government.

To Hungary came Bela Kun, the chief apostle of Lenin and Trotsky, where, in an incredibly short time, he enrolled under his banner of Communism criminals of all types, and elected leaders: Bohm, Pogany, Agoston, Harcoq, and Szamuelly.

"Down with the bourgeoisie, long live the proletariat!" became the cry, and to the echo of these hysterical screams poor Hungary commenced the worst year throughout the pages of its history, during which it was to live under a reign of terror worse even than the French Revolution.

To Budapest, a seething hotbed of Communism, came Geoffrey Templeton in search of the girl of whom he had dreamed during the long years of war, the woman he had never forgotten.

Arriving at the East station, he was amazed by the dark, dismal gloominess of the once glorious terminus. Where before had wandered well-dressed travellers, rubbing shoulders with gaily uniformed officers of the Hungarian army, now slouched slovenly men and starving women, while deeper in the gloom lurked ominous shadows.

On all sides suspicious glances were levelled at him from wolf-like faces. Here and there he espied men in leather uniforms, their caps blazoning Red cockades, their belts an armoury in themselves. They were the dreaded Lenin Boys, a troop of murderers and criminals, under the command of Josef Cserni, ex-sailor and late prisoner of war in Russia.

These Lenin Boys were guaranteed immunity from all punishment for murder or any other crime so long as their activities were confined to the hated bourgeoisie and did not involve the death of notable Bolsheviks.

Their very appearance was terrifying, for they were chosen for their height and fiery appearance. As Geoffrey walked toward the entrance one of these Boys pushed against him.

"Bourgeois," he hiccuped, and spat on the ground.

With blazing eyes Geoffrey turned round, and the soldier slunk away. There was a hoarse laugh from one of the onlookers, but otherwise no one took any notice of this incident.

It was in vain that Geoffrey searched for a vehicle to convey him to an hotel. No public conveyances of any kind were to be seen, only here and there a charging motor-car, occupied, so far as he could see, by groups of soldiers, or Communists, distinguishable by their criminal countenances, their scarlet decorations.

He realized that to get anywhere he would have to walk, and so, picking up his bag, he began to traverse the darkened streets. Here and there street-lights reflected upon advertisement hoardings, blazing with Red posters, huge placards printed in red and black, portraying immense and ghastly figures.

Geoffrey heard a sound of pattering footsteps behind him. Out of the dim shadows came the running figure of a man, breathing hoarsely. He passed in a flash, and then the Englishman heard other following steps, and hoarse shouting.

"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!" some one cried, then suddenly there roared the sound of a shot, and a street-light just ahead flicked out as its encasing glass tinkled to the ground.

"Death to the bourgeois! Death!"

Geoffrey halted suddenly, startled. What had happened? Was this Hungary, the Budapest he knew so well? From a distance he heard more shouts, further shots, and then silence once again.

"Good Gad!" he muttered to himself. "I thought this was peace."

He had never dreamed, never imagined, when he had set out for Budapest to go to his beloved, that he was to meet with this sort of thing. An icy chill seemed to settle round his heart. What of Zita?

For the first time since his demobilization his spirits fell to zero. For two weeks now he had been living in a Paradise of his own, eagerly anticipating the moment when he should clasp the girl he loved—woman, she would be now—once more in his arms.

He had had no reason to believe that this—this ghastly business was taking place in Budapest. "Death to the bourgeoisie!" What did it mean? Revolution! No, not even that, but worse.

With a white, set face he picked up his bag once more and commenced to walk. Now and again the silence was disturbed by hurrying motor-cars, shouts, or sometimes shots. The streets were practically empty, and at this Geoffrey did not wonder any longer.

Later, he arrived at the Continental Hotel, a memory of its palatial splendour still existing in his mind, but now it resembled nothing more than a filthy building, its exterior no cleaner than its interior, which was littered with dirt, and smelled evilly.

There were still guests—unkempt, unwashed men and women who lounged about, spitting and smoking. He stared with amazement at the scene before him, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes.

He was accosted presently by a clerk, who slouched up to him.

"What do you want?" the man growled.

Geoffrey eyed him silently. "A room," he said presently, and the clerk, under the Englishman's fixed glance, stirred uneasily.

"Supposing we have not got one?" he said.

"Supposing you look," replied Geoffrey quietly.

The clerk gave ground. Entering his counter he banged a bell, and a pinczer approached.

"Take this man up to room 61," he ordered.

Without a word the waiter picked up Geoffrey's bag and led the way, working the lift himself.

Room 61 was no cleaner than the vestibule. As the electric light threw its white glare over the room Geoffrey saw dozens of blackbeetles swarming into hidden crannies.

The waiter hesitated. Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Come inside and shut the door," he ordered, then presently, when the other had complied, and received a tip which made his eyes glisten, asked: "Now, what does all this mean? The War——"

"The War!" The man laughed bitterly. "Not the War, sir, but revolution, Communism, Bolshevism." His face became suspicious, and his lips closed tightly. "Why do you ask me? You know as well as I do."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I do not. I have only just arrived from England."

