Part 2

"Pah!" The tall man spat. "Korvin-Klein knows how to treat the pigs. Trials! What do they want trials for? That is what I ask you, comrade. What do they want with trials? Hang them, I say, and quickly."

"Me too," agreed Garami, "but Bela Kun says the Allies may interfere."

The other man scowled. "Not they. The more we kill the better they will be pleased. It saves them the trouble."

Garami grinned. "You speak well, comrade. Only if it were the Allies it might be you who would hang instead of the _bourgeois_ dogs. There were those fifty Italian prisoners you said you bayoneted----"

"Stop your mouth," muttered the scarred one. "You talk too much, you, George Garami. Your tongue wags freely, friend, and maybe it will lead you into trouble."

Garami grunted. "What have I to fear, eh! friend Wenzel? I am a good Communist, me."

"So well you may be; but even good Communists have talked too much lately. It is said that they gossip too freely and that the White Knight has long ears."

"The White Knight! What and who may he be, comrade?"

Wenzel turned his hideously scarred face toward the smaller man. "What, dolt, do you mean to say you have never heard of the White Knight?"

"Should I question you otherwise?" asked Garami testily.

Wenzel burst into a harsh roar of raucous laughter, and the unusual sound attracted the attention of others around him, and they turned his way. Wenzel, observing this, waved his arms wide, claiming their attention.

"Sisters, comrades," he announced, "my little friend here has never heard of the White Knight!"

There was no echoing smile of derision from his listeners; instead Wenzel saw nothing but blank faces.

He raised his eyebrows. "What!" he exclaimed, "have none of you yet heard of the White Knight?"

Several shook their heads, and a woman called out: "Tell us, comrade, of him. Does he belong to the counter-revolution?"

Wenzel grinned, and the effect was so repulsive that the woman shrank back in disgust.

"Tell you! Gladly, comrades. 'Tis not often my lot to be the town-crier. I feel as important as a local commissary.

"Know you, then, that this White Knight is a mysterious being of whom, so far, no one has yet any knowledge. Maybe he is a man, possibly a woman, or perhaps a bastard brat sent up from Hell to assist the Devil's spawn, the _bourgeoisie_.

"He was first heard of about a month ago, when the People's Commissary at Balassagyarmat arrested the outlaw Stephen Arpad. It was known to Bela Kun that this Stephen Arpad was indulging in treasonable correspondence with traitors here in Budapest with a view to establishing a White counter-revolution.

"Well, friends, Bela Kun awaited his time, but at last this dog Arpad was arrested and thrown into the Balassagyarmat jail, and there he was kept awaiting the time when Tibor Szamuelly should arrive to hang him.

"On the night before Szamuelly arrived, what do you think happened, friends? Arpad escaped."

There was a deep-throated growl from the crowd, and Wenzel, realizing that he was working them up, and appreciating the fact that he was at the moment the centre of interest, became more bombastically theatrical.

"Yes, comrades," he continued, his ugly face glowing malignantly, "Arpad escaped, and there was no one to offer any explanation. All that was found in his cell was a small chess-piece, a white knight.

"What did Szamuelly do? Why, he did what all good Communists should do. He hanged the commissary as a warning to others not to let good hanging meat escape in the same way."

Wenzel roared with laughter; but there was no one to join in with him. Steeped in bloody thoughts and deeds, familiar with ghastly sights, insane with revolutionary lust as they were, yet Wenzel appalled them.

At least a head higher than the tallest of his listeners, he was conspicuous, not only by his height, but likewise by his face, his head, and his general appearance.

In the first place, his greasy cap, gaudily illuminated by a brilliant Red cockade, the badge of the Communist and the proletariat, did not entirely conceal his closely cropped head of hair, naturally parted on the right-hand side by a vivid and extraordinarily straight scar--one of the many which disfigured his strange features.

Six scars there were, including the one described above. There was one which shaved his left eyebrow, one which scored his left cheek, one which stretched from his mouth, pulling it perpetually out of shape across to the lobe of his right ear, one small one just above, and finally one across his throat, creating the ghastly impression that the man had once endeavoured to commit suicide by inflicting there, with a razor, a self-made wound.

