said there was no such thing as writing known to these ancient
Canarios, and I took your word for it. For anything I knew the
stuff might have been something to eat."

"It isn't Guanche work at all," said he testily. "You ought to
have known that from the talc. Great heavens, man, have you no
eyes? Haven't you seen the general formation of the island? Don't
you know there's no talc here?"

"I'm no geologist. Is this imported literature then?"

"Of course. It's Egyptian: that's obvious at a glance. Though
how it's got here I can't tell yet. It isn't stuff you can read
off like a newspaper. The character's a variant on any of those
that have been discovered so far. And as for this waxy stuff
spread over the talc, it's unique. It's some sort of a mineral, I
think: perhaps asphalt. It doesn't scratch up like animal wax.
I'll analyse that later. Why they once invented it, and then let
such a splendid notion drop out of use, is just a marvel. I could
stay gloating over this all day."

"Well," I said, "if it's all the same for you, I'd rather gloat
over a meal. It's a good ten miles hard going to the fonda,
and I'm as hungry as a hawk already. Look here, do you know it is
four o'clock already? It takes longer than you think climbing down
to each of these caves, and then getting up again for the next."

Coppinger spread his coat on the ground, and wrapped the lump
of sheets with tender care, but would not allow it to be tied with
a rope for fear of breaking more of the edges. He insisted on