Somebody gave me the paper on the staircase of the Protestant Theological College. The Evangelical students were giving a concert, and between the songs I was to give an address. The words of ‘The People’s Voice’ were still buzzing in my head when I stepped on the platform. I told the Protestant youths that every patriotic action which serves its purpose, that every patriotic word that hits the mark, regains a scrap of our torn country. _The People’s Voice_ accused me this morning of being a counter-revolutionary spy. I don’t deny it, I try to inform foreign countries of the state of affairs by word of mouth and with my pen. I read an article of mine which a compatriot and his Swedish wife had taken to Stockholm for the _Svenska Dagbladed_. It was called: ‘An appeal from a nation’s scaffold.’ I left it to my audience to decide whether that was counter-revolution or patriotism. When I came to the end of my address a loud voice shouted: “We want a hundred thousand similar counter-revolutionaries!” And the whole audience jumped up and took up the cry. A wave passed over the hall, a wave which grows, spreads over the country, while from the other side there comes another wave coloured red. Which is faster, which will be the first to break the dyke? It is all a question of time. * * * * * _March 10th-11th._ The street was silent. There was no shooting last night and the obscene shouts of drunken patrols were not heard. It might have been about half past one when a cart came down the street and stopped at our front door. “Surely they have not come to fetch me in a cart?” I thought, but all the same I collected my papers and stuck them under the bookcase. There was an odd noise below, as if something were being broken open. Then there followed steps carrying a heavy weight. The thought occurred to me that they might be robbing our cellar. I put out my lamp and went to the window. The street was practically dark, but I thought I could distinguish a cart and a few human figures. What if they were stealing our coal! The idea made me shudder. I ran to the _concièrge_, made him open the door, and went out into the street. The cart was standing at the cellar-stairs of the neighbouring house, where a carpenter had his workshop. The night birds were dragging furniture out of it. One of the dark figures stood in front of me: “Good evening, Miss,” he said. “Good-evening,” I answered, and with the egotism bred of our times I was glad that it was not our cellar into which they had broken. “Good-night,” I added politely. “Good-night,” came the answer. Only when the door had shut behind me did I realise that these well-intentioned people might easily have knocked me down. Such are the “Winter’s Tales” enacted in the nights of Budapest.... * * * * * _March 12th._