Two of the scars, though obviously healed up, were so deeply impressed into the skin that at times they betrayed traces of the warm blood which flowed beneath. His emotions aroused, these two wounds flushed redly, as if on the point of reopening.

The effect of these blemishes was to make the man so hideously ugly that it was disgusting to cast eyes upon him.

In himself he was of broad stature, and this, with his height, made him lumbering and ungainly. His hands were big and filthy, the nails scratched and cracked, and worn down to the quick.

His clothes were greasy, frayed at the sleeves and at the bottom of the trousers. His boots were laced with string.

Repulsive was the only word to describe him. Of the ravenous wolves, of the cruel, barbarous vultures, dragged up by the Revolution from the slums to which they belonged, this man, Istvan Wenzel, was, in appearance at least, the most vicious, the most terrifying.

To the student of physiognomy he was a man of vice, and to his lengthy list of undesirable traits might be added vanity. Surrounded by a city's scum, only a little better than himself, he was conscious that he was, for the moment, the centre of interest, that his words were creating attention: the fact that his fellow-Communists drew away at his ghoulish laughter did not seem to wound his sensibilities, even if he were possessed of any.

"Yes, comrades, he was the first prisoner to escape. Yet there were others, more of these _bourgeois_, who mysteriously vanished just in time to escape the hangman's rope or our soldiers' bullets. Each time there was left behind a chess-piece, always the white knight, and so the man who has been responsible for these escapes has become known as the White Knight."

There was a shout from the rear. "Ay, comrade, you say nothing but the truth. I have heard of this pig, the White Knight. It is said that he has sworn to rescue the Count Kalman Bakocz. Comrade Szamuelly is to take a hand in the game. This White Knight will soon be in Red Mourning, eh, friends?"

"Ay, ay," cried several, amidst a ripple of laughter.

There was a sudden stir, and the people swung round. At the far end of the square came into view a group of Red soldiers, laughing and joking. In their midst three prisoners walked unhappily, doomed to die, condemned to death by the inhuman Korvin-Klein, the uneducated, uncouth judge appointed by the Dictator to try all enemies of the proletariat.

Pushing through the crowd, the soldiers made their way toward that part of the square above which the stone lions proudly growled defiance to the world. Here the three victims were made to stand, calmly awaiting their fate.

There was silence, a muttered word of command: the sharp resonant clash of gun-fire echoed across the square, and three patriots slipped to the ground, killed by Hungarian bullets that were fired by Hungarian men at the command of a Hungarian.

Scarcely had the sound of the discharge died away when Wenzel laughed loudly and slapped his friend Garami on the shoulder.

"Three more traitors sent about their business, eh, comrade!" he cried.

Garami, rubbing his shoulder where Wenzel's hand had caught him, laughed too.

_CHAPTER II_

It was eleven o'clock in Balassagyarmat, and the streets were comparatively pitch dark.

The edict of the Dictator had gone forth--no lights after ten o'clock P.M.--so that even if the gas and electricity had not failed the result would have been the same, for were there not detectives, Terror Boys, and People's Commissaries to see that the word of the Workers' Council was obeyed?

Under the present _régime_ the houses and effects of all were the common property of every one else: books, food, furniture; there was nothing, if the occasion arose, to which the comrades of the Commune could not help themselves.

Not many walked the streets. Here and there drunken Red soldiers staggered back to their billets, notwithstanding that prohibition was in force. Here and there a lurking shadow betokened a detective, or sometimes a daring _bourgeois_ risking his life to visit friends.

Only People's Commissaries walked about openly, or members of the local Soviet.

In some houses there was peace; here lived Communists who ran with the hounds. In some there was a significant quiet--_bourgeois_ who were still left in safety, but who might yet run with the hares.

In one home, the residence of Count Kalman Bakocz, there was only sorrow, a dull, hopeless, heart-gnawing despair.

