Grasping the lantern from my hand he holds it close to the ground, when the rays reveal a complete mosaic--a pavement of minute tesserae of many colours, of intricate pattern, a work of much art, of much time, and of much industry.

He exclaims in a shout that he knew it always--that it is not a Celtic stronghold exclusively, but also a Roman; the former people having probably contributed little more than the original framework which the latter took and adapted till it became the present imposing structure.
I ask, What if it is Roman?
A great deal, according to him.

That it proves all the world to be wrong in this great argument, and himself alone to be right! Can I wait while he digs further?
I agree--reluctantly; but he does not notice my reluctance.

At an adjoining spot he begins flourishing the tools anew with the skill of a navvy, this venerable scholar with letters after his name.

Sometimes he falls on his knees, burrowing with his hands in the manner of a hare, and where his old-fashioned broadcloth touches the sides of the hole it gets plastered with the damp earth.