The news was flashed to Washington. In the fort at Sandy Hook the commander of some gun-crew lost his wits and fired a shot. It struck Togaro in the shoulder. He stood with surprise and anger. Then he stooped and reached fumblingly into the ocean. He plucked up a dripping mass of rock and heaved it--a rock huge as the fort. It fell upon the Hook; the fortifications were buried beneath it. There is no one who can tell with any coherency what happened in those next minutes. No one in New York could have seen more than the feet and towering legs of the infuriated titan as he bounded with splashing steps up the harbor. He wrecked the forts on Staten Island. He splashed into the upper bay and leaned over lower Manhattan. The Woolworth Building--a little toy reaching to his knees. The higher domes newly built along the Battery--they may have towered to the height of his thighs. He kicked at them. The falling masonry and steel fell into a litter at his shoe-tops--crashed and fell with what to him was a tiny clatter and a cloud of dust and smoke surging to his waist. He waded into it, for only a minute. Inconceivable wreckage! He turned and strode back. A few of his leaps carried him down the harbor, churning up the Narrows, splashing through the Lower Bay, wading again into the ocean. The dawn was still behind him as he stood there. And again his roaring voice sounded: "That will teach you not to attack me. Now I will tell you what to do!" The incredible, inconceivable power of size! An hour passed. Father was routed from his bed. In the War Department he found a throng of officials. The representatives of a dozen foreign governments were there. A turmoil with no attempt at any rational conference. The building rang with shouts: "We must yield! This is madness. Hopeless." A single enemy, armed only with the weapon of size, yet it was hopeless for all the world to try to fight him! Togaro was still standing under the morning sky. His words were heard in New York, and flashed by wire to Washington. "I command that you leave the United States. Take your people out of it as quickly as possible. I will not interfere with your retreat. I command you to sail the warships of your world--anchor them off the coast of Maine so that I may sink them." He gave a score of details. He spoke for what was perhaps ten minutes. He ended: "If you yield, send a plane now as a signal. Let it come near me--so that I may catch it in my hand. I will not kill its pilot." There was a sudden heavy silence in that War Department room when the message came. Then some one said: "Shall we yield?" It meant giving over the whole world to this tyrant. Every man in the room knew it. And would it help? The wreckage at Lower Manhattan--those ten minutes just now at dawn--would yielding up the world spare other scenes like that? Or would this monster be insatiable? "Shall we yield?"