ten . . . machines, ten, hum! things . . . systems . . . ten objects, in short, for devil take me if I can make out what they're for, and they look like nothing I've ever seen.

Imagine a fairly broad platform supported by two large skates turned up at one end. From dris platform rises a pylon of trellis four by five meters high; halfway up there's a screw of two blades and at its top two. . . . (There, it's beginning again, and I can't find appropriate words) two . . . arms, two . . . planes, no, I've got the word, for the object in question looks like a gigantic heron perched on one leg, with two wings (that's just it) two wings in gleaming metal with a total span of about six yards. As I can see, there are ten mechanisms conforming to this description ranged in battle array one beside the other. What ever can they be for?

When I'm satiated with this spectacle, I see that the company around us is fairly large.

First of all there's ex-lieutenant Lacour, recently promoted to the rank of Captain Rufus; the two former sergeants of our second escort, whose correct rank I do not know; their twenty black Tirailleurs, most of whom I recognize; and finally ten whites whom I've never seen before, who look rather like gallows birds. If our society is numerous. I don't think it very choice.

In the middle of these gentry are my companions. They are all here, Miss Blazon is stretched on the ground. She is deathly white. Dr. Chatonnay and Malik, who is weeping copiously, are lavishing care upon her. Near her I can see St.