A week ago Terror Boys had found their way into the house and arrested the Count. In vain his wife had pleaded for her husband's liberty, unsuccessfully had his daughter Cecile added her pleas. The Red officer merely flicked his fingers, gave marching orders, and the Count was torn from the bosom of his family and flung into jail, only to be transferred the following morning to Budapest to await the justice of Korvin-Klein.

Later his son, Francis, returned, and only with a great effort did Cecile and her mother keep him back from invoking his friends to assist him in what could only result in a futile attempt at rescue.

For one week the Countess lay prostrate, unable to eat for the fear which gripped her heart in a vice. Only the tender solicitude of Cecile and the brave optimism of Francis kept her alive.

This was the seventh night after Count Bakocz's arrest, and again no news other than that he was still alive. The news-bringer thought fit to withhold the fact that he was nigh on starving.

Despite the commands of the Dictator there was a tiny particle of candle throwing a flickering light upon the shrunken, careworn features of Countess Bakocz as she lay in bed, her daughter sitting on one side, her son on the other. Heavy curtains protected the windows, so that not a gleam of light could escape the room, yet nevertheless each one was quivering with tension which could not altogether be concealed, and every time footsteps echoed in the street outside Cecile held her breath in terror and Francis clenched his fists.

Countess Bakocz weakly turned her head toward her son. "What news, son, what news to-night?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turned his eyes away as he felt them filling with tears. "Still no further news. Father is still--alive." He swallowed hard.

"Nothing else, Francis?" Even despair did not dim her proud eyes so much that she missed the trembling of his lips.

"Nothing else."

His mother shook her head. "Poor boy, poor boy. You cannot lie, Francis." She stretched out her emaciated hand and placed it tenderly upon his, which lay idly on the coverlet. "Tell me, son, I can bear it."

Unconsciously Francis turned a questioning gaze upon Cecile, who nodded slightly.

"They say," he commenced chokingly, "that Father is--is to be tried on--Mon--Monday."

There was no sound from the Countess, not a movement, but Francis felt the hand clasping his jump convulsively, and her lower lip twitched unceasingly.

"Mother dear, Mother darling, do not give up hope." Cecile leaned forward and kissed her on her bloodless forehead. "Many things may happen. God will save him. God will save him."

"God must have many tears to shed on our unhappy country," she replied softly, and from this Cecile knew that her mother could not even have it in her heart to put her trust in Heaven.

Nor could she blame her mother, for she wondered what evil any of them could have done that they should be visited with this calamity. For twenty years the Count and his family had lived in this selfsame house, leading a God-fearing life.

To the house of his forefathers he had brought his wife twenty years back, and there his daughter Cecile had been born a year later, and two years afterward Francis.

During the War he had fought courageously for his country. Now, with the War scarcely at an end, he was seized by his countrymen and thrown into jail. His crime? Raising his voice on behalf of his unhappy people, beseeching the peasants to look into their hearts, where, he said, they would find they wanted nothing of revolution, wanted only peace to till the land and rear their children.

There was silence in the room; the candle burned smaller. When that was gone Cecile had another bit to put in its place, but after that ... In future they might not have even the welcoming flame of the candle to cheer them; nothing but the dismal dark of the night.

Suddenly Francis raised his head. He heard the hoot of an owl.

"'Tis Kirchhoff!" he cried, and running lightly across the room he disappeared downstairs.

Cecile shivered ominously. Kirchhoff brought only news, and "no news was good news." Was it that Francis had been misled? Perhaps the trial of her father had been that morning. A little cry arose to her throat, and her hand flew up to stop it, but too late. Her mother had heard; she looked at Cecile with the expression of a hunted deer.

"He is a long time," she said. Cecile knew her mother's thoughts had been following the trend of her own.

Was Francis never coming up again? She wanted to scream hysterically. Surely he must know that they would be anxious. The seconds ticked by. Not a movement from below, not a sound to be heard.

Another moment and Cecile would have called, but there was a cautious step, and almost as soon as she recognized the footsteps of Francis she was conscious that there was some one with him.

Hypnotically she watched the door until it swung open. So Francis was bringing Kirchhoff up. Why? Why? She trembled, but the man who entered was not Kirchhoff, but a stranger.

