'I believe,' he said, gasping, 'that this must be--it _is_--a torque. I think I have seen something like it in museums. And I've read of them. It was your king's necklace: it was buried with him: it lay around the skeleton neck all these thousand years. Take it, Miss Armorel. It is yours.' 'No! no! Let me look at it. Let me have it in my hands. It is yours'--in ignorance of ancient law and the rights of the lord proprietor--'it is yours because you found it.' 'Then I will give it to you, because you are the Princess of the Island.' She took it with a blush and placed it round her own neck, bending open the ends and closing them again. It lay there--the red, red gold--as if it belonged to her and had been made for her. 'The buried king is your ancestor,' said Roland. 'It is his legacy to his descendant. Wear the king's necklace.' 'My luck, as usual,' grumbled Dick, aside. 'Why couldn't I find a torque and say pretty things?' 'Come,' said Armorel, 'we have seen the barrows. There are others scattered about--but this is the best place for them. Now I will show you the island.' The hill slopes gently northward till it reaches a headland or carn of granite boldly projecting. Here it breaks away sharply to the sea. Armorel climbed lightly up the carn and stood upon the highest boulder, a pretty figure against the sky. The young men followed and stood below her. [Illustration: _Armorel climbed lightly up the carn._] At their feet the waves broke in white foam (in the calmest weather the Atlantic surge rolling over the rocks is broken into foam), a broad sound or channel lay between Samson and the adjacent island: in the channel half a dozen rocks and islets showed black and threatening. 'The island across the channel,' said Armorel, 'is Bryher. This is Bryher Hill, because it faces Bryher Island. Yonder, on Bryher is Samson Hill, because it faces Samson Island. Bryher is a large place. There are houses and farms on Bryher, and a church where they have service every Sunday afternoon. If you were here on Sunday, you could go in our boat with Peter, Chessun, and me. Justinian and Dorcas mostly stay at home now, because they are old.' 'Can anybody stay on the island, then?' asked Roland, quickly. 'Once the doctor came for Justinian's rheumatism, and bad weather began and he had to stay a week.' 'His other patients meanly took advantage and got well, I suppose,' said Dick. 'I hope so,' Armorel replied simply. She turned and looked to the north-east, where lie the eastern islands, the group between St. Martin's and St. Mary's, a miniature in little of the greater group. From this point they looked to the eye of ignorance like one island. Armorel distinguished them. There were Great and Little Arthur; Ganilly, with his two hills, like Samson; the Ganninicks and Meneweather, Ragged Island, and Inisvouls.