That night Bela Kun, Weiss, Schwarz, Vago, Pogany, and Landler, together with all their families, stole quietly into one of the Budapest stations where a train was ready for them, steam up, impatiently awaiting the guard's command. The rats were fleeing--escaping with the connivance of the new Peidl Government, but, still more paradoxically, protected from their own people by an escort supplied by the Italian military mission stationed in Budapest. Only one was missing from the party--Szamuelly! The clock ticked on, the time passed rapidly. In the end they could wait no longer. The guard signalled, the train steamed out, _en route_ to Austria; and so passed out of the pages of history Bela Kun and his colleagues. Once again justice was denied the people of Hungary, for with the help of the Allies the train reached and crossed the Austrian frontier, and the Communists were safe--safe to live thereafter a life of ease, when they ought to have hanged, while those they left behind, betrayed by their leaders to the last, later suffered the extreme penalty. Even to this day it is said that somewhere in Russia Bela Kun still lives. _CHAPTER XXI_ Peace at last! With the occupation of Budapest by the Rumanians a sane Government was formed, inspired by a proclamation of the Archduke Joseph, and if the city were still systematically robbed by the Rumanian occupiers of what little was left to it, at any rate the thefts, under the name of reparations, were more legal, and less bitter. To the gasping, starved citizens of Budapest the change was well worth it. At least they could walk the streets openly by day or night without fear of sudden death, of molestation and imprisonment which meant worse than death; they could, at any rate, obtain what food there was, without producing red or blue tickets. For the first time in months there was peace and happiness in the hearts of the Hungarian people. Their chins uplifted, their eyes sparkling, they walked the streets of the cities, the highways and the byways of the country. Once again they had come into their own. In less than a week the Château Juhusz was empty of all those who had been living there: empty of them all save one. No longer did the decaying walls echo with the sound of voices, no longer were its derelict rooms embellished with flowers, decorated with pieces of carved wood and crude charcoal drawings. No more did the Count and Countess Bakocz hold court in their pitiful apology for a _salon_, nor did Imre Kiss, leaning still more heavily on his walking-stick, pass from room to room, his head bowed with thought, longing only once more to work upon his beloved manuscript, to write "Finis" to his tale of the glories of the Kings of Hungary.