nely disturbed
at this new phase, as he had thought their hazards passed.

"Why," he exclaimed, "that puts us square in the Lap o' Luck! Think of
just waiting around for an earthquake or something--or for some darned
bird to sing! With the opening up of this country as the stake--yes
and our own hides. Sus-marie-hosep!"

Terry had taken his usual seat on the threshold, chin in hand, his
face bathed in the light of the moon that now hung high overhead and
flooded the mountain top with a friendly glow. The cool night breezes
came in strong gusts which rustled the foliage about them.

Calmed by Terry's attitude of quiet confidence and strength, the Major
faced their problem coolly, sought a way out. For a while his mind
raced with plans, but each died in the minute of inception. He could
not influence winds, or induce wild birds to sing in given quarters of
the compass, or devise earthquakes. He fell to thinking of Ahma.

Later, observing Terry closely, he asked: "And what are you dreaming
about now?"

Terry stirred as though awakened: "Oh, home--mostly."

The Major wanted to talk, but the patient distress in the voice
deterred him from what seemed intrusion.

Later he suggested sleep. Terry lighted a torch and stuck it into the
doorway, so that while lighting both rooms its fumes carried into the
open. The Major discarded shoes and leggings, and wrapping himself in
his blanket lay down with his pack as pillow. Terry waited till the
Major had disposed himself as comfortably as possible, then
extinguished the torch and went into his own room, closing the door
behind him.

The Major stared through the dark at the closed door, wondering, as
usual, what was going on behind it. Then as a gust of cold wind blew
in through the window he snugged down into his blanket.

Another and stronger gust, and he heard the door into Terry's room
creak as it swung to the breeze. Looking up, he learned at last.

In the rectangular patch of moonlight which entered Terry's room
through a raised window he saw him by the side of the rough slatted
cot, kneeling in that most ancient of attitudes, in which the children
of all the ages have bowed to supplicate and render homage to the
Keeper of the Great Secret.

The Major's eyes moistened. As the last clear phrase reached him he
again stood flattened against the wind swept crag--"on the top of the
world," and he now understood the "dozen words spoken on another
mountain." They came from