"Then come." He stretched out his arm, and his hand came into contact with her wrist. He seized it firmly, and pulled her roughly to the door. With the other hand upon the door-handle he stopped dead, as suddenly from below there was a reverberating shout, a rumbling yell of rage. Wenzel's lips compressed, and unconsciously he tightened his grip upon her arm, till she could stand it no longer, and she screamed slightly with the agony. He thought it was fear: "Keep quiet; there is still time to escape." She writhed at the scorn in his voice, but she knew that in spite of his optimism escape was rapidly becoming impossible. Once the rabble downstairs took it into their heads to make sure she was still safe---- The noise swelled louder, as a drunken fury seized the crowd. "Where's the girl? Hang her! ... Death to the _bourgeoise_! Where's her room?" Clearly the shouts echoed along the passages; and then there was a noise of pounding steps, a clamorous yelling. Worked into a frenzy the mob was on its way up. Wenzel would have pulled her out in an attempt to avoid the Communists, but her knowledge of the castle warned her that they were hemmed in, that they were being approached from both ways. "Too late. We are cut off." Quite calmly she informed him of the fact, so that even he could not fail to appreciate the lack of fear in her voice. "You are not afraid?" he asked quickly. "If my father is safe--no," she replied quietly. He secured the key, and turned it in the lock, breathing a sigh of thankfulness that the door was strongly built, the lock more so. For a short while it would resist the onslaught of the attackers, and in that time he might yet find a means of escape. "Tell me quickly, is there no other way out, no other door?" "But one door and one window." "The window----" She did not hear the finish of his sentence for the deafening din outside. Like a pack of wolves the crowd was gathered to batten on the flesh of the innocent girl, and like the animals whose human prototypes they were they raised their voices at the scent of prey. When they found the door locked their anger knew no bounds. With fists and feet they beat upon the stout door till it shivered beneath the assault. "Kill her! Hang her!" they shouted, and only one expostulated with them. Mad with rage at the thought of his victim escaping his clutches, even at the end of the hangman's rope, Comrade Grocz tried in vain to stem the flood. Above the roar of other voices his stridently rose: "Comrades, comrades, the girl is mine. She was given to me by Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat. You shall not kill her! Stop, stop, I say!" He might have attempted to prevent a raincloud bursting. "Get away, Grocz. She must die." "But she was given to me!" he shrieked. "Yah! Yah!" Two or three laughed boisterously, and one cried out: "You forget, Comrade Grocz, that the Dictatorship has abolished all private ownership."