As if the main road were a church parade, carriage followed carriage in long procession, fat young Jews in service uniform with the Soviet cap lolling within them. Fine thoroughbreds pranced beside them, stolen horses with grooms in stolen liveries. A smart turn-out approached rapidly, the harness and trappings ornamented with the silver arms of a count. The coachmen wore a Hungarian livery. Lolling back on the cushions was a vulgar-looking man, and beside him a shapeless but smartly dressed female was making herself comfortable. “That is the Dictator of the county and his wife,” whispered Mrs. Pongrácz; “I recognise Count Mailath’s mackintosh. The dress his wife is wearing belonged to the Countess, she wore it when her husband was installed Lord Lieutenant. These people have taken possession of the castle of Gárdony and have had all the furniture they want sent from it to their own house. The ‘comrade’ is said to be vastly annoyed because coats of arms and crests ‘disfigure’ the cigarette-cases he acquired there.” I turned my face towards the fields; the reflection of the sun glittered in a circle round the spokes of the wheels and dust rose in long clouds beneath them. When they had passed and the dust had settled I looked anxiously behind me. Presently peasants on foot overtook us; it is only honest people who walk nowadays. One bare-footed old peasant carried his boots dangling from his crook over his back. Poor deluded millions! Do they still believe that everything belongs to the Proletarians? Do they still believe it when the carriages of their former rulers throw the dust into their eyes as their new masters ride by in them? When will the peasantry of this credulous country crush those who have dared to trick it? I caught sight of the spire of a church beyond the turning of the road, and shingled roofs hiding among the trees. There stood the fine old County Hall, with its double roof dating from the period of Maria Theresa—a red flag floating over it. And plastered all over the walls of the cottages were the joyful posters: “Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.” We left the main road. A red handkerchief waved from a pole on top of a peasant’s cottage: the Directorate had resided there. Then we crossed an abandoned cemetery, a tall crucifix standing out darkly above the high grass that covered the tombstones. But the sun was shining and the wind blew freshly. We came to a neglected old garden; within the open gate of wrought-iron Red Guards were loafing; happy or unhappy, whoever liked could go in and out. A large number of munition cases were stacked in the wood shed and on the terrace of the old manor-house. I looked at the inscriptions: _Explosive._ _No. 15 ecrasite shell._ “There is enough here to blow up a town with.” Mrs. Pongrácz nodded. “In the next field there’s a Red Battery. The Czechs in the vineyard are shelling it.”