"Mr. Breakspear, are not the words 'oft-carried' very applicable to that stone, if it has really been brought over sea and land from the Crimea? Is not that the 'throne' alluded to?"
The cheroot dropped from Idris' lips, and he sprang to his feet with a cry of exultation.
"By heaven! Miss Ravengar, you are right. 'Oft-carried throne?' Yes, that must be it! As the holy baitulion of a tribe, marked with the image of their deity, it would doubtless be the stone on which the new chief would stand when invested with kingly rule. That piece of basalt was a kind of Lia Fail, like the coronation-stone at Westminster."
"Ormfell is becoming more interesting than ever," said Beatrice, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at having solved a problem that had perplexed Idris so long. "We have discovered the oft-carried throne, and the oft-carried throne is to be to us for a sign. A sign of what?"
"Indicative of the entrance, I presume, otherwise there would be no reason for engraving the fact on the ring."
"Do the words mean that the stone stands over the entrance itself? If we remove it, shall we discover the mouth of a shaft?"
"Scarcely, I think: for, if so, the stone would be a sign at all hours of the twenty-four, whereas the language of the ring restricts its significance to the noontide hour only."
"It wants an hour yet to noon," said Beatrice, referring to her watch.
"Good! We will wait till then. I have formed my opinion. Mark my words, Miss Ravengar, we shall find that the entrance is on the northern side. The noontide hour will show whether I am right."
And Idris, resuming his fallen cheroot, relighted it, and reclining once more upon the grassy bank, waited for the time to pass, while Beatrice sat beside him in a state of pleasing suspense.