Down into the valleys we went, and up and over the summits. It was dull prose in the valleys, but fine poetry on the summits. For, whereas in the valleys we saw nothing but thistles and stones, on the summits we enjoyed extensive views of lap-like hollows nursing little white villages; we caught distant specks, brilliantly lighted in the sun, of the encircling sea; and we wondered at the blood-coloured rocks which suggested volcanic disturbances and lava streams. After dipping into several depressions and surmounting several yokes, we suddenly overtopped the last ridge and looked down upon a tableland, which bore, like a tray of tea-things, the white buildings of a little village. The plateau was the edge of Lemnos, and ran to the brink of a jagged cliff. Beyond lay the empty waters. "Look," said Doe, a little dreamily; "now we shall see what we shall see." We lay down on the cliff-edge in the attitude of the sphinx, and brought our powerful field-glasses into play. And through them we saw, in the far-off haze, things that accelerated the beating of our hearts. There, right away across forty miles of blue AEgean, was a vague, grey line of land. It was broken in the middle as if it opened a channel to let the sea through. The grey land, west of the break, was the end of Europe, the sinister Peninsula of Gallipoli. The break itself, bathed in a gentle mist, was the deadly opening to the Dardanelles. Presumably, one of those hill-tops, just visible, was old Achi Baba, which had defeated the invaders of Helles; and another, Sari Bair, beneath which lay the invaders of Suvla, wondering if they, too, had been beaten by a paltry hill. The entrancing sight was bound to work upon Doe's nature. Still looking through his glasses, he asked: "I say, Roop, what's the most appealing name that the War has given to the history of Britain--Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?" "Gallipoli," I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted. "Just so. And shall I tell you why?" "Yes, thanks. If you'll be so obliging." "Well, it's because the strongest appeal that can be addressed to the emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power called Pathos--" "Good heavens!" I began. "And there, my boy," pursued Doe, "in picture-form before you, this humid afternoon, is the answer to your question." "But it was your question," I suggested. "Don't be a fool, Rupert. Ask me what I mean." "What the deuce do you mean?" "I mean this: that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning to see the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, and presenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions." I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon he sat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made this irrelevant remark: "Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near my home?" "Yes." "Well, do you think it's anything like a lily? For mercy's sake say it is." "Why?" I demanded.