“Perhaps you are right,” said Bastin; “at least, I admit that you have made matters very difficult by your unjustifiable homicide of that priest who I do not think meant to injure you seriously, and really was not at all a bad fellow, though opinionated in some ways. Also, I do not suppose that anybody is expected, as it were, to run his head into the martyr’s crown. When it settles there of itself it is another matter.” “Like a butterfly!” exclaimed the enraged Bickley. “Yes, if you like to put it that way, though the simile seems a very poor one; like a sunbeam would be better.” Here Bickley gave way with his paddle so vigorously that the canoe was as nearly as possible upset into the lake. In due course we reached the flat Rock of Offerings, which proved to be quite as wide as a double croquet lawn and much longer. “What are those?” I asked, pointing to certain knobs on the edge of the rock at a spot where a curved projecting point made a little harbour. Bickley examined them, and answered: “I should say that they are the remains of stone mooring-posts worn down by many thousands of years of weather. Yes, look, there is the cut of the cables upon the base of that one, and very big cables they must have been.” We stared at one another—that is, Bickley and I did, for Bastin was still engaged in contemplating the blackened head of the god which he had overthrown. CHAPTER IX. The Island in the Lake We made the canoe fast and landed on the great rock, to perceive that it was really a peninsula. That is to say, it was joined to the main land of the lake island by a broad roadway quite fifty yards across, which appeared to end in the mouth of the cave. On this causeway we noted a very remarkable thing, namely, two grooves separated by an exact distance of nine feet which ran into the mouth of the cave and vanished there. “Explain!” said Bickley. “Paths,” I said, “worn by countless feet walking on them for thousands of years.” “You should cultivate the art of observation, Arbuthnot. What do you say, Bastin?” He stared at the grooves through his spectacles, and replied: “I don’t say anything, except that I can’t see anybody to make paths here. Indeed, the place seems quite unpopulated, and all the Orofenans told me that they never landed on it because if they did they would die. It is a part of their superstitious nonsense. If you have any idea in your head you had better tell us quickly before we breakfast. I am very hungry.” “You always are,” remarked Bickley; “even when most people’s appetites might have been affected. Well, I think that this great plateau was once a landing-place for flying machines, and that there is the air-shed or garage.” Bastin stared at him.