* In all the extant literature and documents of that period, continual reference is made to the poems of Rudolph Mendenhall.  By his comrades he was called “The Flame.”  He was undoubtedly a great genius; yet, beyond weird and haunting fragments of his verse, quoted in the writings of others, nothing of his has come down to us.  He was executed by the Iron Heel in 1928 A.D.

I was aroused by a clod of earth striking at my feet.  Then from above, I heard a sound of scrambling.  The next moment a young man, with a final slide down the crumbling wall, alighted at my feet.  It was Philip Wickson, though I did not know him at the time.  He looked at me coolly and uttered a low whistle of surprise.

“Well,” he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, “I beg your pardon.  I did not expect to find any one here.”

I was not so cool.  I was still a tyro so far as concerned knowing how to behave in desperate circumstances.  Later on, when I was an international spy, I should have been less clumsy, I am sure.  As it was, I scrambled to my feet and cried out the danger call.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, looking at me searchingly.

It was evident that he had no suspicion of our presence when making the descent.  I recognized this with relief.

“For what purpose do you think I did it?” I countered.  I was indeed clumsy in those days.

“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head.  “Unless you’ve got friends about.  Anyway, you’ve got some explanations to make.  I don’t like the look of it.  You are trespassing.  This is my father’s land, and—­”

But at that moment, Biedenbach, every polite and gentle, said from behind him in a low voice, “Hands up, my young sir.”

Young Wickson put his hands up first, then turned to confront Biedenbach, who held a thirty-thirty automatic rifle on him.  Wickson was imperturbable.

“Oh, ho,” he said, “a nest of revolutionists—­and quite a hornet’s nest it would seem.  Well, you won’t abide here long, I can tell you.”

“Maybe you’ll abide here long enough to reconsider that statement,” Biedenbach said quietly.  “And in the meanwhile I must ask you to come inside with me.”

“Inside?” The young man was genuinely astonished.  “Have you a catacomb here?  I have heard of such things.”

“Come and see,” Biedenbach answered with his adorable accent.

“But it is unlawful,” was the protest.

“Yes, by your law,” the terrorist replied significantly.  “But by our law, believe me, it is quite lawful.  You must accustom yourself to the fact that you are in another world than the one of oppression and brutality in which you have lived.”

“There is room for argument there,” Wickson muttered.

“Then stay with us and discuss it.”

The young fellow laughed and followed his captor into the house.  He was led into the inner cave-room, and one of the young comrades left to guard him, while we discussed the situation in the kitchen.