The words, though spoken pleasantly, sounded like a dismissal.
“Perhaps your Excellency has forgotten the purpose of my errand?”
“Not in the least. Let's sit down; we can talk more informally. The trouble is that you've come too late. Crises as acute as ours have a knack of settling themselves.”
Hindwood accepted a cigarette that was proffered. He took his time while he lit it. “Your solution is mustering in the Palace-yard. My food-supplies are no longer needed. Is that what you intend me to understand?”
“Exactly.”
“Your Excellency spoke just now of crises settling themselves. Did you mean that so many of your countrymen have died that at last there's sufficient food to go round?”
“Far from it. Our shortage is greater than ever.”
“I judged as much.” Hindwood tapped his ash casually. “I only arrived last night, but in the time I've been in Budapest I've seen the death-train, the bread-lines, the utter destitution. I've reason to believe that Bolshevism has collapsed and that millions of outcast Russians are marching. They're moving westward.”
He paused, himself skeptical of the preposterous assertion he was about to make. Then he remembered the words he had learnt from Captain Lajos and repeated them like a lesson.
“They're sweeping westward like a pestilence. They're loping like gaunt wolves. They're drawing nearer, like Death swinging his scythe. Poland will go down before them first. Its famished people will join them. Your turn will come next. The march will never halt till the empty bellies have been filled. They can't be filled till the whole of Europe has been swamped by revolution, unless——” He paused again, waiting for encouragement. When the steady gray eyes still regarded him attentively, he continued, “Unless I fill them.”