“Do you wish to go on?” he said. “Yes. I am longing to see the Stones. I think this is rather a dreadful place, don’t you? It makes one think of”—she stumbled a little—“of human sacrifice. Do you hold your father’s theory about the Stones?” “I seldom agree with my father about anything,” he returned sombrely. “Yes, you are right. This is a dreadful place. It has a bad name, as I told you before.” They went on up the grassy track, mounting steadily. The rocky nature of the ground became more and more pronounced as they proceeded. The grass grew more sparsely though the tufts of heather continued. “Are you frightened?” Arthur asked abruptly. “No,” said Frances. He looked at her. “You are sure?” “What is there to frighten me?” she said. “You were frightened the last time you came,” he said. “Oh, that was different. It was foggy. I was lost.” She spoke quickly, with a touch of confusion, aware of the old embarrassment stirring within her. He turned his eyes deliberately away and stared at the horse’s ears. “Would you be frightened now,” he said, “if a fog came up and you didn’t know the way?” “Not with you to guide me,” she said. “Thank you,” he said quietly. The hills closed gradually in upon the track till it was little more than a narrow passage, winding among boulders. The horse’s feet clattered upon stones. Quite suddenly the path mounted steeply between two large rocks and disappeared. “Can we possibly get up there?” said Frances. The man beside her made no reply. He merely struck the animal with the whip, so that he plunged at the steep ascent, and in a few moments was clambering up it with desperate effort. The cart rocked and jolted, and Frances clung to the rail. They reached the two grey rocks at the summit and passed between them on to a flat open space that shone green in the sunshine. “This is the place,” said Arthur. Frances looked all about her and drew a long, deep breath. “Ah! How—wonderful!” she said. “What a wilderness!” CHAPTER VIII THE STONES They stood up all around, forming a great amphitheatre—the great, grey stones that had weathered so many centuries. Stark and grim, sentinels of the ages, they stood in their changeless circle, as they had stood in the early days of the world ere men had learned to subdue the earth. Frances sat and gazed and gazed with a curious feeling of reverence upon that forgotten place of sacrifice. “Isn’t it strange?” she whispered to herself. “Isn’t it wonderful?” And then she turned to the man by her side. “It reminds me of the days when you were a Roman gladiator and I was one of the slaves who sprinkled the saw-dust in the arena.” He looked at her with his brooding eyes. “So you were a slave?” he said. “I have always been one,” she answered, with a quizzical lifting of the brows. “You were not intended for a slave,” he said. She smiled a little. “May I get down? I should like to walk here.”