I glanced at Poyning. His face expressed dry scepticism. I felt incredulous myself, and inclined to be angry into the bargain. I could hardly have believed that this people, who had so much to show that was genuinely wonderful, would descend to trickery for so paltry a purpose as impressing strangers, yet it seemed clear enough that was what had happened. The supposedly hypnotised boy had thought--hence his long hesitation--what the hillside at that point would most probably be like now, and was offering his mere guess as an act of second sight. In any case the test was unsatisfactory, as we had no means of verifying his statement. This I pointed out to Kalliboas, and the tutor again gave me that little half-malicious glance, which only deepened my suspicion that we were being bluffed. Before very long I was wishing I'd kept my suspicions under my own hat. 'We will give the stranger more convincing proof,' said the tutor, rather grimly, and began questioning the hypnotised youth himself. 'What does the stranger carry under his robes?' he asked. Without a moment's hesitation came the answer: 'He carries a book.' 'Of what kind?' 'Not our fashion.' 'What does it contain?' 'Much writing.' 'What does the writing say?' 'It is in an unknown tongue.' There was a pause. I thought now that I could see through the whole ingenious trick. The tutor could have got the knowledge of my notebook in two ways: he might have seen the outline of it under my garments--though I didn't look down, and am unaware that it was particularly noticeable--or he may have learned from Kalliboas, who might easily have got it from my own language tutor, that I was in the habit of writing notes and carried the record next my skin. The very fact that the tutor had suggested to his student the idea of something under my garments argued that he himself had foreknowledge of the book, and that he was passing the knowledge on by a simple act of thought-transference. But for what followed I was quite unprepared. The tutor placed a slate and a stylus in the boy's hand. 'You will now,' he said very firmly, 'copy the last of the writing that you see.' To my amazement the pupil at once began to write, slowly and laboriously. He filled about three lines, then stopped short. 'Why do you write no more?' demanded the tutor. 'There is no writing after.' 'What are the words you have written?' 'I do not understand.' The tutor handed the slate to me. 'Is that, stranger,' he said, 'the writing you have made in your book?' I took the slate, and at the same instant nearly dropped it. The writing had manifestly been copied line for line like a drawing, and without comprehension of its meaning, yet it was perfectly legible. It read: "Poyning rather pointedly asks _why_ we are not allowed to visit the tomb on the southern foothills."