"My name's Bligh," said the visitor, gruff as before. "You're the
Parson, eh? Bit of an antiquarian, I'm given to understand?
These things ought to be in your line, then, and I hope they are not
broken: I carried them as careful as I could." He opened the bag and
emptied it out upon the table--an old earthenware pot, a rusted iron
ring, four or five burnt bones, and a handful or so of ashes.
"Human, you see," said he, picking up one of the bones and holding it
under the Parson's nose. "One of your ancient Romans, no doubt."
"Ancient Romans? Ancient Romans?" stammered Parson Polwhele.
"Pray, Sir, where did you get these--these articles?"
"By digging for them, Sir; in a mound just outside that old Roman
camp of yours."
"Roman camp? There's no Roman camp within thirty miles of us as the
crow flies: and I doubt if there's one within fifty!"
"Shows how much you know about it. That's what I complain about in
you parsons: never glimpse a thing that's under your noses. Now, I
come along, making no pretence to be an antiquarian, and the first
thing I see out on your headland yonder, is a Roman camp, with a
great mound beside it--"
"No such thing, Sir!" the Parson couldn't help interrupting.
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