By this time he had left Buda well behind, and also O'-Buda, higher up in the hills, built on the spot where once had flourished the Roman colony of Aquincum. Below him the city was spread out in a panorama, the Danube glitteringly winding its way through the centre. He found then he was not covering the distance he had estimated--the road seemed for ever on the upward trend, and he realized, much to his surprise, that even in seven months the physical frame can soften slightly. After several heavy-going miles the grade lessened, his walk became easier, and before another two hours had passed his long legs had more than made up the lost time. He had something to eat at a little roadside tavern, though it was scanty and poorly cooked, consisting of _Gulyas_, the national Hungarian dish, a type of Irish stew. This he washed down with an inferior red wine. For all that it was a princely repast compared with the food obtainable in Budapest, where watery soup and bread were sometimes the only means of subsistence. At five o'clock he was at the foot of a hill, and within five miles of his destination. By now he was tired, his left heel was troubling him; but his heart was light, and he hummed the air of a Hungarian folk-song. The top reached, he gazed at the scene before him. The hill dropped steeply to a valley, only to rise as quickly again to an even higher elevation. On the other side of the farther hill was the _château_. The picture was delightful: Nature appeared to have permitted herself a free hand, and her subtle brush had not wavered in her task. The woods were dotted thickly but unevenly, and the blank spaces had been filled up with either green patches of meadowland or else dark grey areas of bare, rugged nakedness. There was but one blemish: four thin, parallel lines, painfully stark and uncamouflaged, forged their way from as far as one could see, and betrayed the hand of man. In callous comparison with the beauties of the valley the railway lines represented human commercialism, inexorable progress. The sun was dipping rapidly now; Wenzel dared waste no time, and so he stepped forward once more on the last stage of his journey, and crossing the iron road to Budapest he soon mounted the second hill, till reaching its highest peak he saw, a quarter of a mile below him, the ruined mansion. He threaded his way through the trees until they thinned out; then through them he could see the _château_. No wonder it was ignored by the Communists. The mere sight of it was nearly enough to damp his newly born sensation of--of---- He shrugged his shoulders when he tried to analyse his emotions. Not many of the long French windows were whole, or even unharmed. Most of them were devoid of any semblance of glass, just a few of them still boasted cracked and broken remains. The exterior woodwork was dull and colourless, the tiles of the roof green with moss.