Martin, recalled to reality and the presence of a man till then unfriendly, blushed and shrank into himself a little.  His voice showed that he suffered pain.

“I read granite as you read sheep and soil and a crop ripening above ground or below—­it’s my business,” he explained, not without constraint, while the enthusiasm died away out of his voice and the fire from his face.  “See now, Will, try and follow me.  Note these very faint lines, where the green moss takes the place of the lichen.  These are fretted grooves—­you can trace them to the earth, and on a ‘rubbing,’ as we call it, they would be plainer still.  They indicate to me incisions down the sides of a cross-shaft.  They are all that many years of weathering have left.  Look at the shape too:  the stone grows slightly thinner every way towards the ground.  What is hidden we can’t say yet, but I pray that the arms may be at least still indicated.  You see it is the base sticking into the air, and more’s the pity, a part has gone, for I can trace the incisions to the top.  God knows the past history of it, but—­”

“Perhaps He do and perhaps He doan’t,” interrupted the farmer.  “Perhaps it weer a cross an’ perhaps it weern’t; anyway it’s my gate-post now, an’ as to diggin’ it up, you may be surprised to knaw it, Martin Grimbal, but I’ll see you damned fust!  I’m weary of all this bunkum ‘bout auld stones an’ circles an’ the rest; I’m sick an’ tired o’ leavin’ my work a hunderd times in summer months to shaw gaping fules from Lunnon an’ Lard knaws wheer, them roundy-poundies ’pon my land.  ‘Tis all rot, as every moorman knaws; yet you an’ such as you screams if us dares to put a finger to the stone nowadays.  Ban’t the granite ours under Venwell?  You knaw it is; an’ because dead-an’-gone folk, half-monkeys belike, fashioned their homes an’ holes out of it, be that any cause why it shouldn’t be handled to-day?  They’ve had their use of it; now ’tis our turn; an ’tis awnly such as you be, as comes here in shining summer, when the land puts on a lying faace, as though it didn’t knaw weather an’ winter—­’tis awnly such as you must cry out against us of the soil if we dares to set wan stone ’pon another to make a wall or to keep the blasted rabbits out the young wheat.”

“Your attitude is one-sided, Will,” said Martin Grimbal gently; “besides, remember this is a cross.  We’re dealing with a relic of our faith, take my word for it.”

“Faith be damned!  What’s a cross to me?  ‘Tisdoin’ more gude wheer’t is than ever it done afore, I’ll swear.”

“I hope you’ll live to see you’re wrong, Blanchard.  I’ve met you in an evil hour it seems.  You’re not yourself.  Think about it.  There’s no hurry.  You pride yourself on your common sense as a rule.  I’m sure it will come to your rescue.  Granted this discovery is nothing to you, yet think what it means to me.  If I’d found a diamond mine I couldn’t be better pleased—­not half so pleased as now.”