Countess Bakocz raised herself slightly on her elbows, and the blood flowed into her face. "The White Knight!" she whispered. "God be praised! Then he knows of my husband's plight?" "Too well, Countess. Moreover, he plans to rescue him--has sworn to do so." "Sworn to rescue him!" The Countess faintly repeated the words, unable to credit the fact. Then joyfully she spoke again. "Cecile, Francis, listen! The White Knight is to return your father to us. Oh, children, children, tell me I am not dreaming! Make me believe what I hear is true!" Cecile's lips trembled suspiciously as she flung her arms around the invalid. "Oh, Mother darling, of course it is true!" Across her mother's shoulder her glance met that of Arnold Terhune. His eyes held hers, clearly and firmly. In that brief second there was a change in both of them, though neither was conscious of the fact. They only felt an inexplicable stirring somewhere deep down within them. Arnold Terhune, though dressed in the dirty shapeless clothes of the Hungarian labourer, with a three or four days' growth of hair upon his chin, and a very close-cropped head, could not entirely conceal the lithe, athletic grace with which he carried himself, any more than his unshaven chin hid its firm strength. Dressed more suitably, he would have been the personification of virile English manhood. He was inclined to be tall, just under six feet, yet his hands and feet were unusually small. His broad shoulders hinted at robust health and physical strength; his slimmer waist at a healthy life and arduous exercise. Well might he have appealed to Cecile, who, herself, was remarkably beautiful, and of a dusky, gipsy type. Her dark, rippling hair admirably set off her almost black eyes and pure olive complexion, while her tiny lips curved seductively into a Cupid's bow. Perhaps her only fault was a strained, pinched look, the result of four years' privation, so soon succeeded by the worse rigours of the revolution, and subsequent Commune. Countess Bakocz turned eagerly to her visitor. "Tell us, monsieur, of this rescue. When and how? Oh, how I long to clasp my husband in my arms again! God be pleased to grant the White Knight success, monsieur. You will tell us his plans?" Terhune smiled, then slowly shook his head. "The White Knight alone knows his plans, Countess. He alone plots his _coups_." "But you, monsieur, you know this White Knight?" Terhune's face broke into a smile again, but this time there was something of hero-worship, of reverence, in it. "Yes, Countess, he is my friend, and leader." "Your leader? You work for the White Knight?" Cecile it was who put the question, and she clasped her hands together in her eager excitement. "Yes, m'selle. I am his lieutenant. I do what I can; it is so little. I wish I could do more, much more, for it makes my heart bleed to see the Hungary I have always loved plunged into the present chaos."