Mr Tempest laughed outright. "I fear there is small chance of Leo becoming a saint either young or old," he said, "though he is a good lad in many ways. Wild, I admit, but his heart is in the right place."
Pratt smiled to himself. He knew that Leo was in love with Sybil, the daughter of this prosy old archæologist. Simple as Mr Tempest was, he could not be blind to the possibility of his daughter making such an excellent match. "Oh, yes," laughed Pratt, knowingly, "I'm sure his heart is in the right place."
But by this time the vicar was on his hobby horse, and did not gauge the significance of the speech. "Here," he said, waving his hand towards the four sides of the square in which they stood, "the Romans built a camp. It crowned this hill, and was garrisoned by the tenth legion to overawe the turbulent tribes swarming on the plains below. In fact, this town is built within the camp, as the name shows."
"How does it show that?" asked Pratt, more to keep the vicar talking than because he cared.
"The name, man, the name. It is properly Colncester, but by usage has been shortened to Colester. Coln comes from the Latin _colonia_, a colony, and caster, or cester, is derived from _castra_, a camp. Colncester therefore means the camp colony, which proves that the original builders of this town erected their dwellings within the circumvallation of the original _castra_ of Claudian. If you will come with me, Mr Pratt, I will show you the remains of this great work."
"I have seen it several times before," replied Pratt, rather bored by this archæological disquisition. "I know every inch of this place. It doesn't take an American centuries to get round, and six weeks of walking have fixed me up in your local geography. But there's the chapel, vicar. We might walk up there. I'd like to hear a few remarks on the subject of the chapel. Interesting. Oh, I guess so!"
"Certainly! certainly!" said Tempest, absently, "let us walk, walk," and he strolled away with his hands in his tail-coat pockets, looking something like an elderly jackdaw. Indeed the churchman, with his lean, oval face, his large spectacles and the fluttering black garments on his thin figure, very much resembled a bird. He was scholarly, well-bred and gentle, but wholly unworldly. Since his wife had died seven years before, Sybil had taken charge of the house. Harold Raston, the energetic curate, looked after the parish. But for these two, both clerical and domestic affairs would have been neglected, so immersed was Mr Tempest in his dry-as-dust explorations. Many people said openly that the vicar was past his work and should be pensioned off. Mrs Gabriel, a capable and managing woman, had once hinted as much to him. But the usually placid parson had flown into such a rage, that she had hastily withdrawn herself and her suggestion. "There is nothing more terrible than the rebellion of a sheep." Mrs Gabriel recalled this remark of Balzac's when Tempest, proving himself worthy of his name, swept her in wrath from his study.