Peczkai groaned. "Excellency, I could not believe until I saw, with my own eyes. Red guards are everywhere, pillaging and looting in the name of the Soviet. Rumours have reached us from Budapest of death, of mysterious disappearances. Our late Prime Minister and many others have been thrown into prison. Excellency, you must believe! The Communists are on the way here now! Any moment they may arrive. You must flee; it will be better so." Hesitation to believe battled with a hopeless recognition of the truth in Imre's heart. He did not move or speak; just stood still while the blood receded from his face and his eyes became shadowed with an overwhelming horror. While he wrote of Hungary's greatness, this, this unspeakable sacrilege was taking place. Hungary Red! The country of St Stephen, the birthplace of a long list of valiant warriors--Bolshevik! "A chair, Elizabeth," he gasped weakly as, unable to bear the sudden weight of sorrow, he felt his knees tottering. Quicker than Elizabeth Peczkai was beside him, holding the older man up in his strong arms. "Excellency, a short rest only. Then you must go. See, I will take you, guide you to a safe place." "Go! Go!" Slowly the bowed shoulders straightened, the head lifted, and Peczkai saw Imre's eyes blazing with a kindled fire. "Go! Never! Who are these Communists that I should leave my home, the home of my father, and his father before him? Who are these dogs that I should forsake my castle? Never! Let them come. I will horsewhip them. Not yet is my arm too weak to defend myself and my daughter. Go you, Peczkai, and dare these Bolsheviks to come near." Despairingly the peasant glanced at Elizabeth, but vainly. As she stood there she smiled slightly, haughtily, disdainfully. The spirit of the fighting Magyars revealed itself in her womanly grace; daughter of a generation of warriors, she feared neither friend nor foe. Once again Peczkai groaned. "Excellency..." He spread out an arm appealingly. Imre smiled softly. "God bless you, Peczkai." There was much in his voice which even the uncultured peasant recognized--gratitude, tenderness, scorn, but above all, inflexible decision. Peczkai, with a bowed head, helped Imre to a chair, and left the room. Bowed, for in the corner of each eye trickled a tear. When the awakening came... He felt an infinite pity for them. It was soon to come. Even as Elizabeth went to the window to watch the return of Peczkai to the village she saw in the distance the approaching Communists. Her lips curled scornfully. There were many of them, perhaps two dozen, or three--as they came nearer she realized that even this estimate was too low. "They come, Father." She looked round. He sat as if he had not heard.