Without avail he
searched the heather, and as the fateful seconds sped, at last laid down
his rod and dropped on hands and knees to probe among the grass-stems. For a while he hunted in vain, then the sunlight showed a golden sheen
among some stones. Maynard gave a grunt of relief, but as his hand
closed round it a tiny flutter passed through the fingerling; it gave a
final gasp and was still. Knitting his brows in almost comical vexation,
he hastened to restore it to the stream, holding it by the tail and
striving to impart a life-like wriggle to its limpness. "Buck up, old thing!" he murmured encouragingly. "Oh, buck up! You're
all right, really you are!" But the "old thing" was all wrong. In fact, it was dead. Standing in the wet shingle, Maynard regarded the speckled atom as it
lay in the palm of his hand. "A matter of seconds, my son. One instant in all eternity would have
made just the difference between life and death to you. And the high
gods denied it you!" On the opposite side of the stream, set back about thirty paces from the
brink, stood a granite boulder. It was as high as a man's chest, roughly
cubical in shape; but the weather and clinging moss had rounded its
edges, and in places segments had crumbled away, giving foothold to
clumps of fern and starry moor-flowers. On three sides the surrounding
ground rose steeply, forming an irregular horseshoe mound that opened to
the west. Perhaps it was the queer amphitheatrical effect of this
setting that connected up some whimsical train of thought in Maynard's
brain. "It would seem as if the gods had claimed you," he mused, still holding
the corpse. "You shall be a sacrifice--a burnt sacrifice to the God of
Waste Places." He laughed at the conceit, half-ashamed of his own childishness, and
crossing the stream by some boulders, he brushed away the earth and weed
from the top of the great stone. Then he retraced his steps and gathered
a handful of bleached twigs that the winter floods had left stranded
along the margin of the stream. These he arranged methodically on the
cleared space; on the top of the tiny pyre he placed the troutlet. "There!" he said, and smiling gravely struck a match. A faint column of
smoke curled up into the still air, and as he spoke the lower rim of the
setting sun met the edge of the moor. The evening seemed suddenly to
become incredibly still, even the voice of the stream ceasing to be a
sound distinct. A wagtail bobbing in the shallows fled into the waste. Overhead the smoke trembled upwards, a faint stain against a cloudless
sky. The stillness seemed almost acute. It was as if the moor were
waiting, and holding its breath while it waited. Then the twigs upon his
altar crackled, and the pale flames blazed up. The man stepped back with
artistic appreciation of the effect. "To be really impressive, there ought to be more smoke," he continued. Round the base of the stone were clumps of small flowers. They were
crimson in colour and had thick, fleshy leaves. Hastily, he snatched a
handful and piled it on the fire. The smoke darkened and rose in a thick
column; there was a curious pungency in the air. Far off the church-bell in some unseen hamlet struck the hour. The
distant sound, coming from the world of men and every-day affairs,
seemed to break the spell. An ousel fluttered across the stream and
dabbled in a puddle among some stones. Rabbits began to show themselves
and frisk with lengthened shadows in the clear spaces. Maynard looked at
his watch, half-mindful of a train to be caught somewhere miles away,
and then, held by the peace of running water, stretched himself against
the sloping ground. The glowing world seemed peopled by tiny folk, living out their timid,
inscrutable lives around him. A water-rat, passing bright-eyed upon his
lawful occasion, paused on the border of the stream to consider the
stranger, and was lost to view. A stagnant pool among some reeds caught
the reflection of the sunset and changed on the instant into raw gold. Maynard plucked a grass stem and chewed it reflectively, staring out
across the purple moor and lazily watching the western sky turn from
glory to glory. Over his head the smoke of the sacrifice still curled
and eddied upwards. Then a sudden sound sent him on to one elbow--the
thud of an approaching horse's hoofs. "Moor ponies!" he muttered, and, rising, stood expectant beside his
smoking altar. Then he heard the sudden jingle of a bit, and presently a horse and
rider climbed into view against the pure sky. A young girl, breeched,
booted and spurred like a boy, drew rein, and sat looking down into the
hollow. For a moment neither spoke; then Maynard acknowledged her presence by
raising his tweed hat. She gave a little nod. "I thought it was somebody swaling--burning the heather." She considered
the embers on the stone, and then her grey eyes travelled back to the
spare, tweed-clad figure beside it. He smiled in his slow way--a rather attractive smile. "No. I've just concluded some pagan rites in connection with a small
trout!" He nodded gravely at the stone. "That was a burnt sacrifice." With whimsical seriousness he told her of the trout's demise and high
destiny. For a moment she looked doubtful; but the inflection of breeding in his
voice, the wholesome, lean face and humorous eyes, reassured her. A
smile hovered about the corners of her mouth. "Oh, is that it? I wondered ..."

She gathered the reins and turned her horse's head. "Forgive me if I dragged you out of your way," said Maynard, never swift
to conventionality, but touched by the tired shadows in her eyes. The
faint droop of her mouth, too, betrayed intense fatigue. "You look
fagged. I don't want to be a nuisance or bore you, but I wish you'd let
me offer you a sandwich. I've some milk here, too." The girl looked round the ragged moor, brooding in the twilight, and
half hesitated. Then she forced a wan little smile. "I am tired, and hungry, too. Have you enough for us both?" "Lots!" said Maynard. To himself he added: "And what's more, my child,
you'll have a little fainting affair in a few minutes, if you don't have
a feed." "Come and rest for a minute," he continued aloud. He spoke with pleasant, impersonal kindliness, and as he turned to his
satchel she slipped out of the saddle and came towards him, leading her
horse. "Drink that," he said, holding out the cup of his flask. She drank with
a wry little face, and coughed. "I put a little whisky in it," he
explained. "You needed it." She thanked him and sat down with the bridle linked over her arm. The
colour crept back into her cheeks. Maynard produced a packet of
sandwiches and a pasty. "I've been mooning about the moor all the afternoon and lost myself
twice," she explained between frank mouthfuls. "I'm hopelessly late for
dinner, and I've still got miles to go." "Do you know the way now?" he asked. "Oh, yes! It won't take me long. My family are sensible, too, and don't
fuss."