The world rang with the assassination of the Austrian Archduke, Francis Ferdinand, and his wife, at Sarajevo, in a province of Austria-Hungary, but quite outside the Czech and Slovak lands. It was a terrible deed with which no law-loving people were in sympathy. But when Austria, backed by Germany, seized the killing as a pretext for declaring war on little Serbia, both Czechs and Slovaks felt the grave injustice, and despite all efforts made by the Government, very few of them could be induced to make any demonstration in favor of the action. When Germany mobilized, there was no doubt in the minds of any but that the War was simply one against all the Slavs, who opposed German possession of Middle Europe and German and Magyar ideas of superiority and power.

It was a hard time through which all the Slavic people of Austria-Hungary had to pass. It was hardest on those who, like the Czechs and Slovaks, were forced to fight on a side that they detested, against their own interests. In the face of the terrorist methods employed, their resistance and sacrifices are remarkable.

The Government feared them. No sooner was war declared than Czech and Slovak troops were sent from their home lands into the Austro-Hungarian province farthest from them, Transylvania, and foreign soldiers took their places. German soldiers are said to have patrolled Bohemia's borders.

It was during the first days that Prof. T. G. Masaryk, on the advice of his colleagues who understood how the War menaced the Czech and Slovak lands, was fortunate enough to escape from the country with one of his daughters. From then on until Czecho-Slovakia was recognized, he worked incessantly for Czecho-Slovak independence.

When Austria declared war, it did what no other country taking part in the War did: it declared war without first gaining the consent of Parliament. It was a high-handed act which the Czechs, in particular, resented. Great gloom prevailed. In sympathy with the principles of the Allies, knowing intimately the world menace of Germany as few outsiders knew it, the leaders were seeking means of protest when one after another was thrown into prison. Newspaper and magazine editors followed in quick succession. But the people, like the Hussites of old, stood firm in their faith and determination to sacrifice all for the right and to quietly resist in every way that promised to be effectual.

Jozef saw the soldiers march off from Tabor with a look of peculiar resolve in their eyes, and heard mothers and fathers whisper with their good-bys:

"You know your duty to your native land." When later he heard of patriotic soldiers shot because refusing to go forward; of Czech and Slovak soldiers branded as traitors because they deserted to the Allies and, reforming in their ranks, fought their real enemies, the Germans of Germany, the Germans of Austria, and the Magyars of Hungary, he understood better what a big and splendid thing this duty was.

For a while, work in the school continued, but everything seemed different. Patriotic songs with their beautiful melodies were no longer allowed to be sung; the old school books with their brilliant, romantic, yet true recitals of Bohemia's wonderful, heroic past, were replaced entirely by newly written books full of praise of the Hapsburg rulers and of Germany. Jozef and the other pupils rejoiced in one thing: they still had the same teacher. But this rejoicing did not continue long. One day they found the school doors closed and learned that the teacher had been taken to prison accused of disloyalty because he had allowed a ten-year-old pupil to walk home humming the national air, "Kde domov muj" (Where is my home?).

News of still more imprisonments and executions followed daily. The older daughter of Prof. Masaryk was imprisoned, mainly as a punishment to her father, who was working so hard against the Central Powers abroad. Machar, one of the greatest poets of Bohemia, shared the same fate because of a poem published in the United States, without the poet's consent—a poem passed many years before by the Austrian censor!

Strange rumors spread. Once Jozef and his particular friend, Jaroslav, walked out of the city in the direction of Blanik, a mountain around which are clustered many traditions. They were overtaken and offered a ride by a very old man.

"Who are you and where are you going?" he asked.

"We're students in the Lower Gymnasium," Jaroslav answered. "We're only out for a walk, for there is no school. We're going toward Blanik, but don't expect to get so far."

"Better not," said the old man sternly. "Who knows but the old tale may be true that the Taborites never died but are hidden, as is said, in a cave there. They were to reappear at the time of Bohemia's greatest peril, you know. This may be it. There're lights in that mountain, I tell you; don't breathe a word of it; but also don't go there."

