I leaned on the menhir to try to catch the white robes that swirled below me, and then I felt a heave and quaking in the turf on which I knelt as I reached over the black water, and Howel cried out and dragged me back roughly for a long fathom.
The menhir was falling.

Slowly at first, and then more swiftly, it bent forward over the pool, and then it gathered way suddenly, and with a mighty crash it fell with all its towering height across it--and across the last flash of the white robes of the man who yet struggled therein.
For a moment the cross looked skyward, and then the wave swept over the stone, and it was gone into the unknown depths that maybe held so many secrets of the strange rites of those who had reared it.
Only where its foot had been planted was a pit to shew that somewhat had been there, and that was slowly filling with the black bog which had undermined the stone at last.

The old prophecy had come to pass, and there was indeed an end.
But I saw for a moment into that pit before it was filled, and in it was laid open as it were a great stone chest, where the base of the menhir had been to cover it, and in that were skulls and bones of men, and among them the dull gleam of ancient gold and flint.
The wild tumult of the water died away, and the ripples came, and then the pool was glassy as before, but there was no sign of movement in it, and now it was clear no longer.

And still Howel and I stared silently at that place whence the great stone had passed like a dream.
"Nona saw it troubled," Howel said at last.
But I answered what was in my mind, with a sort of despair: "He never told me where Owen lies." "But I think we have found him, or nearly," Howel answered.

"Come with me.