And there was no sign that any living person had ever trodden that path--except that there _was_ a path to tread, and that the path led to the Stonehenge building, and even that seemed to be only a ruin.
'I'll go as far as that anyhow,' said Philip; 'perhaps there'll be a signboard there or something.' There was something.

Something most unexpected.

Philip reached the building; it was really very like Stonehenge, only the pillars were taller and closer together and there was one high solid towering wall; turned the corner of a massive upright and ran almost into the arms, and quite on to the feet of a man in a white apron and a square paper cap, who sat on a fallen column, eating bread and cheese with a clasp-knife.
'I beg your pardon!' Philip gasped.
'Granted, I'm sure,' said the man; 'but it's a dangerous thing to do, Master Philip, running sheer on to chaps' clasp-knives.' He set Philip on his feet, and waved the knife, which had been so often sharpened that the blade was half worn away.
'Set you down and get your breath,' he said kindly.
'Why, it's _you_!' said Philip.
'Course it is.

Who should I be if I wasn't me?
That's poetry.' 'But how did you get here ?' 'Ah!' said the man going on with his bread and cheese, while he talked quite in the friendliest way, 'that's telling.' 'Well, tell then,' said Philip impatiently.

But he sat down.
'Well, you say it's me.