I took up my Bible. The prophecy and its realisation stood out in red letters before my eyes. But a few days later in the prophecy there comes one on a white horse, dressed in white linen. And the white one vanquishes the red. * * * * * _May 2nd._ News has just reached us: the Red army has retired before the Rumanians and has crossed the Tisza. The Serbians have occupied Hódmezövásárhely. The Czechs have occupied Miskolcz and are attacking in two sectors. The population is helping them and there is no resistance; the Reds are in flight. What a terrible position is ours: the invaders fill us with horror, and yet we await them eagerly: we look to assassins to save us from our hangman. And while we bite our lips in helpless anguish our sufferings are unheeded by humanity, which is concerned only with the fact that the Soviet Republic protects foreigners. The Republic of course has decreed that its agents must behave with the greatest courtesy to foreigners, and it has established an ‘Office for the protection of Aliens.’ Is there not a single foreigner who thinks of asking his own people for help for us, who did not intern them during the war and are now persecuted slaves in our own country? In past centuries the Rumanians and Serbs fled to us for asylum against their own tyrants, and to us also came the wandering Jew. But now they are all working together to wipe us from the face of the earth. Yet we shared with them everything we had, and they readily received our protection. It is said that only a misguided fraction of the Jews is active in the destruction of Hungary. If that be so, why do not the Jews who represent Jewry in London, in New York, and at the Paris Peace Conference disown and brand their tyrant co-religionists in Hungary? Why do they not repudiate all community with them? Why do they not protest against the assaults committed by men of their race? * * * * * A storm is coming, and its breath bends the trees of the garden. The branches of the old firs rise and fall over the lawn like slime-covered oars on a turbulent lake. The leaves of the aspen are thrust apart by the wind as if it were blowing aside the hair from a face walking against the storm. The willow bends as if it were gathering flowers in the grass. The guns thunder near Örhalom. The wind is rising, and already it is roaring like furious giant hounds barking at the setting sun. The soldiers say that the Czechs are going to attack to-night. [Illustration: THE RED MAY DAY IN BUDAPEST. ] CHAPTER VIII _May 3rd._