“I feel so sleepy,” she said. Doubtless the warmth made her drowsy as well as weariness. “I think I shall lie down.” She sat on the sward and leaned against the stone; Geoffrey felt the short grass, it was perfectly dry.
“If only I had something to wrap round you!” he said. “How foolish I have been! Mr Fisher’s rug that was strapped on my horse would have been the very thing! I am so angry with myself—I ought to have thought of it.”
“But how could you anticipate?”
“At least, wrap your handkerchief about your neck.”
“I do not want it; it is too warm. But I will, as you wish me to.”
An idea suddenly occurred to him; he went on his knees and crawled right under the table-stone of the dolmen—into the tomb. She watched him with a sleepy horror of the place. In a minute he emerged triumphant.
“I have found it—this is it. It is a house built on purpose for you.”
“Oh, I hope not,” shuddering; “though, of course, we must all die.”
“Why—what do you mean?”
“That is a tomb.”