until every fibre of his body seemed newly alive and the crisp buoyancy of the atmosphere seemed to filter through every tissue. All fatigue of mind and body fell away like a cloak. He was a new man.
He came to the Sarcophagus, that mighty boulder perched so casually in its place that it is hard to understand—from the lay of the slopes—just how it could have been borne here; for though it lies in a long depression as far as the main sweep of the Dublin Ridge is concerned, at this particular point the ledges rise to it. What Titanic forces of ice and water in those dim, bygone ages of the Glacier days, had borne up hither this monster? The Mountain-Lover—who was no geologist—had mused often over the puzzle of it. On the floor of the deep little depression between this point and some cliffs to the west, in inextricable confusion, lay innumerable small rocks, sharp-edged as if quarried, but the only dynamite used had been the irresistible power
