“But what is it?” I asked—“Rows of little pictures and signs. What do you make of it, Doctor?” “It’s a letter,” he said—“a picture letter. All these little things put together mean a message—But why give a message to a beetle to carry—and to a Jabizri, the rarest beetle in the world?—What an extraordinary thing!” Then he fell to muttering over the pictures. “I wonder what it means: men walking up a mountain; men walking into a hole in a mountain; a mountain falling down—it’s a good drawing, that; men pointing to their open mouths; bars—prison-bars, perhaps; men praying; men lying down—they look as though they might be sick; and last of all, just a mountain—a peculiar-shaped mountain.” All of a sudden the Doctor looked up sharply at me, a wonderful smile of delighted understanding spreading over his face. “_Long Arrow!_” he cried, “don’t you see, Stubbins?—Why, of course! Only a naturalist would think of doing a thing like this: giving his letter to a beetle—not to a common beetle, but to the rarest of all, one that other naturalists would try to catch—Well, well! Long Arrow!—A picture-letter from Long Arrow. For pictures are the only writing that he knows.” “Yes, but who is the letter to?” I asked. “It’s to me very likely. Miranda had told him, I know, years ago, that some day I meant to come here. But if not for me, then it’s for any one who caught the beetle and read it. It’s a letter to the world.” “Well, but what does it say? It doesn’t seem to me that it’s much good to you now you’ve got it.” “Yes, it is,” he said, “because, look, I can read it now. First picture: men walking up a mountain—that’s Long Arrow and his party; men going into a hole in a mountain—they enter a cave looking for medicine-plants or mosses; a mountain falling down—some hanging rocks must have slipped and trapped them, imprisoned them in the cave. And this was the only living creature that could carry a message for them to the outside world—a beetle, who could _burrow_ his way into the open air. Of course it was only a slim chance that the beetle would be ever caught and the letter read. But it _was_ a chance; and when men are in great danger they grab at any straw of hope.... All right. Now look at the next picture: men pointing to their open mouths—they are hungry; men praying—begging any one who finds this letter to come to their assistance; men lying down—they are sick, or starving. This letter, Stubbins, is their last cry for help.” He sprang to his feet as he ended, snatched out a note-book and put the letter between the leaves. His hands were trembling with haste and agitation. “Come on!” he cried—“up the mountain—all of you. There’s not a moment to lose. Bumpo, bring the water and nuts with you. Heaven only knows how long they’ve been pining underground. Let’s hope and pray we’re not too late!”