Was Francis never coming up again? She wanted to scream hysterically. Surely he must know that they would be anxious. The seconds ticked by. Not a movement from below, not a sound to be heard. Another moment and Cecile would have called, but there was a cautious step, and almost as soon as she recognized the footsteps of Francis she was conscious that there was some one with him. Hypnotically she watched the door until it swung open. So Francis was bringing Kirchhoff up. Why? Why? She trembled, but the man who entered was not Kirchhoff, but a stranger. "Mother dear, do not be excited, but there is news, wonderful news. This gentleman has come from Buda. He is Mr Arnold Terhune, of London." Countess Bakocz flashed a startled glance at her daughter. An Englishman! A late foe, countryman of an enemy land with whom peace had not yet been signed! How could he bring good news? Cecile did not meet her look, for she was gazing upon the young man who entered, raptly assimilating the picture he presented. Her thoughts were that here was a man connected with good news. If he bore information which should hearten them all what matter his nationality? The Countess inclined her head coldly as the Englishman bowed. "You must forgive my intrusion, Countess, but there is a matter of great importance which I must discuss with you." "I am at your service, monsieur." Try as she might she could not keep the chilling hauteur from her voice. How different from Cecile, whose eyes were sparkling, and whose cheeks were flushing! He possessed a wonderful voice, this Englishman who spoke their language with scarcely a trace of foreign accent. Arnold Terhune glanced around him. "We are alone?" A tear welled into the eyes of the Countess. "Absolutely," she replied, and the tinge of bitterness and hopelessness in her voice betrayed its story of tragedy, its tale of faithless servants, of forbidden friends. The Englishman inclined his head. "Then I may speak, for it is of vital importance that what I have to say goes no further. Countess, I bear a message to you from one who is known as the White Knight." "The White Knight!" The exclamation was from Cecile. With those three words banished hope returned in full force. The White Knight! If the rumour of this mysterious person had not yet reached the proletariat, the same could not be said of the persecuted _bourgeoisie_ and the hunted aristocracy. Like the spread of a forest fire, the name of the White Knight had passed from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity. Stories of his wonderful rescues had penetrated into every house and home which sheltered one of the hated _bourgeoisie_, his saga was told in whispers and in snatches. To the gentle families of the forgotten people his name was a glimpse of blue breaking in between the heavy thunderclouds of revolution, a veritable star of hope, shining undimmed through an overpowering blackness.