That one had a broken thigh, and he seemed to bend over it in pain.
"Holy saints," said Werbode, in a whisper, "they were buried alive!" So they must have been; but who shall know when?
They had delved in the chalk for the flints they needed for their weapons, and their mine had fallen in at the mouth, and they could not escape.

The stones had, doubtless, broken the leg of that one in falling.

But by the token of the deer-horn pick I take it that it was ages ago when this happened, maybe before the days of the Welshmen whom we found here.

Yet even then, as the red sun lit up the place of their death, we could see that the marks of their chalky hands bided on the handles of their picks, fresh as if made yesterday.
"Come away," said Erling.

"I like it not.