Terry stirred slightly, answered vaguely, his gaze still fixed upon the tremendous shadowed expanse below them: "I was thinking of a ... dozen words ... spoken upon another mountain, words that seem very real ... and make one feel very small ... in such a place as this."
The Major puzzled, gave it up. He was on the point of asking explanation when Terry spoke.
"We had best get down from here, Major. It is getting darker."
It took them but a few minutes to work their way down, but the crag reared black against ten thousand stars when they reached the base. In the regions near the equator the sun courses in hot hurry.
Returned to the hut, the Major sat on the window ledge and Terry at the threshold. The night was chill with the clear crispness of altitude. The Major sniffed the pine-laden breeze gratefully.
"We have found a new Baguio," he said.
Terry assented, absentmindedly.
The Major nursed his empty pipe, studying the savages who grouped around the fires to warm their almost naked bodies. Occasionally one or two would detach themselves from the groups and approach near where the two white men sat illumined by the flames, staring at these strangers in frank curiosity, silent, inscrutable, unafraid. Noticing the glint of fire upon a nearby row of long-shafted spears which reared their vicious barbs eight feet above the ground into which they had been thrust, the Major spoke to Terry.
"Your pistol?"
Terry motioned toward his room; "In there. They never bothered me about it—probably don't know what a pistol is."