Jack could not resist an impulse to leave his room and wander out into the deserted streets of Louvain.
He had not taken a dozen steps when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Before he could turn to see his assailant, he was whisked from the ground and swept onward to a great height.
Still dead silence reigned.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MIGHT OF MILITARISM.
It was some time later that Jack began to realize that he was a prisoner and borne on a giant aeroplane.
How did he get there?
Try as he would he could not answer that question. He gazed about him. Away in the distance he could distinguish small specks of light, which, were they not moving so rapidly about space, he would have mistaken for stars.
Below searchlights swept the horizon. Here and there were the glimmerings of fast dying out camp-fires. Suddenly a faint streamer of red light shot high into the air, held steadily for a moment, and then broke into a million colored globules.
“A signal,” thought Jack. “I wonder if it will be answered.”