"There is little more to tell. The tradition says there was once a place of records, where certain of the wisest men of our Folk placed all their lore to keep it; but even this place is lost. Only one family kept any knowledge of the English as a kind of inheritance and the single book went with that family--" "But the Lanskaarn and the other peoples of the Abyss, where did _they_ come from?" asked Stern eagerly. The patriarch shook his head. "How can I tell?" he answered. "The tradition says nothing of them." "Some other groups, probably," suggested Beatrice, "that came in at different times and through other ways." "Possibly," Stern assented. "Anything more to tell?" "Nothing more. We became as savages; we lost all thought of history or learning. We only fought to live! All was forgotten. "My grandfather taught the English to my father and he to me, and I had no son. Nobody here would learn from me. Nobody cared for the book. Even the tradition they laughed at, and they called my brain softened when I spoke of a place where in the air a light shone half the time brighter even than the great flame! And in every way they mocked me! "So I--I"--the old man faltered, his voice tremulous, while tears glittered in his dim and sightless eyes--"I ceased to speak of these things. Then I grew blind and could not read the book. No longer could I refresh my mind with the English. So I said in my heart: 'It is finished and will soon be wholly forgotten forever. This is the end.' "Verily, I laid the book to rest as I soon must be laid to rest! Had you not come from that better place, my thought would have been true--" "But it isn't, not by a jugful!" exclaimed the engineer joyously, and stood up in the dim-lit little room. "No, _sir!_ She and I, we're going to change the face of things considerably! How? Never mind just yet. But let's have a look at the old volume, father. Gad! That must be some relic, eh? Imagine a book carried about for a thousand years and read by at least thirty generations of men! The book, father! The book!" Already the patriarch had arisen and now he gestured at the heavy bench of stone. "Can you move this, my son?" asked he. "The place of the book lies beneath." "Under there, eh? All right!" And, needing no other invitation, he set his strength against the massive block of gneiss. It yielded at the second effort and, sliding ponderously to one side, revealed a cavity in the stone floor some two feet long by about eighteen inches in breadth. Over this the old man stooped. "Help me, son," bade he. "Once I could lift it with ease, but now the weight passes my strength." "What? The weight of a book? But--where is it? In this packet, here?" He touched a large and close-wrapped bundle lying in the little crypt, dimly seen by the flicker of the oily wick.