Hart heard Paul's enthusiastic words and he smiled.
"Come here, Paul," he said, "I want to show you something."
Paul came at once and Hart swung the light of his torch into a dark cryptlike opening from the gallery.
"I see some dim shapes lying on the floor in there, but I can't tell exactly what they are," said Paul.
"Come into this place itself."
Paul stepped into the crypt, and Hart with the tip of his moccasined toe gently moved one of the recumbent forms. Paul could not repress a little cry as he jumped back. He was looking at the dark, withered face of an Indian, that seemed to him a thousand years old.
"An' the others are Indians, too," said Hart. "An' they needn't trouble us. God knows how long they've been a-layin' here where their friends brought 'em for burial. See the bows an' arrows beside 'em. They ain't like any that the Indians use now."
"And the dry cave air has preserved them, for maybe two or three hundred years," said the schoolmaster. "No, their dress and equipment do not look like those of any Indians whom I have seen."
"Let's leave them just as they are," said Paul.
"Of course," said Ross, "it would be bad luck to move 'em."