The man gathered brush and dry-kye and proceeded to make a fire, not far from the precipice, but well out of sight of the patriarch's grave. He fetched a generous heap of wood from the neighboring forest, and presently a snapping blaze flung its smoke-banner down the breeze.
Soon after Beatrice had raided the supplies on board the Pauillac--fish, edible seaweed, and the eggs of the strange birds of the Abyss--and with the skill and speed of long experience was getting an excellent meal. Allan meantime brought water from a spring near by. And the two ate in silence, cross-legged on the warm, dry sand.
“What first, now?” queried the man, when they were satisfied. “I've been thinking of about fifteen hundred separate things to tackle, each one more important than all the others put together. How are we going to begin again? That's the question!”
She drew from her warm bosom the golden cylinder and chain.
“Before we make any move at all,” she answered, “I think we ought to see what's in this record--if it is a record. Don't you?”
“By Jove, you're right! Shall I open it for you?”
But already the massively chased top lay unscrewed in her hand. Within the cylinder a parchment roll appeared.
A moment later she had spread it on her knee, taking care not to tear the ancient, crackling skin whereon faint lines of writing showed.
Stern bent forward, eager and breathless. The girl, too, gazed with anxious eyes at the dim script, all but illegible with age and wear.
“You're right, Allan,” said she. “This is some kind of record, some direction as to the final history of the few survivors after the great catastrophe. Oh! Look, Allan--it's fading already in the sunlight. Quick, read it quick, or we shall lose it all!”