'Midsummer Day,' said Quentin thoughtlessly--and, as usual, anxious to tell all he knew. 'I know. The sun strikes through the arch on to the altar stone at sunrise. Hundreds of people go to see it: the ruins are quite crowded sometimes, I believe.' 'Ruins?' said the priest in a terrible voice. 'Crowded? Ruins?' 'I mean,' said Quentin hastily, 'the sun will still shine the same way even when the temple is in ruins, won't it?' 'The temple,' said the priest, 'is built to defy time. It will never be in ruins.' 'That's all _you_ know,' said Quentin, not very politely. 'It is not by any means all I know,' said the priest. 'I do not tell all I know. Nor do you.' 'I used to,' said Quentin, 'but I sha'n't any more. It only leads to trouble--I see that now.' Now, though Quentin had been intensely interested in everything he had seen in the ship and on the journey, you may be sure he had not lost sight of the need there was to get back out of this time of Atlantis into his own time. He knew that he must have got into these Atlantean times by some very simple accidental magic, and he felt no doubt that he should get back in the same way. He felt almost sure that the reverse-action, so to speak, of the magic would begin when the stone got back to the place where it had lain for so many thousand years before he happened to go to sleep on it, and to start--perhaps by the St. John's wort--the accidental magic. If only, when he got back there he could think of the compelling, the magic word! And now the slow procession wound over the downs, and far away across the plain, which was almost just the same then as it is now, Quentin saw what he knew must be Stonehenge. But it was no longer the grey pile of ruins that you have perhaps seen--or have, at any rate, seen pictures of. From afar one could see the gleam of yellow gold and red copper; the flutter of purple curtains, the glitter and dazzle of shimmering silver. As they drew near to the spot Quentin perceived that the great stones he remembered were overlaid with ornamental work, with vivid, bright-coloured paintings. The whole thing was a great circular building, every stone in its place. At a mile or two distant lay a town. And in that town, with every possible luxury, served with every circumstance of servile homage, Quentin ate and slept. I wish I had time to tell you what that town was like where he slept and ate, but I have not. You can read for yourself, some day, what Atlantis was like. Plato tells us a good deal, and the Colonies of Atlantis must have had at least a reasonable second-rate copy of the cities of that fair and lovely land. That night, for the first time since he had first gone to sleep on the altar stone, Quentin slept apart from it. He lay on a wooden couch strewn with soft bear-skins, and a woollen coverlet was laid over him. And he slept soundly. In the middle of the night, as it seemed, Blue Mantle woke him.