Oscar Fery, the organiser of the Hungarian county police, was the heroic soul of the Counter-revolution. He was a brave soldier, who, notwithstanding that he was a Lieutenant-General, stayed in Budapest during the Commune so that in case of need he might be on the spot to lead his police. The Dictators were afraid of him—he did not run away! A few days ago, he was dragged from his home at night and with two faithful officers was taken to the Terrorists’ barracks. When the fall of the Dictatorship was unavoidable, the prisoners were killed in the cellars one after the other. Oscar Fery was the last, and as he was being taken to the cellar he fell over the mutilated bodies of his companions. There was an awful storm that night, the roaring of the wind dominated every sound. Yet for hours one could hear the screams of the victims in the cellar of the barracks. The murderers have escaped, but their saviours continue to rule over Hungary while the Entente negotiates with them. And the Rumanians are in Budapest. “One can’t go on living like this. We would much rather be killed.” I have seen weeping men to-day. * * * * * _August 7th._ There are no trains yet from Budapest and the town is surrounded by a ring. Nobody can get out of it; no passengers, no newspapers come to us. The Workmen’s Government has cancelled all the orders of the Dictatorship, and no fresh orders have come through yet. Only a part of the troops from the Tisza front could be disarmed. The soldiers have over-run the country and many are robbing and plundering. A doubtful rumour spread yesterday evening. It was said that an opposition Government had been formed in the capital. Is it true? Or, as so often before, is it only an invention arising from our hope? Yet hope _is_ rising. “You sit down and write an article in remembrance of Balassagyarmat,” said Aladár Huszár. “The old patriotic newspaper has reappeared.” For months I have been writing only for my own self and the idea of publicity came disturbingly to me, as if someone were watching my pen over my shoulder. “Resurrection ...” I chose that title for my article and I signed my name—the first time since the events of March.