Dressed in the filthiest of rags, gathered from a garbage heap, wearing the inevitable Red cockade, behaving like a bully and a brute, Terhune was not conspicuous in any respect; but the same could not be said of the White Knight. Towering above many of the tallest men, Geoffrey Templeton, alias Istvan Wenzel, could not disguise his height, his rugged strength, nor even his hideous ugliness, from which even the bestial Reds glanced away in disgust. With his livid wounds Wenzel was a veritable ogre, an inhuman monstrosity, terrifying in appearance. There were times when Terhune turned away his own eyes, retching at the sight of his leader. The train rumbled on through the environs of the city until it reached the country, and Terhune, comparing its impressive simplicity with its tillers and its reapers who composed the occupants of the carriage, could not arrive at any reconciliation of the situation. Crowded slum-dwellers, living in filth and grime, rubbing shoulders with the rich, imbibing the seeds of dissatisfaction, he could well understand rising in revolution; but where there was beauty and natural art, fresh air and immense open spaces--there, he felt, the spread of revolution could only be a disease, a fostered and malignant growth. From reason for the creation of internal strife, Arnold's thoughts passed on to its victims. As always, his memory reverted to the night when he had first seen Cecile, sitting in the flickering candlelight by her mother's bedside. He realized that he wanted to see her again and again after that. Perhaps, one day, when the Bolshevik Government was overturned, when the country was released from the grip of the octopus--but that time could only be in the distant future. He sighed, and, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the White Knight. As usual, Wenzel's face was set in hard lines, his eyes staring ahead, unblinkingly emotionless. Of what was he thinking? And Arnold, aware of the tragedy in the life of Geoffrey Templeton, could well guess. The train steamed into a local station and the carriage cleared, so that only Arnold and Wenzel were left, even the cunning-eyed man taking his departure. Arnold, somewhat suspicious of him, watched his back disappearing into the exit of the station, and presently noticed him walking along an adjacent street. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that to all intents and purposes he had been mistaken in his assumption of the character of the man. After a wearisome wait the train continued its journey, and looking toward the east Arnold saw that the sky was beginning to deepen into a sombre grey. Farther along the train some one was playing the _Internationale_ on a violin, and the strains echoed along the corridor.