“Weak,” he announced at last, “mighty weak. If he survives it will be because you men reached him not a moment too soon. But at that he may be a hopeless lunatic. We can’t tell about that yet—especially when a man has gone through what this one evidently has.”
The surgeon again looked down at his patient. “Why,” he ejaculated suddenly, “he wears a major’s uniform—infantry, too.”
It was true. The ghastly ruin of a man that lay before them once had been a battalion commander in the French army.
“Discovered at last,” the surgeon murmured, more to himself than the others.
“What?” demanded Tom, quickly.
“The terrible torture prison that we all have heard about, but never knew how to locate.”
The surgeon paused for an instant as the unconscious man made a feeble movement.
“Unquestionably,” he continued, “this is the Hun chamber of horrors known throughout the Allied armies—the Death Dungeon.”