“So we came home,” said Huszár, and despair was in his eyes. “We shall give ourselves up to the Directorate and stand our trial.” The Directorate had ordered proceedings to be taken against them, but miraculously had failed to arrest them. * * * * * The doctor came to see me this morning—I’ve got rheumatic fever, and in the afternoon the children brought me some forget-me-nots from the river. Dusk came, then darkness. When I woke up a candle was burning in the room and Charles Kiss was sitting at my bedside. He brought me news of my mother, after all this time; she is alive and well, but fretting about me as she has not heard from me for weeks. She was questioned many times by the Red agents and they forced her to swear that as soon as she knew where I was she would report to them. Once a detective said to her: “How must you have brought up your daughter for her to behave like this?” “I brought her up as a Hungarian,” my mother replied simply. Whereupon the detective hung his head and then said, as if ashamed: “I, too, am Hungarian,” and he kissed my mother’s hand. Since then there have been no more inquiry agents to see her. Then Charles Kiss talked about himself. Most of the time he has been hiding in Western Hungary, where the whole region is in a ferment, counter-revolutions breaking out here and there. But as soon as ever there is news of one Számuelly makes a sudden appearance. In Devecser he had the counter-revolutionaries hanged round the church; with the exception of a young teacher they were all peasants. He forced the women to look on. In Nagygencs he had a farmer hanged in front of his children. The farmer did not die at once and when he was in his coffin he sat up. The wife and children ran to him sobbing. But the Terror Boys know no pity: they finished him off in his coffin. Charles Kiss is going to escape to Vienna. To do this he has to go through Budapest—a long way round. I watched his face anxiously, afraid he might say that I should have to take the same road, but to my relief he said nothing. I raised my arm to shake hands with him when he went, and had to clench my teeth to restrain a cry of pain. Then I lay for hours motionless, and all through the night made preparations. In the morning I was as tired as if I had wandered along endless roads. * * * * * _June 11th._ The newspapers are howling victory—the delivery of Kassa. The Internationale is played and the Red Guard of Honour (?) cheers as Garbai and Béla Kun pass before it. Far away I seem to hear wild Kuruc songs ... and see the Kuruc horsemen waving their caps to their prince[3].... Our lovely town, longing for deliverance from Czech captivity. What a different home-coming you must have expected! And this is how (according to the reporters) Béla Kun held forth: