questioningly. McKay's face had become white and stern, and in his
fixed gaze there was something dreadful.

"Please," she faltered, "go on."

He looked at her absently; the colour came back to his face; he
shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, yes. What was I saying? Yes--about that vast ledge up there
under the mountains... I stayed there three days. Partly because I
couldn't find any way down. There seemed to be none.

"But I was not bored. Oh, no. Just anxious concerning my situation.
Otherwise I had plenty to look at."

She waited, pencil poised.

"Plenty to look at," he repeated absently. "Plenty of Huns to gaze
at. Huns? They were like ants below me, there. They swarmed under
the mountain ledge as far as I could see--thousands of busy
Boches--busy as ants. There were narrow-gauge railways, too,
apparently running right into the mountain; and a deep broad cleft,
deep as another valley, and all crawling with Huns.

"A tunnel? Nobody alive ever dreamed of such a gigantic tunnel, if
it was one!... Well, I was up there three days. It was the first of
August--thereabouts--and I'd been afield for weeks. And, of course,
I'd heard nothing of war--never dreamed of it.

"If I had, perhaps what those thousands of Huns were doing along the