Randalls Round Read Free

a stronger hold of him than he would have thought possible.
    “Strikes me that if there is anything of the old devilry left, it’ll be in that field,” he concluded at last. “The dance they do now is all open and above board; but if they still avoid the field, as that book of Mortlake’s seems to think, that might be a clue. I’ll find out.”
    He rose and went down to inform the Town Clerk that his researches were over, and then went back to the inn in a comfortable frame of mind. Certainly his weekend was bringing him distraction from his work: no thought of it had entered his head since he first heard the children singing outside the inn.
    The landlord of the Flaming Hand was a solid man who gave the impression of honesty and sense. Heyling felt that he could depend upon him for a reasonable account of “the fielde which ye wot of.“ He accordingly tackled him after lunch, and was at once amused, surprised and annoyed to find that the man hedged as soon as he was questioned on the subject. He quite definitely opposed any idea of exploration.
    “I’m not like some on ’em, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t go for to say that it’d do any ’arm for you to take a turn in the field while it was light, like. But it ain’t ’ealthy after dark, sir, that field aren’t. Nor it ain’t no sense to go a–diggin’ and a–delvin’ in that there bank. I’ve lived in this ’ere place a matter of forty year, man and boy, and I know what I’m a–sayin’ of.”
    “But why isn’t it healthy? Is it marshy?”
    “No, sir, it ain’t not to say marshy.”
    “Don’t the farmers ever cultivate it?“
    “ Well, sir, all I can say is I been in this place forty year, man and boy, and it ain’t never been dug nor ploughed nor sown nor reaped in my mem’ry. Nor yet in my father’s, nor in my grandfather’s. Crops wouldn’ do, sir, not in that field.”
    “Well, I want to go and examine the mound. Who’s the owner? – I ought to get his leave, I suppose.”
    “You won’t do that, sir.”
    “Why not?”
    “’Cause I’m the owner, sir, and I won’t ’ave anyone, not the King ’isself nor yet the King’s son, a–diggin’ in that bank. Not for a waggon–load of gold, I won’t.”
    Heyling saw it was useless.
    “Oh, all right! If you feel like that about it!” he said carelessly.
    The stubborn, half–frightened look left the host’s eyes.
    “Thank you, sir,” he said, quite gratefully.
    But he had not really gained the victory. Heyling was as obstinate as he, and he had determined that before he left Randalls he would have investigated that barrow. If he could not get permission, he would go without. He decided that as soon as darkness fell he would go out on the quiet and explore in earnest. He would borrow a spade from the open cart–shed of the inn – a spade and a pick, if he could find one. He began to feel some of the enthusiasm of the explorer.
    He decided that he would spend part of the afternoon in examining the outside of the mound. It was not more than a ten minutes’ ride to the field, which lay on the road. It was, as the landlord had said, uncultivated. Almost in the middle of it rose a mass of stunted trees and bushes – a thick mass of intertwining boughs that would certainly take some strength to penetrate. Was it really a tomb, Heyling wondered? And he thought with some awe of the strange prehistoric being who might lie there, his rude jewels and arms about him.
    He returned to the inn, his interest keener than ever. He would most certainly get into that barrow as soon as it was dark enough to try. He felt restless now, as one always does when one is looking forward with some excitement to an event a few hours distant. He fidgeted about the room, one eye constantly on his watch.
    He wanted to get to the field as soon as possible after dark, for his casual inspection of the afternoon had shown him that the task of pushing through the bushes, tangled and interwoven as they were,