“What’s going on here?” John Kispál asked two passing farmers. The men shrugged their shoulders contemptuously: “The Directorate of Balassagyarmat is on the run,” said one of them. “They are afraid of sharing the fate of their colleagues in Fülek.” He made a circle round his neck with his finger and looked upwards. We had been walking for some time when the gardener suddenly turned to me: “I should like to ask you, Miss, what you think about it all? Shall I come to any harm when things come right? That is always on my mind, because I don’t think a man ought to assume that things will always remain as they are. They may, but they may change too. It is wise to arrange matters so that whether things remain as they are or whether they change one may always be nice and snug.” Guns thundered from the vineyards and a shell shrieked across the Ipoly and fell near the road, raising a cloud up to the sky. Not a single carriage was visible on the road now: the motors of the delegates-to-the-front, the members of the Directorate and the ‘reliable individuals’ have all been swept from the landscape by the wind raised by a single shell. In the distance behind us they were tearing along at a wild gallop, off the road whenever possible. I began to feel safe. There is less danger in shells than in Bolsheviks. Bugle calls could still be heard in the direction of the town, and my pulses began to throb. What if the barriers on the other side were to close and I should have to stay on in my Red prison! “I haven’t any papers,” the gardener said; “you’ll have to go on alone. Go straight through the High Street.” He was pale and obviously afraid. So presently I found myself alone. I jumped over the rails: people were running towards the houses so nobody took any notice of me, and I reached the Huszárs’ house in safety. Mrs. Huszár and the children welcomed me with open arms. A soldier was following me down the street, stopping at every corner to sound the alarm. I noticed that his bugle was ornamented with a huge red tassel which the rising wind blew against his mouth. And as I looked back in the twilight it seemed to me that the bugler was calling blood. CHAPTER X _May 23rd._ I had hurried in vain. The Directorate has come back, so I have to remain in my Red prison. The battle last night caused many casualties, and the towns near the front are bewailing their dead. Everything that is Hungarian sorrows. The wheel of Fate is turning in blood, slowly, terribly. It is turned by the Powers, but it is our blood.