A pungent aroma jarred Doug from his coma Much later. He lifted his head To find he was not in the cool, shady grot But in some sort of workshop, instead. His senses were blurry, his tongue thick and furry; He gagged at the odor and choked. Then, head still awhirl, he noticed the girl, And, "Nelly, where are we?" he croaked. But the girl standing there with the bright yaller hair Was hardly the girl of his dreams. She was distant and cold, her manner was bold, Her eyes glistened brightly with schemes. With icy _élan_ she spoke to the man At Dougal's side, "Very well, Gurk, He's come to his senses, let's drop the pretenses; Its time we got down to our work." "Work, Nell?" Dougal gasped, and confusedly clasped His hammering head in his hands. He learned, then, that he was bound, foot and knee, To his seat by unbreakable bands. Nell said with a numb, deadly smile, "Don't play dumb! Be smart and you'll shorten this visit. We know from your log you struck gold in the Bog; Now, come clean and tell us--where is it?" "G-gold?" gulped MacNeer. "Th-there's some mistake here!" He grinned, "Aw, you're kidding me, honey! Now, be a good sport--" The girl cut him short, "I don't think this matter is funny! I gave you a chance to go into your dance; If you won't, why--" She shifted her eyes To her white-coated aide. "Well, Gurk, I'm afraid He must talk through the _menavise_." As Doug MacNeer's eyes opened wide in surprise Gurk drew from a nearby cask A shimmering, fiery helmet of wire; A sinister sort of mask. Doug never had seen the fantastic machine Before, but he'd oftentimes heard Of the dreaded and hated device that translated Men's thoughts into spoken words! With a terrible cry of anger, on high He lifted his brawny fists, But an instrument clicked, and manacles snicked! Like vises about his wrists. "Well, _now_ will you tell us?" persisted Nell. "There's nothing to tell!" he said. Nell's warm lips drew fine, and she made a brief sign ... And the helmet dropped over his head! VI It was Nell who depressed the stud that expressed In flaming, electric flood The current that boils its way through the coils Of a menavisal hood. There was silence at first, then the silence burst In a moment of horror fraught, As Doug MacNeer's voice babbled clear In fragments of tortured thought.