Please note there has been a duel over an _affaire de coeur_, a love episode, a captive, with a great Fate of uncertain mood flinging a dark shadow at the end.... Past the column of grey smoke thickly climbing through the raining mist, a black speck moves down a white path. It is a labourer returning from his fields beyond the town. To the west is the smothered glow of the setting sun. In the central background of the stage above the high lights, observe a wee, grey coil of smoke twisting upwards from the shining speck in the gully. I know the hut well, although never has it appeared larger than the tiniest button. There is a romance of an old man and woman, a son at the war, and a pretty girl within, if you look closely!! Behind the house a long track winds uphill to the pass. But the last light has left the hills and I see only the dark patches of forest. Look carefully, and, if I mistake not, you will see an advancing pair of darkly burning orbs. They are the eyes of another Alphonse, luckier, let us believe, on the warpath, traversing his domains, the dusky fastnesses of the wild glens.... The sun has set and the rain falls more thickly on the hills. Through the gossamer of moving mist fond fancies steal to me. And so the last scene before this slowly falling curtain sings of the Past. What play does not? It is the song of the rain. Would you like to hear it?... * * * * * THE SONG OF THE RAIN Oh, I'm longing for the homeland way past the setting sun-- I'm yearning for old faces and for more sober fun; But sometimes, as at even, my heart with pleasure fills, While it drifts back to England--when the rain is on the hills. Oh, I'm tired of the Orient, I want the old, old lanes. I want the Dear Old Country--her pleasures and her pains. I want the white-frilled hedgerows--the heather and the rills That lift me back to England now the rain is on the hills. Night's mantle softly falling o'er Kastamuni town, The last dim colours flying, dark grey and dusky brown. I hear the goatherd piping to the flock his good-night trills, And my heart hies back to England--for the rain is on the hills. Below me in its basin the old town dreams away-- I see the first light flicker that ends another day. The distant bugles dying--the muezzin floats and stills My heart to pray for England--when the rain is on the hills. Oh, I'm longing for the homeland, my homefolk and my pals, I know that some have fallen 'mid the bullets' madrigals; But a memory's in her woodlands--a love no distance kills-- And to-night my heart's in England--for the rain is on the hills. PACIFIC ROLLER. CHAPTER XII SPRING--PLOTS TO ESCAPE--BETRAYAL--ESCAPE OF OTHERS--I AM SENT TO STAMBOUL FOR HOSPITAL