And yet there seemed nothing in it, as one may say.

It was a vision of a place, and no more, though it was a place the like of which I had never seen.
I seemed to stand in a deep hollow in wild hills, and round me closed high cliffs that shut out all but the sky, so that they surrounded a lawn of fair turf, boulder strewn here and there, and bright with greener patches that told of bog beneath the grass.

In the very midst of this lawn was a round pool of black, still water, and across on the far side of that was set a menhir, one of those tall standing stones that forgotten men of old were wont to rear for rites that are past.

It was on the very edge of the pool, as it seemed, and was taller than any I had seen on our hills.
And when in my dream I had seen this strange place, always I woke with the voice of Owen in my ears calling me.

That was the thing which made me uneasy more than that a dream should come often.
Three times that dream and voice came to me, but I said nought of it to any man.