Involuntarily I glanced at the opposite wall. Another picture was over the other couch: a cheap, coloured engraving of Ofen-Pest, the ancient little town. People still passed across the Danube by the floating bridge; in its narrow little streets real red, white, and green flags were floating, and in their shadow Louis Kossuth and Alexander Petöfi made a real war for freedom. How all this has changed! The kettle was singing, and from the fireplace a pleasant warmth, scented with the smell of pine-wood, penetrated the room. The silver and the cut glass shone on the white tablecloth. I sat snugly in the armchair. Here things were still as of old, and I felt a glow of gratitude towards the home which now was no more taken for granted but appeared as an island amid the flood. Did the others feel this too? I looked round. All were unusually silent. Now and then someone said a word which fell like a pebble in a silent pond. Worry was written on all faces. During the long war, among the many terrible misfortunes, I had never noticed despair in my family. We never gave up hope. Our faith that Hungary would survive whatever happened had never altered. “She has been betrayed!” And we returned to the fate of Tisza. We decided between us that we would all go to his funeral. But when will it be? Nobody knew. My mother had been sitting for a long time silently in her corner when she said in a low voice, as if speaking to herself: “They killed him ... killed him. They knew what they did. They have bereft the nation of its head.” We looked at each other. “And the guilty have escaped without leaving a trace.... At any rate, they would not have been hurt—the triumphing revolution will provide for all eventualities by a general amnesty.” My brother took up the newspaper. “Have you read this? By request of the National Council the Ministry of Justice has ordered by telegram that all those who are arrested or imprisoned for high treason, lèse majesté, rebellion, violence against the authorities or against private individuals, or incitement to violence, should be released at once!” The new government could not have pronounced a graver indictment of itself. This amnesty was a free confession of its ends, its means and its guilt. From this moment Michael Károlyi and his National Council appeared to us in the rôle of the accused at the bar of judgment. “Criminals,” said my brother-in-law. “Here in Pest they have anticipated the ordinance. Two days ago they set free the Galileists accused of high treason.” “It is said that Countess Károlyi herself went to fetch them.”