at the same time I came to the conclusion that the stuff was worth
looting, and so set to work quarrying it out with the heel of my

boot and a pocket-knife.
The sheets were all more or less stuck together, and so I did not

go in for separating them farther. They fitted exactly to the
cavity in which they were stored, but by smashing down its front I

was able to get at the foot of them, and then I hacked away through
the bottom layers with the knife till I got the bulk out in one

solid piece. It measured some twenty inches by fifteen, by
fifteen, but it was not so heavy as it looked, and when I had taken

the remaining photographs, I lowered it down to Coppinger on the
end of the rope.

There was nothing more to do in the caves then, so I went down
myself next. The lump of sheets was on the ground, and Coppinger

was on all fours beside it. He was pretty nearly mad with
excitement.

"What is it?" I asked him.
"I don't know yet. But it is the most valuable find ever made

in the Canary Islands, and it's yours, you unappreciative beggar;
at least what there is left of it. Oh, man, man, you've smashed up

the beginning, and you've smashed up the end of some history that
is probably priceless. It's my own fault. I ought to have known

better than set an untrained man to do important exploring work."
"I should say it's your fault if anything's gone wrong. You

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
carrying it himself too, and did so for the larger part of the way

to Santa Brigida, and it was only when he was within an ace of
dropping himself with sheer tiredness that he condescended to let

me take my turn. He was tolerably ungracious about it too. "I
suppose you may as well carry the stuff," he snapped, "seeing that

after all it's your own."
Personally, when we got to the fonda, I had as good a dinner

as was procurable, and a bottle of that old Canary wine, and turned
into bed after a final pipe. Coppinger dined also, but I have

reason to believe he did not sleep much. At any rate I found him
still poring over the find next morning, and looking very heavy-

eyed, but brimming with enthusiasm.
"Do you know," he said, "that you've blundered upon the most

valuablehistoricalmanuscript that the modern world has ever yet
seen? Of course, with your clumsy way of getting it out, you've

done an infinity of damage. For instance, those top sheets you
shelled away and spoiled, contained probably an absolutelyunique

account of the ancient civilisation of Yucatan."
"Where's that, anyway?"

"In the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. It's all ruins to-day,
but once it was a very prosperous colony of the Atlanteans."

"Never heard of them. Oh yes, I have though. They were the
people Herodotus wrote about, didn't he? But I thought they were

mythical."
"They were very real, and so was Atlantis, the continent where

they lived, which lay just north of the Canaries here."
"What's that crocodile sort of thing with wings drawn in the

margin?"
"Some sort of beast that lived in those bygone days. The pages

are full of them. That's a cave-tiger. And that's some sort
of colossal bat. Thank goodness he had the sense to illustrate

fully, the man who wrote this, or we should never have been able to
reconstruct the tale, or at any rate we could not have understood

half of it. Whole species have died out since this was written,
just as a whole continent has been swept away and three

civilisations quenched. The worst of it is, it was written by a
highly-educated man who somewhat naturally writes a very bad fist.

I've hammered at it all the night through, and have only managed to
make out a few sentences here and there"--he rubbed his hands

appreciatively. "It will take me a year's hard work to translate
this properly."

"Every man to his taste. I'm afraid my interest in the thing
wouldn't last as long as that. But how did it get there? Did your

ancient Egyptian come to Grand Canary for the good of his lungs,
and write it because he felt dull up in that cave?"

"I made a mistake there. The author was not an Egyptian. It
was the similarity of the inscribed character which misled me. The

book was written by one Deucalion, who seems to have been a priest
or general--or perhaps both--and he was an Atlantean. How it got

there, I don't know yet. Probably that was told in the last few
pages, which a certain vandal smashed up with his pocketknife, in

getting them away from the place where they were stowed."
"That's right, abuse me. Deucalion you say? There was a

Deucalion in the Greek mythology. He was one of the two who
escaped from the Flood: their Noah, in fact."

"The swamping of the continent of Atlantis might very well
correspond to the Flood."

"Is there a Pyrrha then? She was Deucalion's wife."
"I haven't come across her yet. But there's a Phorenice, who

may be the same. She seems to have been the reigning Empress, as
far as I can make out at present."

I looked with interest at illustrations in the margin. They
were quite understandable, although the perspective was all wrong.

"Weird beasts they seem to have had knocking about the country in
those days. Whacking big size too, if one may judge. By Jove,

that'll be a cave-tiger trying to puff down a mammoth. I shouldn't
care to have lived in those days."

"Probably they had some way of fighting the creatures.
However, that will show itself as I get along with the

translation." He looked at his watch--"I suppose I ought to be
ashamed of myself, but I haven't been to bed. Are you going out?"

"I shall drive back to Las Palmas. I promised a man to have a
round at golf this afternoon."

"Very well, see you at dinner. I hope they've sent back my dress
shirts from the wash. O, lord! I am sleepy."

I left him going up to bed, and went outside and ordered a
carriage to take me down, and there I may say we parted for a

considerable time. A cable was waiting for me in the hotel at Las