We came to the Pest end of the bridge. The tram stopped, and I wanted to change. “The trams are not running. You can walk,” growled the inspector. The walls are covered with posters, orders, announcements, proclamations. On a big coloured poster: “Lukasich has been appointed executioner.” And under the announcement the execution of a soldier was depicted. As I walked along my eyes gleaned a sentence from another poster: “People of Hungary, soldiers, workers and citizens!” (The order of the words was significant; but it did not appear to strike people’s imagination). “Fellow-citizens! Glory, honour and homage to the victorious people of Budapest. The people’s revolution has conquered” ... and the signature: “The First Hungarian Popular Government.” Then another sentence: “The military and civil power is in the hands of the head of the Hungarian Popular Government, Michael Károlyi.” Many words, many black words. I read the last words of the Popular Government’s Proclamation: “To assure the transition from the present conditions to a quiet peaceful life, we organise Soldiers’ Councils and a National Guard so that ETERNAL PEACE may gain its healing sway over us all.” Red and white blotches of paper and alternate signatures: Heltai, Commander of the Garrison, Linder, Commander-in-Chief. Linder? I never heard this name during the war. And yet it seemed familiar to me. Then I remembered. I met him at a social gathering, and once at an afternoon tea. On both occasions he seemed under the influence of drink. That was the reason I noticed him, otherwise his insignificance would have wiped him out of my memory. Now I seemed to see his face. He gave me the impression of an elderly stage swashbuckler. His well-groomed hair was grey, his shoulders high, his neck thick-set, his face congested; his tiny grey eyes winked all the time, and when he laughed they disappeared entirely. Linder.... Can this stage swashbuckler be the new Minister of War? I now noticed that more and more people hurried past me, and that all were going towards the House of Parliament. A crowd was gathering in the big, beflagged square. People dressed in black, officers in field uniform, poured from the neighbouring streets. Some mounted police arrived. Then came a military band. A military cordon was formed in the centre. “What is happening here?” I asked a woman who stood aimlessly among the loafers on the kerb. “I don’t know.” A young man, who might have been in her company, answered for her: “The officers of the Garrison are swearing allegiance to the National Council.” “There are crowds of them,” said the woman, and moved her neck like a duck in a pond. The young man laughed with contempt. “There may be four hundred.” His accent seemed to proclaim him from Transylvania.