I murmured something, crammed some money into her hand, and brushed past her. Here too the courtyard was absolutely dark. I hesitated in front of the door of one of the flats: something urged me to go on, something else drew me back. At last I knocked, and a friendly face appeared. The table was still laid under the welcoming light of a swinging lamp: how peaceful was the sight of that quiet little home after the howling, dirty, soaking street! Michael Zsigmondy and his wife welcomed me, but whether or not they had expected me I cannot say; at all events they seemed to consider it quite a natural thing that I should have come. “What is the time?” “Past eleven.” There was a knock at the door.... We looked at each other. A tall, dark young man entered. “Count Francis Hunyadi,” announced Zsigmondy, relieved. He did not mention my name, and they carefully avoided addressing me. The newcomer spoke: “Nobody knows what is happening. It is said that the Communists want to hand the town over to the rabble to plunder.” I thought of my mother, who was surely thinking of me too. Behind her I saw more faintly other faces: brothers, sisters, friends, acquaintances. I began to tremble for all those I loved. Zsigmondy went to the telephone, but the exchange gave the invariable answer: “Only official communications are permissible.” Then that stopped too. The telephone exchanges have passed into the hands of the Communists. The rain stopped; the streets livened up, and now and then the howls of the excited rabble came up to us: “Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!” The children were taken into another room, and my bed was made up in the night nursery. Bright pictures of fairy tales were on the walls, lead soldiers and toy horses on the floor. However long I may live I shall never again feel as old as I felt in that nursery. * * * * * _March 22nd._ The day was already breaking when weariness overcame me and lulled me into something resembling sleep. It must have lasted a short time only, then an almost physical pain about my heart woke me. I felt like a person who has lost someone very dear to him and on awakening is reminded of his bereavement not by memory but by grief. I shrunk from complete awakening. Not yet, not for just one more minute! But it was in vain I tried to hide from consciousness, swiftly I remembered everything. Hungary was no longer. She had been betrayed, sold. _Finis Hungariæ._ I found myself moaning inarticulately. My heart was wounded and bleeding, and the blood that was flowing was the blood of all those who were Hungarian. I pressed my clenched fists to my eyes, pressed them so hard that my eyeballs hurt and red flashes passed before them. Then I opened them quickly and the grey dawn stared at me with dimmed eyes. Their day had come!