As he crawled along the passage, he was aware that the cairn was coming alive. This did not worry him; he simply knew it happened. Nothing could irritate him more nowadays than talk about time, time as the fourth dimension “and all that sort of stuff”. When he was intolerant he was inclined to be very intolerant, even perverse. For the truth was that time had become something other to him than a symbol in a mathematical equation. He even believed that an intuition was different in kind from anything logical or mathematical. Fundamentally it was an experience, and if the other fellow hadn’t had the experience how on earth could he discuss it? It was a blind presumption on his part, literally blind. What on earth do you know about ghosts if you have never seen one? If you haven’t experienced the psychic density of a place that was, over a long period of time, a centre of tremendous human emotions, what can you have to say about it that isn’t irrelevant? With such questions he had pursued his opponents even through their laughter. When he knew what he knew, he had a remarkable tenacity about it.
Moreover his physical experiences of the whole evening had now and then released his mind in a light and unusual way. This lightness could even stand away from the thickness in his head, from the clogged brain, with an effect of clarity that heightened apprehension. In the electric beam the angry skull was now not quite so bare. But he didn’t care much for the fellow. A warrior could be great-hearted. This guardsman hadn’t been; though no doubt he had been loyal enough. All the same he was a fellow mortal who had done his job, so he nodded to him, friendly enough, and passed on into the east chamber.
The hole in the wall gaped with a false suggestion of rape. It should never have been built in. But there had been strong on-goings here. These severed heads had never been set in that row by pious hands . . . . Severed—could it be possible? he wondered.
His expression pursed as he stood in vision, nodding now and then very slightly. There had never been any doubt in his mind but that the urn was an “intrusion”, possibly from the age of Gaelic myth and heroic legend. The intruder had found the passage into the long-covered tomb, and, for reasons which were not unimaginable, had concealed it here. In troubled times in all countries, people used holy places, places of worship, for hiding their treasure. In this last war an altar in a Balkan church had been used by the underground movement for storing dynamite . . . . Two or three levels of thought turned in his mind with a delicate jugglery, their planes tilting over in a visionary light, in a subtle game of fearful delay; then he walked to the spot where he had stood when he had withdrawn the ornaments from the urn, cast his light on the floor, among the stones, paused, stooped, and came slowly erect with the gold lunula in his hand.
It was real! The whole experience had been real! Weakness flushed his head and he sat down unable for a little time to get enough breath into his lungs. In Mrs Cameron’s kitchen, while he had been telling them his story, he remembered the ornament which had fallen from his hands when he had tried to grasp the dangling bracelet. This was it.
His weakness suffused him with an insidious sleep. His eyes closed and faintly he heard voices, clear voices but distant, coming down far corridors. At once he lifted his head, listened, put the necklace into a poacher’s pocket, and started for the passage.
“Who was speaking?” he asked.
She stood against the moonlit world with an extraordinary authenticity, a drawing together of all meaning into her still body. “Mr Martin,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone home.”
“What was he doing here?”
“He was just passing.” Her voice was simple and remote; it was cool and fatal; but he knew that any instant she might break down.
“What were you talking about?”
She did not answer.
“Did you tell him I was in the cairn?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you tell him about the treasure?”
“No. I told him you had forgotten something.”
He stood, hardly aware of his questions, wondering if he would rush after Martin. But in another moment he saw such urgency as meaningless. Then the relationship which he had imagined between Anna and Martin came full upon him.
“I found what I was looking for,” he said quietly.
“That’s fine,” she answered in her polite friendly way.
“Yes,” he said. “This is it. It’s pure gold.”
As she tilted it in her hands the moonlight spilled off it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “What was it for?”
“For putting round your neck. Wait.”
He took it from her. She was wearing a green woollen jumper open at the throat. He caught the lunula by the horns, lifted it towards her throat, and paused as she involuntarily swayed back a little.
“Perhaps I had better not stretch it,” he said, “until we see if it’s quite whole.”
She was silent, but he knew that her recent moment of stress had passed.
“And now we’ll have to fill in the opening.”
She helped him with an intelligent eagerness, handing down stones until the entrance was completely blocked. She had a pliant strong body, and her hair fell about her face and was tossed back.
“That should about do. Thank you, Anna.” As he got up out of the passage he staggered and she caught his arm. “So strange a night, I feel a bit dizzy,” he excused himself, smiling. As they were getting clear of the stones, he saw that she was watchful of him. A deep generosity towards her moved him in a light incorporeal way. The odd thing about this condition was that it appreciated essences, the unspoken word, the quality behind the act. What was undying in her was known to him. He patted her shoulder gently. “I’m all right,” he said in a light laughing voice. “And now for home.”
He rested once, stretching himself on his back and closing his eyes. Anna sat beside him. But he could not find utter peace because he wanted to ask her some questions. Also he wanted to go to sleep. If she spoke to him frankly, he would tell her the way. He felt full of a wisdom as old as the cairn. But he could do nothing. You never can do anything at such a moment except be there, he thought. I must stop wandering, he decided, or I’ll go away altogether. He sat up and felt faint.
“You go home, Anna, and I’ll just wait here a little while.” He hung his head.
“Don’t hurry,” she said to him. “It will pass.”
They seemed remarkable words to him, full of so profound a knowledge that the faintness began to ebb. He lifted his face.
She put her arm under his to help him up.
“One minute . . . . Tell me, is it growing lighter or am I imagining things?”
“The dawn is coming,” she said.
“Is it?” It seemed such extraordinary news that he looked about him in wonder. Then she helped him up.
Mrs Cameron was waiting for them. There was bustle and concern and he was soon in his bed. But he couldn’t sleep. The thoughts he had been choking back came out in hideous guise. No recent illness, no holiday feeling, could ever excuse his appalling rashness and ineptitude. He had almost behaved like an amateur. What his fellow archaeologists would think—dear God! The loss of a find of such historical significance in such a way! He writhed in mental anguish . . . . But in time, when bleakness came, he got control. There was only one thing to do now: carry on with coolness and cunning. Whatever happened he would keep a calm sough and be damned to them all! This final fighting thought exhausted him completely and he fell asleep.