He reached the fringe of the wood; before him the Death Train snorted impatiently, radiating a brilliant glow of light, and Wenzel was able to see for himself the ghastly thing of which he had heard so much. It consisted all together of the four coaches; the first two he noticed to be first-class saloon cars, the last two ordinary third-class. This fact he noted in a sweeping glance which embraced the whole of the train; then he turned his inspection upon the two Pullman cars, and as he noted one detail after another it seemed to him that his eyes must be playing him a freakish trick. He blinked once or twice, but when he looked again the picture remained unaltered, and slowly the realization sank into his brain that what he saw was no fleeting chimera, no fanciful dream, but stark, actual fact. He had travelled in _de luxe_ Pullmans of pre-War days, and considered them the acme of comfort, yet they were cheerless and commonplace compared with the coach which Szamuelly had adopted as his home, and in which he now lived permanently, surrounded by his guard of wicked Terrorists. All the regular furnishings of the car had been stripped away; instead was substituted gorgeous furniture, filched from the palaces of the King of Hungary, or from the palatial town and country residences of the magnates, from the castles of the aristocrats, the _châteaux_ of the ruling Magyars. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestry, worked long ages ago, and depicting the glories of Hungary's past, the heroic deeds of Losonczy at Tenescar, of Szondi at Dregel, Zrinyi at Szigetvar, and vaguely Wenzel wondered how each thread, worked by dainty fingers, must have twisted in shame and disgust, as it hung there and witnessed other deeds, black and bloody, blotting the later pages of Hungary's chivalrous history! Beautiful bevelled mirrors were displayed upon the walls, and pure, deep glass glitteringly reflected the fragile gilt Louis XVI furniture which stood everywhere, its pink brocade dimly reminiscent of another revolution, while lastly, in the centre of the first coach, stood a delicate, feminine writing-table, its dainty carving in harmony with the cushioned settle by its side. To Wenzel, gazing into the lighted saloon from the shadows of the wood, it was as though he might have been peeping from the dark, overcast present into the brightness of the past. Not one adornment in the saloon but had survived many decades, not one piece which could not have breathed the fame of Deak or Kossuth. Wenzel wrenched his gaze away. What of the third-class compartments by which the train earned its ghastly title? Therein travelled the unfortunate prisoners of the Terrorists, therein the walls and floors were bare of any ornament other than the rusty stains of dried blood which covered them--the blood of the murdered. Well was it named the Death Train!