The waiter looked up eagerly. "You are English, sir?"

Geoffrey nodded.

"I was frightened. There are spies, detectives, and agents provocateurs everywhere."

"Spies, detectives—I don't understand!"

"No, sir, you wouldn't. You have won the War, and we have lost. It makes all the difference. Hungary is now a republic—worse, in fact, for we have a Soviet Government."

"Good God!" Geoffrey was astounded, but recollections of Zita made him urge the older man on with his story. "Tell me more," he suggested.

"It all began with Count Michael Karolyi. He formed a republic, with himself at the helm. Not for long, sir. The Communists took the lead under Bela Kun, two days ago, and now we have the Commune, another word for murder and pillage.

"I have heard it said that Szamuelly wants a three days' loot, three days during which the comrades, the Communists, can steal and sack to their hearts' content. It may happen at any minute. Sir, I cannot tell you how bad it is!" Two tears forced themselves out of the man's eyes and slowly rolled down his puckered cheeks.

"You see," he continued presently, "myself, I am too old for these ideas. You grand folks, you treat the likes of us well. I used to make good money before the War came and spoilt it all."

"But what of the rich people, I mean the people who used to stay here? What of them?"

The waiter shook his head slowly. "All penniless, sir, penniless. Their money confiscated, their property stolen." He dropped his voice. "Many of them are ... dead, murdered."

Geoffrey seemed only to hear his voice from a distance as the man continued. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his head was reeling. What of Zita? What of her? Supposing that she were ... dead!

"Oh, God!" he moaned, and with an imperious motion he stopped the waiter, and strode up and down. Presently he turned again to the other. "Tell me," he asked anxiously, "has anything happened to the people in the Erzebet-Korut?"

It was in the Erzebet-Korut that Zita lived with her father and mother, the Count and Countess Rakoczy.

The man scratched his head. "I have heard tell of—and yet—no, sir, I am not sure."

Geoffrey could have shaken him by the shoulders. "Go, now!" he cried, and the old man passed out.

It was too late that night to do anything. Geoffrey undressed and threw himself into bed, yet scarcely slept. He tossed and turned from side to side, but all the time he could picture only Zita, who appeared to be vaguely holding out her arms to him, just as she had done when he had left her, over four years ago.

Sick with apprehension, he heard the hours gradually strike one after another, and never was dawn more welcome. He hastily dressed.

Not waiting for breakfast, he hurried to the Erzebet-Korut, and was relieved to find that, if outside appearances could be taken as any criterion, nothing had happened to the Rakoczy residence, since, except for its dirty condition, it seemed untouched.

With a trembling heart he approached the entrance, and was presently admitted.

Ten minutes later a white-faced man reeled out, stunned by the news he heard, the story he had been told by the dying Countess, the tale of how the Count, for his patriotic resistance to Communism, had been proscribed an outlaw by Bela Kun, and had fled, accompanied by Zita, for his life.

Zita and her kindly white-haired father outlaws in their own country, liable to be shot at any moment! Geoffrey groaned. It seemed unbelievable! Only by an effort of will did he become his normal self again as he walked back to the hotel.

Fortunately the Countess had been able to give him the address to which her tiny family had fled, a small peasant cottage in Szugy on the Ipoly.

Thither went Geoffrey, his vague haunting fear growing stronger as the train advanced sluggishly through the quiet countryside. The hours passed slowly, but at length the train steamed into Balassagyarmat. Later Geoffrey arrived at Szugy.

Everything seemed quiet and peaceful—ominously so. There was a sense of brooding hurt, a solemn hush. Yard by yard Geoffrey advanced nearer to his destination, and all the time his heart beat a wild tattoo, though now it was because of his nearness to Zita. At last he was really to see her, to feel her within his arms.

At last! A small cottage was before him. In front of it bloomed early spring flowers, and the grass sprouted greenly. A narrow flagged path led up to the door, and along this Geoffrey stepped. Another few moments, a second only...

The door was slightly open, and there was no answer to his knocks. There was a slight smell, a tang which he could not define.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The tang was that of blood, freshly spilled blood, that of the old Count, whose gentle heart had brought him unwavering popularity wherever he went.

He had been playing chess at the time. Even now the chessboard and the pieces still remained on the table: red versus white, red winning, the white king in check to them.

On the floor lay the Count—dead. Opposite sat Zita, still and motionless, her staring, horrified eyes fixed with a peculiar intensity in front of her.

Calmly Geoffrey inspected the scene in front of him, quietly viewing the tragedy. Only his eyes flickered strangely. He moved more into the room, and bent over the corpse. As he had thought. Bayonet wounds, here, there, and everywhere. The helpless old man had been literally stabbed to death by brutal, bestial murderers, pawns of Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat.

Zita was untouched. She had died as she watched her father's death, her heart giving way under the strain, her hand clutching a chess-piece, a piece which, had she finished her move, would have released the white king from check by taking a red pawn.

The piece was—a white knight.