of the ancient dead and the wide, open spaces of the wind-shorn heights.
By the time I had reached the cleft of the valley the sun had risen and what had hitherto been a particle of eternity had become a day. The earliest mushroom-gatherer was swinging along the beach on his way to the salted downs, as his daily custom is, and the melodious confusion of the sheep-bells told that the flock was being driven from its nightly harbourage in the enclosed pasture to the hazardous freedom of the cliffs. Presently they swung past me in a billowy mass, and leaping at a gap debouche into a barley stubble. An urchin and a tousled hound accompanied and controlled them; when they reached the heights the child dropped a careless word to the wistful dog, and throwing himself down on the turf by the very edge of the sheer precipice, drew a volume from a pocket of his ragged coat.
The little bay here has this peculiarity: that at one point all the lighter kinds of wreckage come ashore, while further along one may find (especially after a storm) bolts and nails, cannon balls and parts of strange and obsolete weapons, coins of all ages, and odd and unexpected things—all these, I say, may be found along this stretch, but never by any chance wreckage that will float. It was here on this morning that I picked up an ancient bit of silver, a denarius of Rome, lying among the stones. It was somewhat encrusted with pitch, and as I walked I rubbed it with a little moist sand to clear the lettering.
The mushroom-gatherer had gone by now, passing me with a word after the friendly custom of these parts, and I had fancied that I had the beach to myself, until, happening to look up, my eyes were attracted by a striking figure. Doubtless I should have noted his approach had I not been so engrossed in rubbing my find and trying to decipher its inscription, for he was now standing directly
