We were free of the
garden below our windows, quite long in its irregular rambling
shape, bordering the cliff. The walls were perfectly smooth and
high, ending in the masonry of the building; and as I studied
the great stones I became convinced that the whole structure
was extremely old. It was built like the pre-Incan architecture
in Peru, of enormous monoliths, fitted as closely as mosaics.
"These folks have a history, that's sure," I told the others.
"And SOME time they were fighters--else why a fortress?"
I said we were free of the garden, but not wholly alone in it.
There was always a string of those uncomfortably strong women
sitting about, always one of them watching us even if the others
were reading, playing games, or busy at some kind of handiwork.
"When I see them knit," Terry said, "I can almost call them
feminine."
"That doesn't prove anything," Jeff promptly replied.
"Scotch shepherds knit--always knitting."
"When we get out--" Terry stretched himself and looked at
the far peaks, "when we get out of this and get to where the real
women are--the mothers, and the girls--"
"Well, what'll we do then?" I asked, rather gloomily.
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