ry. It stretched around him, treeless,
houseless. There was nothing to break the lines of the horizon but a
group of gaunt grey stones, the remains, so he told himself, of some
ancient menhir, common enough to the lonely desert lands of Brittany.
In general the stones lie overthrown and scattered, but this particular
specimen had by some strange chance remained undisturbed through all
the centuries. Mildly interested, Flight Commander Raffleton strolled
leisurely towards it. The moon was at its zenith. How still the quiet
night must have been was impressed upon him by the fact that he
distinctly heard, and counted, the strokes of a church clock which must
have been at least six miles away. He remembers looking at his watch
and noting that there was a slight difference between his own and the
church time. He made it eight minutes past twelve. With the dying
away of the last vibrations of the distant bell the silence and the
solitude of the place seemed to return and settle down upon it with
increased insistence. While he was working it had not troubled him,
but beside the black shadows thrown by those hoary stones it had the
effect almost of a presence. It was with a sense of relief that he
contemplated returning to his machine and starting up his engine. It
would whir and buzz and give back to him a comfortable feeling of life
and security. He would walk round the stones just once and then be
off. It was wonderful how they had defied old Time. As they had been
placed there, quite possibly ten thousand years ago, so they still
stood, the altar of that vast, empty sky-roofed temple. And while he
was gazing at them, his cigar between his lips, struggling with a
strange forgotten impulse that was tugging at his knees, there came
from the very heart of the great grey stones the measured rise and fall
of a soft, even breathing.

Young Raffleton frankly confesses that his first impulse was to cut and
run. Only his soldier's training kept his feet firm on the heather.
Of course, the explanation was simple. Some animal had made the place
its nest. But then what animal was ever known to sleep so soundly as
not to be disturbed by human footsteps? If wounded, and so unable to
escape, it would not be breathing with that quiet, soft regularity,
contrasting so strangely with the stillness and the silence all round.
Possibly an owl's nest. Young owlets make that sort of noise--the
"snorers," so country people call th