strokes of a church clock which must have been at least six miles
away. He remembers looking at his watch and noting that there was a
slight difference between his own and the church time. He made it
eight minutes past twelve. With the dying away of the last
vibrations of the distant bell the silence and the solitude of the
place seemed to return and settle down upon it with increased
insistence. While he was working it had not troubled him, but
beside the black shadows thrown by those hoary stones it had the
effect almost of a presence. It was with a sense of relief that he
contemplated returning to his machine and starting up his engine.
It would whir and buzz and give back to him a comfortable feeling of
life and security. He would walk round the stones just once and
then be off. It was wonderful how they had defied old Time. As
they had been placed there, quite possibly ten thousand years ago,
so they still stood, the altar of that vast, empty sky-roofed
temple. And while he was gazing at them, his cigar between his
lips, struggling with a strange forgotten impulse that was tugging
at his knees, there came from the very heart of the great grey
stones the measured rise and fall of a soft, even breathing.

Young Raffleton frankly confesses that his first impulse was to cut
and run. Only his soldier's training kept his feet firm on the
heather. Of course, the explanation was simple. Some animal had
made the place its nest. But then what animal was ever known to
sleep so soundly as not to be disturbed by human footsteps? If
wounded, and so unable to escape, it would not be breathing with
that quiet, soft regularity, contrasting so strangely with the
stillness and the silence all round. Possibly an owl's nest. Young
owlets make that sort of noise--the "snorers," so country people
call them. Young Raffleton threw away his cigar and went down upon