His way takes him past some lighted windows. They are working up there in an editorial office. Red soldiers stand with cocked revolvers in front of the editorial table. They are the censors, and the rotary presses hum in the cellars. Compositors in linen overalls, besmeared with ink, lean over their work. “_What have you done with my free press? What have you done with its freedom born in March?_” He leans over the compositors’ shoulders, and his eyes pass over the letters. They do not see him, nor hear him; they go on composing the line: “Under the statue of Alexander Petöfi, Eugene Landler spoke of the significance of March 15th. The choir sang the Marseillaise.” “_What have you done with my songs?_” He goes on again, dark and alone. He knows the streets, he knows the garden, the big quiet house with its pillars, between the rigid, wintry trees. He has reached the Museum. Under his hand the handle of the locked, barred gate gives way. The guardian wakes and looks out of his shelter. Nothing—it was a dream. The wind whistles, and the wanderer’s collar flutters as he mounts the lofty stairs and stops at the top against the wall. He looks down, standing long immobile, and asks the winds why there is nobody to call: “Magyars! Arise!” “_Don’t they know it here? Who are the masters now, under Hargita and on the fields of Segesvár?_” He is tired and would like to stretch himself at ease after the long sad road. “_To whom have you given my grave?_” There is no rest and there is no place for him to go to, he whose ghost had led me through the town on this homeless fifteenth of March. Oh let him go, let him go in silence, for should he remain here and raise his voice to-morrow the Government of ‘Independent Hungary’ would arrest him as a counter-revolutionary.[6] * * * * * _March 16th._ I was at Fóth to-day, where I had intended to address the village women. But the bubbles rise no longer in the wine of Fóth. Spring has a heavy, foreboding atmosphere there to-day. I went with two friends. Beyond the town white patches of snow were melting on the awakening black soil. The waters of winter flowed with a soft gurgle in the ditches. “We cannot have a meeting to-day in the village,” I was told. “Another time, next week ... there is a Social Democratic mass-meeting in the town hall, and a memorial service for those killed in the war at the cemetery. There is a lot of excitement, and I’m afraid the meeting of women would be interfered with.”