“After a time some paper was brought, two sheets in all, and Széchényi sat down to make a clean copy of the document: he had the best handwriting of us all.” Dessewffy showed me the original document. It read: “Since the day of my succession to the throne I have always tried to free my people from the horrors of this war—a war in the causation of which I had no share whatever. I do not wish that my person should be an obstacle to the prosperity of the Hungarian people. Consequently I resign all participation in the direction of affairs of State and submit in advance to the decision by which Hungary will fix its future form of government. Dated at Eckhardsau, November 13th 1918. CHARLES.” “The King still hesitated when the document lay ready for signature on the table. And as he wavered with the pen in his hand he looked the very picture of despair. During the last few days the hair on the sides of his head has turned gray. Suddenly tears came into his eyes, and he fell sobbing on Count Hunyadi’s shoulder. Well, none of our eyes were quite dry....” [Illustration: QUEEN ZITA. _Photo. Kosel, Vienna._ (_To face p. 128._)] While Dessewffy talked on, I thought of a tale I had heard long, long ago. It was evening in a village far away. The autumnal wind was rising, and the poplars round the house were soughing like organ pipes in a dark church. In the kitchen the maids were shelling peas. The light of the fire played over their hands, and the dry shells fell with a gentle rattle on the brick floor. Katrin, the housekeeper, was telling a story.... “And the wicked knights went into the King’s tent, armed with halberds and maces, and said in a terrible voice: ‘Give up your crown or you shall die the death.’ The beautiful Queen folded her hands imploringly, and the King took his crown off his head....” That was the story. The maids cried over the poor king, and in their hearts approved of him. In stories it is the unfortunate who are always right, in reality it is those on whom fortune smiles. * * * * * _November 15th._ “Long live Michael Károlyi! Elect him President of the Republic!...” Again a paper disease has infected the houses’ skin. In the first year of the war Michael Károlyi had betted that he would be the president of the Hungarian Republic.... Will he win his bet to-morrow? But whoever may win, Hungary will be the loser. Posters ... new posters appear above the old ones. A new shame covers the old, and that is all that changes in our lives. Big flags float in the wind on the boulevards. Flags are hoisted on the electric lamp-posts, and above the house entrances the old ones flap about. The government has ordered the beflagging of every house in the country, and its newspapers are preparing the mood of the morrow. They announce in big type: