Below her, a sheer drop of fifty feet, the broad Danube flowed, undisturbed in its course by human outrage. Elizabeth was fascinated by its tranquillity, its absolute disinterestedness. It did not dash more fiercely against its rock-bound walls, nor sing its song the louder. What meant war or revolution, massacre or murder to it? Inexorably its waters flowed onward, unheeding mankind's plight. Cruel Nature, heartless Danube! In the meantime Imre, in the next room, suffered. Though of late years he had remained away from the wide world, given up the last years of his life to scholarly pursuits, there had been a time when he was young, when he had sipped of its pleasures, tasted lightly of its vices. As then he had known the world, and mankind in particular, so now he trembled for his daughter. What would happen when the wine cellar was opened, when the mellow Tokay stirred up the passions of the men? God! he dared not think. Yet he knew he must think, and plan escape for Elizabeth. What were his castle, his lands, his money, compared to her? He must be polite to the Communists; escape would be easier if they did not suspect him. He must think--carefully. He gazed around, and the scene--the clothes on the floor, the missing ornaments, the disturbed bed--angered him, and he felt his temper bubbling over, blinding his clarity of vision. There was only one place to which he could go--his beloved study. So he made his way there, keeping guard on himself, and ignoring the jeering Communists. Once there he knew its atmosphere would assist him to think more coherently, to plan a way to get the better of the scum. The study door was closed and no one about. With a quick movement, which twisted his lips with pain, he entered, and shut the door behind him, breathing with relief. So the _tableau_ was set, Imre Kiss by the door, leaning on his stick, and Comrade Grocz by a massive desk, a bundle of manuscript in one hand, a lighted match in the other. And Imre--for the moment he did not fully comprehend the significance of what he saw. His brain was blank, chilled by the disappointment at finding even here the sacrilegious presence of Communists. Then the devouring flame of realization fired his blood. His papers, his sacred manuscripts, the work of years about to be destroyed! Another few seconds and the match would have been applied. There was no fear within him at that moment, only a consuming rage, a murderous hate, and a flaming, unquenchable spirit which oiled his limbs, swept aside for the moment the ravages of time. With a bellow of rage he raised aloft his heavy walking-stick, and, rushing forward, crashed it down upon the skull of the Communist. Without a sound Comrade Grocz dropped to the ground. By the time he came round again the papers were hidden where no Communist's hands would ever find them, but the black soul of Grocz shrieked for revenge.