Wenzel restlessly tossed and turned about in the small truckle-bed which he had managed to secure for the night, vainly endeavouring to woo his active mind into repose. He found himself haunted by dreams and visions, jumbled together into a confused sequence of events, in which but three pictures were outstanding. First and foremost he could see, once again, the scene on the Francis Joseph Bridge, the wounded victim of Bolshevik persecution, struggling desperately in the arms of the brutal Red soldiers, being gradually lifted up for the final throw over the parapet of the bridge. Wenzel had seen death in many guises, till his heart had become callous through familiarity. He had himself killed Germans in hot blood, and Hungarian Bolsheviks in cold blood, yet never had he believed till now that death could be so ghastly, so savage and ruthless. It might have been the despairing cry which had rung through the night air, the almost invisible surroundings in which the crime had been committed; it might have been the echoing sound of the significant splash; whatever it was, Wenzel could not altogether dismiss the scene from his memory, it revolved, repeated, and exaggerated itself. Then, as the murder on the bridge faded away, it was succeeded by another vivid picture; there on the floor lay Zita's father, his corpse slashed and hacked, and Zita herself, dead from shock, her eyes mirroring the terrible scene. Yet there was one other image which floated before his eyes, hid slightly by a multi-coloured haze--once again he held in his arms a living, pulsating body, though limp and unconscious. In his muscular arms she lay as lightly as a feather, yet her soaking clothes had wrapped themselves round her limbs, revealing and betraying every curve, every line, so that he saw she was exquisitely formed, beautiful in her tapering svelteness, her divinely proportioned shape. The dark tresses of her hair were massed into a mystic aureole, a dusky halo which emphasized the clarity of her sun-burned complexion. He remembered the symmetry of her features, the daintiness of her nose, the soft curve of her lips. It was this fantasy which lingered longest in his dreams, so vivid in one sense, and yet so ethereal. When his thoughts idly hovered upon Elizabeth he saw her so, but when he would have concentrated, have definitely and indelibly implanted the picture in his memory, it faded away like a puff of smoke. Presently he realized that he was more wideawake than ever; his brain, stirred by the imagery of his mental travels, was insistently devoting itself to Zita--and to Elizabeth. He was conscious of an overwhelming impulse to see Elizabeth again. He wanted to compare her finely chiselled nostrils with those of Zita, to discover whether they quivered sensitively with pride and emotion as had Zita's, whether her eyes, too, glowed with an inward fire.