The edict of the Dictator had gone forth--no lights after ten o'clock P.M.--so that even if the gas and electricity had not failed the result would have been the same, for were there not detectives, Terror Boys, and People's Commissaries to see that the word of the Workers' Council was obeyed? Under the present _régime_ the houses and effects of all were the common property of every one else: books, food, furniture; there was nothing, if the occasion arose, to which the comrades of the Commune could not help themselves. Not many walked the streets. Here and there drunken Red soldiers staggered back to their billets, notwithstanding that prohibition was in force. Here and there a lurking shadow betokened a detective, or sometimes a daring _bourgeois_ risking his life to visit friends. Only People's Commissaries walked about openly, or members of the local Soviet. In some houses there was peace; here lived Communists who ran with the hounds. In some there was a significant quiet--_bourgeois_ who were still left in safety, but who might yet run with the hares. In one home, the residence of Count Kalman Bakocz, there was only sorrow, a dull, hopeless, heart-gnawing despair. A week ago Terror Boys had found their way into the house and arrested the Count. In vain his wife had pleaded for her husband's liberty, unsuccessfully had his daughter Cecile added her pleas. The Red officer merely flicked his fingers, gave marching orders, and the Count was torn from the bosom of his family and flung into jail, only to be transferred the following morning to Budapest to await the justice of Korvin-Klein. Later his son, Francis, returned, and only with a great effort did Cecile and her mother keep him back from invoking his friends to assist him in what could only result in a futile attempt at rescue. For one week the Countess lay prostrate, unable to eat for the fear which gripped her heart in a vice. Only the tender solicitude of Cecile and the brave optimism of Francis kept her alive. This was the seventh night after Count Bakocz's arrest, and again no news other than that he was still alive. The news-bringer thought fit to withhold the fact that he was nigh on starving. Despite the commands of the Dictator there was a tiny particle of candle throwing a flickering light upon the shrunken, careworn features of Countess Bakocz as she lay in bed, her daughter sitting on one side, her son on the other. Heavy curtains protected the windows, so that not a gleam of light could escape the room, yet nevertheless each one was quivering with tension which could not altogether be concealed, and every time footsteps echoed in the street outside Cecile held her breath in terror and Francis clenched his fists. Countess Bakocz weakly turned her head toward her son. "What news, son, what news to-night?"