"Mother dear, do not be excited, but there is news, wonderful news. This gentleman has come from Buda. He is Mr Arnold Terhune, of London."

Countess Bakocz flashed a startled glance at her daughter. An Englishman! A late foe, countryman of an enemy land with whom peace had not yet been signed! How could he bring good news?

Cecile did not meet her look, for she was gazing upon the young man who entered, raptly assimilating the picture he presented. Her thoughts were that here was a man connected with good news. If he bore information which should hearten them all what matter his nationality?

The Countess inclined her head coldly as the Englishman bowed.

"You must forgive my intrusion, Countess, but there is a matter of great importance which I must discuss with you."

"I am at your service, monsieur." Try as she might she could not keep the chilling hauteur from her voice.

How different from Cecile, whose eyes were sparkling, and whose cheeks were flushing! He possessed a wonderful voice, this Englishman who spoke their language with scarcely a trace of foreign accent.

Arnold Terhune glanced around him.

"We are alone?"

A tear welled into the eyes of the Countess. "Absolutely," she replied, and the tinge of bitterness and hopelessness in her voice betrayed its story of tragedy, its tale of faithless servants, of forbidden friends.

The Englishman inclined his head. "Then I may speak, for it is of vital importance that what I have to say goes no further. Countess, I bear a message to you from one who is known as the White Knight."

"The White Knight!" The exclamation was from Cecile. With those three words banished hope returned in full force. The White Knight! If the rumour of this mysterious person had not yet reached the proletariat, the same could not be said of the persecuted _bourgeoisie_ and the hunted aristocracy. Like the spread of a forest fire, the name of the White Knight had passed from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity.

Stories of his wonderful rescues had penetrated into every house and home which sheltered one of the hated _bourgeoisie_, his saga was told in whispers and in snatches. To the gentle families of the forgotten people his name was a glimpse of blue breaking in between the heavy thunderclouds of revolution, a veritable star of hope, shining undimmed through an overpowering blackness.

Countess Bakocz raised herself slightly on her elbows, and the blood flowed into her face. "The White Knight!" she whispered. "God be praised! Then he knows of my husband's plight?"

"Too well, Countess. Moreover, he plans to rescue him--has sworn to do so."

"Sworn to rescue him!" The Countess faintly repeated the words, unable to credit the fact. Then joyfully she spoke again. "Cecile, Francis, listen! The White Knight is to return your father to us. Oh, children, children, tell me I am not dreaming! Make me believe what I hear is true!"

Cecile's lips trembled suspiciously as she flung her arms around the invalid. "Oh, Mother darling, of course it is true!" Across her mother's shoulder her glance met that of Arnold Terhune.

His eyes held hers, clearly and firmly. In that brief second there was a change in both of them, though neither was conscious of the fact. They only felt an inexplicable stirring somewhere deep down within them.

Arnold Terhune, though dressed in the dirty shapeless clothes of the Hungarian labourer, with a three or four days' growth of hair upon his chin, and a very close-cropped head, could not entirely conceal the lithe, athletic grace with which he carried himself, any more than his unshaven chin hid its firm strength.

Dressed more suitably, he would have been the personification of virile English manhood. He was inclined to be tall, just under six feet, yet his hands and feet were unusually small. His broad shoulders hinted at robust health and physical strength; his slimmer waist at a healthy life and arduous exercise.

Well might he have appealed to Cecile, who, herself, was remarkably beautiful, and of a dusky, gipsy type. Her dark, rippling hair admirably set off her almost black eyes and pure olive complexion, while her tiny lips curved seductively into a Cupid's bow.

Perhaps her only fault was a strained, pinched look, the result of four years' privation, so soon succeeded by the worse rigours of the revolution, and subsequent Commune.

Countess Bakocz turned eagerly to her visitor. "Tell us, monsieur, of this rescue. When and how? Oh, how I long to clasp my husband in my arms again! God be pleased to grant the White Knight success, monsieur. You will tell us his plans?"

Terhune smiled, then slowly shook his head. "The White Knight alone knows his plans, Countess. He alone plots his _coups_."

