A voice from the porch fell into the listening ears. I stood far away, on the other side of the road, so only incoherent words reached me: “... an independent Hungary ... democracy ... social reforms.... International platform.... In the interest of foreigners.... The gentle-folk have driven us to the slaughter-house!” “Well, that’s just the place for that fat one,” said the soldier with disgust. Those near him began to laugh, and a man who appeared to be an artisan screwed up his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “That’ll do. Say something new! Shut up!” some shouted towards the porch. Then something unexpected happened. A young Jew threw the name of Tisza into the crowd. He threw it there, just as if by accident. “He caused the war! Long live Károlyi! To death with Tisza!” The same thing was shouted from the other corner, and a hoarse voice exclaimed: “Long live the revolution!” I shuddered. It was for the first time that I heard it thus, openly, in the street. Rigid white faces appeared under the entrances. But the cry died away. It found no echo. “Down with the King!” This appealed to the mob. It was new, hitherto none had dared to touch this. The rabble snatched at what it heard and vomited it back with a vengeance. And the repulsive chorus was led by the young man who had previously mentioned the name of Tisza. The news-boys of a mid-day paper came shouting down the street: “The National Council has proclaimed the Republic!” “Long live the Republic....” This was only an attempt, but it failed. Nobody became enthusiastic. Someone shouted: “To Gödöllö!” A Versailles, à Versailles! The starving mob of Paris shouted this a hundred and thirty years ago, and now in Budapest fat bank clerks exclaim: “Let us go to Gödöllö!” Nobody moved. It is said that ten thousand armed workmen are marching on it.... I burned with shame. This news was not invented by Hungarian minds. Armed men, against children! It is not true.... At any rate, the King’s children have made good their escape.... I only heard half of what was said. Poor little children!... [Illustration: EUGENE LANDLER, HOME SECRETARY. LATER A COMMANDER IN THE RED ARMY. (_To face p. 12._)] As if I had been chased I turned to go down the boulevard towards the bridge. By now armed sailors were already stopping motor-cars in the streets, thrusting the occupants out and driving off in the cars. It was done quickly. Big lorries filled with armed soldiers raced across the bridge. Some were even hanging on to the steps. Shots were fired, and a drunkard sang in a husky voice: “Long live the Revolution, long live drink....” The whole thing was humiliating and disgusting. If only I could escape from it, so that I might see nothing, hear nothing! I longed for home—home, out there in the woods, among the hills. At the entrance of the tunnel that passes under the castle hill a soldier was offering his government rifle for sale and asking five crowns for it. Another offered his bayonet.