But what could I do, I who have lived a retired and almost solitary life, I who could do nothing but love my country and depict its beauty with my pen? What is the good of speaking of one’s country when a whole town, with a foreign soul, laughs in one’s face? What good is its beauty when millions tread it under their feet? Despondently I walked slowly through the badly lit, dingy streets. At the gate of the Museum a sailor was standing, a rifle over his shoulder and a revolver in his belt. Opposite, under the porch of the old House of Parliament, soldiers were unloading heavy boxes from a motor lorry and dragging them into the building. This building, in which Francis Deák had once poured out his soul before the National Assembly of old, was now the headquarters of the revolutionary Soldiers’ Council. Its organiser, Joseph Pogány, whom Károlyi had nominated Government’s Commissary, had by now risen to such power that he could effectively oppose the Minister of War. “What is there in those boxes?” a slatternly servant girl asked a soldier. “Bandages,” replied the soldier, and winked at her; “but we bring the best of it at night!” As soon as he noticed me he shouted out threateningly: “Get away from here! Down from the foot-path!” I noticed then that there were machine-guns on the lorry, and that two words were repeated on all the boxes: _Danger_ and _Cartridges_. The Minister of War orders the ammunition at the front to be thrown away, while the Commissary of the Soldiers’ Council accumulates it in the heart of the capital. Is it accidental or is there a connection between the two? I walked for a long time in my lonely sorrow, and presently I reached the banks of the Danube. In front of me the Elizabeth Bridge, like a crested monster, strode across the river with a single stride, its back shining with sundry lamps. Above it stood the solid mass of St. Gellert’s Hill, and under it glided the river’s cool stream, carrying with it dark, silent ships. Here and there a solitary murky pier clung to the shore, and the reflection of low-burning street-lamps slipped shuddering into the deep. A breeze came from the hills. It will bring frost to-night. And at night the houses on the shore close their eyes so that they may see no more. For every now and then little, preying boats glide over the cold water. A shot is fired. There is a mysterious splash.... Everybody knows about it; nobody interferes. In 1918, between Buda and Pest, as in the lawless days of old, armed pirates stop ships. National sailor-guards play highwayman on the Danube! I looked behind me. Among the badly-lit streets and dark houses who can tell where is the lair of robbers and murderers? The clamour of the busy streets, the silence of the alleys, hide crime. The town is blood-guilty: the murderers of Stephen Tisza walk freely among us.