CHAPTER PAGE I. 5 II. 21 III. 35 IV. 53 V. 68 VI. 84 VII. 99 VIII. 111 IX. 125 X. 137 XI. 148 XII. 162 XIII. 177 XIV. 189 XV. 201 APPENDIX 216 AN OUTLAW’S DIARY CHAPTER I _Night of March 21st, 1919._ There followed a moment’s silence, the awful silence of the executioner’s sword suspended in the air. Humanity in bondage draws its head between its shoulders, and, like the sweat of the agonising, cold rain, pours down the walls of the houses. Now.... A bestial voice shrieks again in the street: “LONG LIVE THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT!” The neighbouring streets repeat the cry. A drawn shutter rattles violently in the dark. Street doors bang as they are hurriedly closed. Running steps clatter past the houses, accompanied by two sounds: “Long live ... Death....” The latter is meant for us. Shots ring out at the street corner. “Death to the bourgeois!” A bullet strikes a lamp and there is a shower of glass on the pavement. A carriage drives past furiously, then stops suddenly amid shouts. A confused noise follows and the shooting dies away in the distance. Other cars follow its track into the maddened, lightless town. What is happening there, beyond it, everywhere, in the barracks, in the boulevards? Sailors are looting the inner city: a handful of Bolsheviks have taken possession of the town. There is no escape! One thought alone contains an element of relief: we have reached the bottom of the abyss. It is disgraceful and humiliating, but it is better than the constant sliding down and down. Now we can sink no lower. Presently the streets regained their former quiet, and nothing but the throbbing of our hearts pierced the silence. There is no escape for us. The opened gutters have inundated us. St. Stephen’s Hungary has fallen under the rule of Trotsky’s agent, Béla Kun, the embezzler. And all round us events are taking place which we have no longer the power to prevent.