grave blue eyes.

"The papers are full of us," said Turnbull, stooping to pick up
one of the swords.

MacIan stooped and picked up the other.

"Yes," he said, in his simple way. "I have read what they have to
say. But they don't seem to understand the point."

"The point of what?" asked Turnbull.

"The point of the sword," said MacIan, violently, and planted the
steel point in the soil like a man planting a tree.

"That is a point," said Turnbull, grimly, "that we will discuss
later. Come along."

Turnbull tied the last tin of biscuits desperately to himself
with string; and then spoke, like a diver girt for plunging,
short and sharp.

"Now, Mr. MacIan, you must listen to me. You must listen to me,
not merely because I know the country, which you might learn by
looking at a map, but because I know the people of the country,
whom you could not know by living here thirty years. That
infernal city down there is awake; and it is awake against us.
All those endless rows of windows and windows are all eyes
staring at us. All those forests of chimneys are fingers pointing
at us, as we stand here on the hillside. This thing has caught