"My name's Bligh," said the visitor, gruff as before. "You're the Parson, eh? Bit of an antiquarian, I'm given to understand? These things ought to be in your line, then, and I hope they are not broken: I carried them as careful as I could." He opened the bag and emptied it out upon the table--an old earthenware pot, a rusted iron ring, four or five burnt bones, and a handful or so of ashes. "Human, you see," said he, picking up one of the bones and holding it under the Parson's nose. "One of your ancient Romans, no doubt." "Ancient Romans? Ancient Romans?" stammered Parson Polwhele. "Pray, Sir, where did you get these--these articles?" "By digging for them, Sir; in a mound just outside that old Roman camp of yours." "Roman camp? There's no Roman camp within thirty miles of us as the crow flies: and I doubt if there's one within fifty!" "Shows how much you know about it. That's what I complain about in you parsons: never glimpse a thing that's under your noses. Now, I come along, making no pretence to be an antiquarian, and the first thing I see out on your headland yonder, is a Roman camp, with a great mound beside it----" "No such thing, Sir!" the Parson couldn't help interrupting. Bligh stared at him for a moment, like a man hurt in his feelings but keeping hold on his Christian compassion. "Look here," he said; "you mayn't know it, but I'm a bad man to contradict. This here Roman camp, as I was sayin'----" "If you mean Little Dinnis Camp, Sir, 'tis as round as my hat." "Damme, if you interrupt again----" "But I will. Here, in my own parlour, I tell you that Little Dinnis is as round as my hat!" "All right; don't lose your temper, shouting out what I never denied. Round or square, it don't matter a ha'porth to me. This here round Roman camp----" "But I tell you, once more, there's no such thing!" cried the Parson, stamping his foot. "The Romans never made a round camp in their lives. Little Dinnis is British; the encampment's British; the mound, as you call it, is a British barrow; and as for you----" "As for me," thunders Bligh, "I'm British too, and don't you forget it. Confound you, Sir! What the devil do I care for your pettifogging bones? I'm a British sailor, Sir; I come to your God-forsaken parish on a Government job, and I happen on a whole shopful of ancient remains. In pure kindness--pure kindness, mark you--I interrupt my work to dig 'em up; and this is all the thanks I get!" "Thanks!" fairly yelled the Parson. "You ought to be horsewhipped, rather, for disturbing an ancient tomb that's been the apple of my eye ever since I was inducted to this parish!" Then, as Bligh drew back, staring: "My poor barrow!" he went on; "my poor, ransacked barrow! But there may be something to save yet----" and he fairly ran for the door, leaving Bligh at a standstill.