Tired of standing she sat on a wooden chair, which wobbled unsteadily, and nearly threw her to the floor, but she managed to save herself by thrusting out a foot against the wall. Her mouth hurt abominably--the plugged handkerchief nearly choked her, while a fold of it tickled the back of her throat until she felt a spasm of vertigo. Her wrists smarted with the rub of her bonds, and her bones ached from the cramped position she had been forced to occupy during the drive into Budapest. Her physical pain, however, was as nothing to the mental anguish which pricked and tortured her. Over and over again she chided herself for her folly in venturing so far from the _château_. Conscience played havoc with her nerves; she realized that the discovery of her presence might create danger for the rest of the refugees, and that if that were not so her disappearance might subsequently have a similar effect, for she knew too that, as soon as the fact was discovered that she was missing, search-parties would be organized, and as they failed to find her they would surely venture farther and farther afield. Was it not likely that in doing so they might come into contact with curious peasants, or be seen by suspicious Communists? Her father--of what would he be thinking? What would be his sensations as the hours passed and no good news of her arrived? She rocked slightly in the agony of her thoughts, and the chair very nearly tilted over. There was one other, too, of whom she scarcely dared to think. The White Knight, the man who had risked his life again and again to rescue her father and herself, what would he think of her? Her remorse was more than she could bear, and tears started to her eyes for the first time in fifteen years. With an effort she rose to her feet, and paced the floor as far as its limits would allow, hoping that with the physical effort her thoughts would plague her to a lesser degree. Presently she crossed to the window and gazed down upon the road beneath, then at the houses opposite, and she realized that, if the depressing environment and the ill-cared-for state of the buildings counted for anything, the commissary had not exaggerated his claims to seclusion. The street was dismal and unkempt; it radiated an evil atmosphere, a suggestion of mystery. Here and there people moved about, but, such is the force of habit, even though the Government was now in the hands of the criminal community, and everything was done to favour instead of incarcerate the criminal, the denizens of this quarter still continued to slink warily, casting uneasy glances from side to side.