In himself he was of broad stature, and this, with his height, made him lumbering and ungainly. His hands were big and filthy, the nails scratched and cracked, and worn down to the quick. His clothes were greasy, frayed at the sleeves and at the bottom of the trousers. His boots were laced with string. Repulsive was the only word to describe him. Of the ravenous wolves, of the cruel, barbarous vultures, dragged up by the Revolution from the slums to which they belonged, this man, Istvan Wenzel, was, in appearance at least, the most vicious, the most terrifying. To the student of physiognomy he was a man of vice, and to his lengthy list of undesirable traits might be added vanity. Surrounded by a city's scum, only a little better than himself, he was conscious that he was, for the moment, the centre of interest, that his words were creating attention: the fact that his fellow-Communists drew away at his ghoulish laughter did not seem to wound his sensibilities, even if he were possessed of any. "Yes, comrades, he was the first prisoner to escape. Yet there were others, more of these _bourgeois_, who mysteriously vanished just in time to escape the hangman's rope or our soldiers' bullets. Each time there was left behind a chess-piece, always the white knight, and so the man who has been responsible for these escapes has become known as the White Knight." There was a shout from the rear. "Ay, comrade, you say nothing but the truth. I have heard of this pig, the White Knight. It is said that he has sworn to rescue the Count Kalman Bakocz. Comrade Szamuelly is to take a hand in the game. This White Knight will soon be in Red Mourning, eh, friends?" "Ay, ay," cried several, amidst a ripple of laughter. There was a sudden stir, and the people swung round. At the far end of the square came into view a group of Red soldiers, laughing and joking. In their midst three prisoners walked unhappily, doomed to die, condemned to death by the inhuman Korvin-Klein, the uneducated, uncouth judge appointed by the Dictator to try all enemies of the proletariat. Pushing through the crowd, the soldiers made their way toward that part of the square above which the stone lions proudly growled defiance to the world. Here the three victims were made to stand, calmly awaiting their fate. There was silence, a muttered word of command: the sharp resonant clash of gun-fire echoed across the square, and three patriots slipped to the ground, killed by Hungarian bullets that were fired by Hungarian men at the command of a Hungarian. Scarcely had the sound of the discharge died away when Wenzel laughed loudly and slapped his friend Garami on the shoulder. "Three more traitors sent about their business, eh, comrade!" he cried. Garami, rubbing his shoulder where Wenzel's hand had caught him, laughed too. _CHAPTER II_ It was eleven o'clock in Balassagyarmat, and the streets were comparatively pitch dark.