I gazed out upon Nature’s calendar. When I left home it was still winter; it snowed now and then and the bare branches showed up black against the bleak sky. Then one day the sickle of the moon appeared, like the windblown flame of a torch, above the hillock, and green clouds covered the bushes. The green clouds have turned into young leaves and beyond the hillock above the steeple night raises a round red disk in the sky. Many days have passed. Enough days for the moon to grow to its full size. * * * * * _The Night of April 14th–15th._ The embers have died in the stove. I watched them for a long time: now they are collapsing, and it is cold. There has never been a cold like this, yet I sit here and write, though there is no reason for it. But after all, I do not write for others, I do not write to keep a record of my thoughts, I write only to relieve my feelings. Charles Kiss came this evening, running the gauntlet of the police in order to bring me news. It may be an afterthought, but it seems to me that I knew he was coming. I believe I felt something impending, something I had feared for days, something unavoidable. In the evening the others had discussed the coming Easter festivities. I did not join in the conversation; I kept out of it whenever I could, and perhaps it was this that gave me a lonely feeling. There is such a thing as presentiment. I am not allowed to stay here. To-day everybody who is Hungarian is outlawed and homeless on every inch of Hungarian soil. To their bloodhounds our ‘rulers’ throw the lives of those who dare to fight against them. I have fought against them and my life has been proscribed. They have selected for the deed a certain Mikulics, a one-eyed terrorist, nicknamed ‘the Cyclops’ by the others. I never heard of him before, but it appears that he is the plenipotentiary chief of the Air Service. Számuelly said of him that he was so cruel that even he could not stand up against him. This man has been commissioned to settle with me. He himself said: “I must do away with her.” And henceforth my life will depend upon my ability to avoid him. There is another one also who is after me, and he too is quite unknown to me. He is the head of the newly-established Secret Service, and is a bosom friend of Számuelly. He is called Otto Korvin, though his real name is Klein. He is a hunchbacked little Jew who used to be a bank clerk. The idea of it fills me with terror. A hand seems to be feeling for me, slowly, steadily, trying to grasp me. I have had that feeling ever since Charles Kiss told me about it. Faithful friend! How concerned he was, and how pale he looked; he could only talk in whispers. When his carriage stopped under the porch, Lenke Kállay shouted to him: “Do you bring good news?”