The paper was still in my hand when I came to a little plot of land below the garden known by the name of ‘the parson’s green.’ It used to be glebe land but Mrs. Beniczky has rented it for many years. She has just been informed by the Directorate that this is to be her last year of tenancy. However, they are graciously allowing her corn to grow there. John Kispál, the gardener, a member of the Directorate, was hoeing in it, and behind him a small girl was sowing corn in the furrows. When Master Kispál perceived the newspaper in my hand, he leant on his hoe and sucked at his pipe so violently that he drew his cheeks in. Then he sent the girl for tobacco and looked round cautiously. That is the way people have nowadays when they want to speak openly. “Tell me, Miss,” said he, “what is going to happen?” “How should I know?” “Well, the gentle folks always know more than we do; they get it out of their brains. Brains can’t be taught.” He gave a long pull at his pipe. “Nowadays they put a man up against the wall if he says what he thinks. Mistress Bakalár has been carried off in chains, because she could not keep her mouth shut. She said that the Reds were greater enemies than the enemy. It was no help to her that she was a first-class Proletarian, rifle-butts played havoc with her head.” The gardener looked down pensively. “Even that is not the worst of it. What’s worse is that they are forsaking the country. How can any Hungarian do such a thing?” “Those in power to-day are not Hungarian.” “What? You don’t mean to say that Béla Kun is not a Hungarian?” “Why, his real name is Cohen!” Kispál’s mouth opened wide. “If that is so, the gentle folk have treated us very unfairly. Why did they allow such a thing? Believe me, if he had come here under his true name the people would have had none of him.” [Illustration: BÉLA KÚN (1) AND TIBOR SZÁMUELLY (2) IN THE MAY DAY PROCESSION. ] When I reached the house the soldiers were making a great noise in the kitchen. They told the maid that an army order had arrived: the 32nd Artillery would have to leave this place. A small battery would come in its place with a hundred and fifty men. But they were not quite sure about obeying this order yet: Sergeant Isidor Grosz has a sweetheart near by, and Katz, the political delegate, does not want a change either. So they have sent to Budapest to ask Béla Kun to change the gunners. They will stay on with the 8 c.m. guns, and if they do not get their way they are going to blow up all the ammunition. Comrade Pogány was in a temper when he left here. In the morning when he rushed into the commander’s office he shouted and did not say “good morning” to anybody. He asked an officer: “How many recruits, and what stuff are they made of?” “Eighty men, poor fellows, mostly flat-footed.” “Why did they join up?” “For pay, clothes and boots,” the officer answered. “Not for the ideals of the Proletariat?” Pogány insisted.