Fortunately there was enough wind from the east to keep the smoke sufficiently away to enable him to retain consciousness, but in doing so its scurrying rush deadened his senses and numbed his limbs and bones. Time ceased to be of consequence, he knew only that he must hold tight if he wished to retain his life. So, somehow, his fingers continued to grip, even when his consciousness practically vanished. The train pounded on, but except for a sensation of unreality he was totally unaware of what else was happening. From head to foot his body ached and pained. Bruised all over from the buffeting of the train, frozen by the cold, deafened by the shrieking of the wind, blinded by the smoke-dust, he believed then that Hades itself could not contain more suffering, and he groaned slightly with the torture. At last it was over. He felt the train slowing down, and released one hand to free his eyes from their covering of grime and dirt. During the journey the day had dawned, and in the misty half-light he saw the name of Bira written on the railway embankment in small, white stones, and in the distance the station. He knew that there was no time to be lost, so gathering up what strength there was still left in his limbs he climbed down to the buffers. Quietly and ominously the train slid into the station and quiveringly halted; the next moment Wenzel jumped to the ground, crossed the lines, and was out of the station. He dimly expected a hail, if not from the train, then perhaps from the station, but he had not been noticed. He breathed softly with relief, and looked round. There was an ominous, brooding silence, and over the neighbourhood in which he was there seemed to hang a pall of oppression and apprehension. It was whispered by the wind which sighed sullenly through the telegraph wires; it was told by the Red flags hung out at intervals, which flapped angrily with staccato reports; it was suggested by the tightly shut windows and doors. Wenzel's face broke into a smile of gratification. Evidently Arnold had done his work well. Not only was there no one about, but so quickly had Bira turned Red again at the news of the approach of Szamuelly that nowhere could Wenzel catch a glimpse of white. There was no work for Szamuelly's butcher hangmen in Bira. All this he noted in a quick, fleeting glance, for a backward look at the train revealed to him that its travellers were tumbling out in pell-mell haste. Wenzel knew that he must hide quickly. Before the front of the station was a wide square. He knew if he doubled across it he might be seen. Obviously it would be better to hide on the station roof. He looked up and noted that the stone coping formed a convenient ladder upward. A few seconds later he was securely hidden, watching the movements of the Terrorists below.