Motor cars rushed past me. Overhead, aeroplanes were circling and strewing leaflets among the crowd: “The glorious revolution! The people have conquered!” Leaflets on the ground, leaflets in the gutter, leaflets everywhere. The great grey mass of the House of Parliament hid the Danube from our sight like a petrified lace curtain. On its walls the ancient coats of arms of various counties, the monuments of past Kings, appeared and disappeared in the mist like a dissolving view. At the sides of the building the square extended to the river, and the ghostly outlines of a bronze figure on horseback stood out against the background of mist-covered Buda: the statue of Andrássy, the great Minister of Foreign Affairs. In the haze it seemed that the rider moved, as though he wanted to turn his steed and ride away to the sound of brazen horse-shoes, back along the banks of the Danube, to see if the river had changed its course—the river which had imposed upon the lands between the Black Forest and the Black Sea the alliance which he had written on paper. Had it left its bed, had it dried up, that great Danube, the ancient zone across Europe’s body, that some man should be so bold as to tear up the scrap of paper which confirmed the bond? Mist rose over the yellow waves. The poisoned town threw its image across a veil into the river and poisoned its waters. And the stream carried the poison, and perhaps by to-morrow the lands it crosses may already writhe with internal pains. To-morrow.... Everything is lost in a mist. Round the square the houses showed their many-eyed faces through a haze. Below, the rain-covered asphalt pavement shone, reflecting the people who stood upon it. In the windows of the houses, on the stone steps of the House of Parliament, between two stone lions, more people. I looked at my watch. It was eleven o’clock. Another motor car dashed up, there was some cheering in the centre of the square, and the figure of a man rose above the crowd. He stood on the steps of the House of Parliament in a dark overcoat, a bowler-hat on his head, a glaring red tie round his neck. [Illustration: THE HOUSE OF PARLIAMENT. _Photo. Erdelyi, Budapest._ (_To face p. 58._)] The Minister of War. He began to wave his hat over his head as if attempting to catch an elusive butterfly. I caught a few of his words. He spoke with a lisp and stuttered slightly. “Soldiers, I expect discipline.... We have faithfully done our duty on the field of battle.... We suffered and we fought.... We imagined that the ideals we fought for were worth while.... I, your responsible Minister of War, declare that these ideals were false!” I thought he would be knocked down for saying that. Four hundred officers. Just enough....