But even while he went over it St.George knew in his heart that what had happened was nothing that could be so explained, nothing that could be explained at all by anything within his ken.
His footsteps echoed startlingly on the stones, and the chill breath of the place smote his face as he moved.

He stumbled on a displaced tile and pitched forward upon a jagged corner of sarcophagus, and reeled as if at a blow from some arm of the darkness.

The taper rays struck a length of wall before him, minting from the gloom a sheet of pale orchids clinging to the unclean rock.

St.George remembered a green slope, spangled with crocuses and wild strawberries, coloured like the orchids but lying under free sky, in free air.

It seemed only a trick of Chance that he was not now lying on that far slope, wherever it was, instead of facing these ghost blooms in this ghost place.