There's a hollow, not thirty yards off, that'll do for us." Zeb led the way to the spot.

It was indeed the fosse of a half-obliterated Roman camp, and ran at varying depth around a cluster of grassy mounds, the most salient of which--the praetorian--still served as a landmark for the Porthlooe fishing boats.

But down in the fosse the pair were secure from all eyes.

Not a word was spoken until they stood together at the bottom.
Here Zeb pulled out his watch once more.

"We'd best be sharp," he said; "you must start in twenty minnits to get to the church in time." "It would be interesting to know what you propose doing." The stranger sat down on the slope, picked a strip of sea-weed off his breeches, and looked up with a smile.
"I reckon you'll think it odd." "Of that I haven't a doubt." "Well, you've a pair o' pistols i' your pockets, an' they're loaded, I expect." "They are." "I'd a notion of askin' 'ee, as a favour, to give and take a shot with me." The stranger paused a minute before giving his answer.
"Can you fire a pistol ?" "I've let off a blunderbust, afore now, an' I suppose 'tis the same trick." "And has it struck you that your body may be hard to dispose of?
Or that, if found, it may cause me some inconvenience ?" "There's a quag on t'other side o' the Castle[1] here.