‘There’s something written at the end,’ said Caroline, who was still examining the book; ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
And there was. In very faint brown ink. They had to carry it quite outside the front door (which was, as you know, at the side), to get light enough to be sure that they could not read it because it was written in Latin. And when they did get enough light, they saw that it was in English, and that they could. The writing ran:
‘On the seventh day of the seventh month, and at the seventh hour, let the seed be sown. Seven seeds and no more for the one sowing. In the garden of peace let them be sown, which same is the seventh garden of the world. Let him that would sow, take heed to bathe him seven times in fair water, and let him sow with his face set eastward, with silence at the lips and, at the heart, faith in all good things and the love of all things beautiful. After seven weeks the blossom shall appear. Then let him who sowed the seed eat of the flower. The seed of the F. of H.D.’
‘What?’ cried Rupert.
‘That’s all,’ said Caroline; ‘it stops short like that. There isn’t any more.’
There had been more, but some one had scratched the rest out.
‘With a knife or scissors,’ explained Caroline. ‘Oh, what a pity!’
‘I say,’ Rupert was beginning, but Charles interrupted.
He had stooped to look up under the page that Caroline was fingering. ‘There’s some more; look, turn over!’