Here he let the boys alight, and they walked on speculating on the tradition and as to just what the man meant by his last words.

"Do you think that some of the Czechs go there to discuss things?" asked Jozef. Jaroslav did not know what to think. Both boys wondered and wondered whether some great help might not come to Bohemia from the mountain.

School did not reopen, and food became very scarce. It seemed best that Jozef be sent back to his home in Slovakia in any makeshift way possible. This was done, and after a week's hard and varied travel, he reached home, almost starved. In Slovakia he found the same persecution of all suspected of lack of sympathy with the plans and purposes of the Central Powers.

Four of his relatives had been taken to fight; of these two cousins had been killed, and one was reported to have been shot with an entire company that refused to advance against the Serbians. No one knew where the fourth relative, an uncle after whom Jozef had been named, was to be found, until Austria-Hungary was broken up and he returned home wounded. He had a story full of exciting incidents to tell and the villagers never tired of hearing it.

One day a load of miserable looking prisoners passed in cars through the village. It was terrible to see them as they lay listlessly against each other. It was plain that it had been long since they had had anything to eat or drink.

The villagers were forbidden to give them food or to satisfy their thirst, but the kind-hearted Slovak maidens found a way to help nevertheless. How the idea spread not many of the girls knew, but there was a sudden interchange of knitting material. It must have contained a message, for the girls, far thinner than they had been before the War, met before the Church and proceeded past the cars in a body, as if to view the horrible sight. But most of them raised their eyes only for a moment. It was when each threw some crusts of bread soaked in wine in to the famishing prisoners—bread that each had denied herself from her own scanty allowance.

The prettiest girl of all blocked the way as long as she could to a Magyar officer, while the prisoners, weak as they were, fell like beasts on the unexpected treat.

"We want to see bad men. We show them we think them bad," the girl said to the officer in broken Hungarian, smiling sweetly.

He smiled in return and, nodding his approval of the sentiment, let the girls stay long enough for all evidences of what they had done, except the brighter looks of the prisoners, to have vanished.

Even harder to bear than the thought of what their loved ones might be suffering in battle, was to see the younger children sicken because of lack of proper food. Ruzena was one of these. She became so ill that the family were seriously alarmed. She refused to eat the coarse food which was the village's daily ration and piteously begged for something different. There was nothing else to offer.

"Do go to Janik's," the mother one day bade Jozef, quite in despair, "and see if they haven't some little bit of a thing they could let us have to tempt her."

Janik's mother was full of sympathy but vainly searched her cupboards. At last she sent Janik with Jozef to see if there might not be some winter vegetable rolled in some corner of the cellar.

The boys searched but found nothing. As they were leaving there suddenly flashed upon Jozef a recollection of how he had hidden a private store some distance in the secret passages. Hastily leaving Janik without any explanation, he ran excitedly to his mother.

"Give me the key to our cellar quick, quick, mother!" he panted.

His mother stared. "What has happened?"

But Jozef grasped the key without answering and ran. Trembling, he lit the lantern and made his way into the passage opening, to find that the earth had fallen, barring the way.

Running out again, he leaped into the courtyard, and seized a shovel, not glancing at his mother, although conscious that she stood close to the window gazing out, her face full of alarm.

Again he went into the cellar. Little by little the hardened earth was shoveled away under his feeble grasp, until he was able to crawl into the opening. The air smelled close and moldy. "One—two—three—" Jozef counted the ten steps which he remembered having taken and looked around. No food was to be seen. He searched for the shelves—but they also had vanished.

Dumbfounded and sadly disappointed, he retraced his steps.

But instead of getting back to the opening, he unexpectedly found himself in another passage, and there, oh, joy! his food!

Loading his arms, he staggered out. Without locking the cellar door, he made his way dizzily across the street.

"Thanks be to the blessed Virgin!" exclaimed his mother in the midst of her amazement as he sank on his knees and dropped his treasure at Ruzena's bedside.