The cart stood on the fringe of a desolate tract of downs, high above
the coast. Over the hedge to the right appeared a long narrow strip of
sea. On the three remaining sides nothing was visible but undulating
stretches of brown turf, except where, to northward, the summits of two
hills in the heart of the county just topped the rising ground that hid
twenty intervening miles of broken plain.

"We can leave the mare to crop. There's a hollow, not thirty yards off,
that'll do for us."

Zeb led the way to the spot. It was indeed the fosse of a
half-obliterated Roman camp, and ran at varying depth around a cluster
of grassy mounds, the most salient of which--the praetorian--still
served as a landmark for the Porthlooe fishing boats. But down in the
fosse the pair were secure from all eyes. Not a word was spoken until
they stood together at the bottom.

Here Zeb pulled out his watch once more. "We'd best be sharp," he said;
"you must start in twenty minnits to get to the church in time."

"It would be interesting to know what you propose doing." The stranger
sat down on the slope, picked a strip of sea-weed off his breeches, and
looked up with a smile.

"I reckon you'll think it odd."

"Of that I haven't a doubt."

"Well, you've a pair o' pistols i' your pockets, an' they're loaded, I