"But you, monsieur, you know this White Knight?"

Terhune's face broke into a smile again, but this time there was something of hero-worship, of reverence, in it.

"Yes, Countess, he is my friend, and leader."

"Your leader? You work for the White Knight?" Cecile it was who put the question, and she clasped her hands together in her eager excitement.

"Yes, m'selle. I am his lieutenant. I do what I can; it is so little. I wish I could do more, much more, for it makes my heart bleed to see the Hungary I have always loved plunged into the present chaos."

"You love Hungary, monsieur, yet you are an Englishman, an enemy!" There was a gentle reproof in her tones as the Countess spoke.

"We are not our masters in war-time, Countess. I fought for my country, not for myself."

"Forgive me, monsieur." The Countess was contrite. "I should not have said that, but I must plead my awful worry in excuse. I was surprised. To fight against us--and now----!"

"We are already forgetting. Deep in our hearts we English feel for your nation. We feel you have been the cat's-paw of German diplomacy. Now that humanity is being outraged by bestial tyranny, we wish only to aid and assist. Were circumstances different England might do more, but her people do not know of your plight, have no idea even of the revolution here. Russia, yes, but Hungary ... Our papers are full of peace and future prosperity."

"The White Knight, is he English too?"

Terhune nodded. "Yes, Countess, he is, but I beg you not to question me with regard to him. It is his wish, his policy too, that he remain merely a name, a myth. His mystery is his second lieutenant."

The Countess buried her face in her hands and quietly sobbed, while Terhune shuffled his feet uncomfortably, wondering what he had said to have this effect.

Presently she looked up and smiled faintly. "Forgive a woman's tears, monsieur, but it grieves me that our unhappy country must look to enemies for succour against our own people."

"Not entirely, Countess, for there are those in Vienna and in Budapest who seek to form a counter-revolution, a White Army instead of a red. I may not mention names, but----" His eloquent gesture was expressive, and the three Hungarians who listened to him felt a glow of warmth stealing through their bodies.

"But now, Countess, for the reason of my visit here. There is information I require, knowledge I must acquire. Listen...."

It was half an hour later when Terhune slipped away, leaving behind three people who in less than an hour had been pulled from the depths of misery into the heights of hope and confidence. While the Countess dreamed of the future, of the time when she should see her husband again, Francis pictured the adventure and the thrill of the rescue, and wished he could help. Cecile was quiet and thoughtful. Too full for words at the thought of having her father with her once again, she could not, nevertheless, banish the constantly recurring picture of Arnold Terhune, standing in the light of the flickering candle, his glance meeting hers across her mother's shoulder.

_CHAPTER III_

Consternation reigned at the meeting of the Workers' Council. Bela Kun had been sorting out his papers preparatory to suggesting fresh edicts for the suppression of the _bourgeoisie_.

"Comrades," he had begun, when suddenly his eyes caught sight of a paper on his table, on which his startled eyes read his own name, in handwriting which he did not recognize, signed by the name "White Knight."

Stopping short in his speech, he picked it up and hastily read its message:

To BELA KUN,

Do not hope to execute the Count Bakocz. I have sworn to rescue him, and I never fail.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

Bela Kun swore. "Listen, comrades," and he read the brief note out to the members of the Council.

"My God! how did you get that?" shouted Szamuelly.

Bela Kun shook his head. "I don't know. It wasn't with my papers when I left home." He looked round with suspicion.

"What does it mean?" asked one.

Bela Kun sneered. "What does it mean? It means that this White Knight is going to try to rescue Count Bakocz."

"Well, what does he want to warn you for?"

"I know why," interrupted Szamuelly. "Because this man, this _bourgeois_, having been successful once or twice in his ventures, now imagines he is omnipotent."

"Has he always been successful?" This from a man who sat farther away, a small unpleasant-looking member, Garami, who had just recently heard of the White Knight from Wenzel.

Bela Kun hesitated. "Well--er--he has certainly been fortunate up to the moment."

"I see," said Garami. "And may I ask you, comrade, by what means the dog has done this?"