inished me. What is it now beside the wonder as to
whether I have lost her after all, the consciousness of pursuit, the
longing to _know_?...

Durward and I have spoken sometimes of my dream of the Forest. It
must seem to him now, as to myself, strangely fulfilled; but I believe
that if I catch the beast it will only be to discover that there is a
further quest beyond, and then another maybe beyond that....

At the same time there's the practical question of one's nerve. If
this strain of work continues, if the hot weather lasts, and if I
don't sleep, I shall have to take care. Three times during the last
three days I have fancied that I have seen Marie Ivanovna, once in
broad daylight in the Forest, once sitting on the sofa in our room,
once at night near my bed. Of course this is the merest illusion, but
I have hours now when I am not quite sure of things. Andrey
Vassilievitch told me something of the same to-day--that he thought
that he saw his wife and that Nikitin told him the same yesterday. The
flies also are confusing and there's a hot dry smell that's
disagreeable and prevents one from eating. I know that I must keep a
clear head on these things. If only one could get away for an hour or
two, right outside--but one is shut up in this Forest as though it
were a green oven.... I ought to be sleeping now instead of writing
all this.... I must say that I had a curious illusion ten minutes ago
while I was writing this, that one of the wounded, in a bed near the
door which is open, began to slip, bed and all, across the floor
towards me. He did indeed come closer and closer to me, the bed moving
in jerks as though it were pushed. This was, of course, simply because
my eyes were tired. When I try to sleep they are hot and smarting....

I interrupt Trenchard's diary to give a very brief account of the
impression that was made on me by my visit to the three of them with
some wagons four days after the date of the above entry. It must be
remembered that I had not, of course, at this time read any of
Trenchard's diary, nor had I seen anything of him since the moment of
Semyonov's arrival. My chief impression during the interval had been
my memory of Trenchard as I had last seen him, miserable, white-faced,
unnerved. I had thought about him a good deal. Those days at the
Otriad had been for the rest of us rather pleasantly tranquil. There
was no question that we were relieved by the absence of Semyonov and
Trenchard. Se