Szamuelly, carefully guarded by four or five men, each of whom flourished a serviceable revolver, sauntered toward the station, to halt scarcely a yard or so from where Wenzel was hidden. In quick, precise tones Szamuelly gave his orders, and small parties of his men dispersed to different parts of the town. In the meantime, while he waited for their return, Szamuelly smoked a cigarette and jested with his own special guard. "Well, comrades, ready for your work, eh?" One man grunted. "Everything looks strange. Where is the White counter-revolution which we have come to suppress, may I ask? There are Red flags by the plenty, but I see no signs of the White cockade." Szamuelly laughed grimly. "The revolutionaries are skulking away. We will drag the rats from their holes. When they stand before me, waiting for my verdict, we shall soon see by their faces whether they are loyalists or not. We will let go free all whose faces go red--eh, friends?--and string up those who go white at the sound of their sentence. Will that not be judgment worthy of Solomon himself?" Then the conversation drifted into more personal channels. There was a woman in Budapest whom one had seduced, and the tale was well worth the telling. As the story progressed the laughter of the listeners became incessant. Presently the Terror Boys returned, group by group. "Where are the prisoners?" Szamuelly asked, and his voice grew harsher as he heard the same answer from all quarters: "There has been a mistake, comrade. Bira is Red. There is no counter-revolutionary movement here. The Red flag flies everywhere." "Fools, dolts, idiots! Do you think we have come all this way to go back again like a lot of lost sheep? If we cannot track out the revolutionaries themselves then we must find their supporters with whom to set an example. When I leave here Bira will hesitate to tear the Red flag down again. Go on, boys, fetch them out." Then followed a ghastly scene, which Wenzel viewed with indescribable horror. Filled with enthusiasm, the Terror Boys crossed the station square and burst into surrounding houses. Presently the air was filled with the sounds of struggle; here and there the reverberating echo of shots intermingled with the wailing of women, the pleading of children. Half dressed, unkempt, and dishevelled, the victims of the Terror Boys were hustled across the square to the station, where they were lined up before Szamuelly. "Ho, you!" Szamuelly strode up to one of the prisoners. "So you are one of the scum who saw fit to try and overthrow our glorious cause, are you?" "No, no, comrade, I swear I am not. I am a loyal Communist. For God's sake, do not hang me! My wife--she is giving birth to a child, even at this minute. Mercy, mercy, for the love of Christ! Mercy!" The trembling wretch sank on his knees, the tears ran down his cheeks. Szamuelly laughed. "Is his face red or white, comrades?"