No one could tell; yet Stern felt the essence of its unknown story. An infinite pathos haloed the ancient volume. And reverently he touched its pages once again; he bent and by the guttering light tried to make out a few words here or there upon the crackled, all but perished leaves.
He came upon a crude old woodcut, vague and dim; then a line of text caught his eye.
"By Gad! 'Pilgrim's Progress'!" he exclaimed. "Look, Beatrice--'Pilgrim's Progress,' of all books! No wonder he says 'Verily' and talks archaic stuff and doesn't catch more than half we say. Well, I'll be--"
"Is this then not the English of your time?" asked the patriarch.
"Hardly! It was centuries old at the epoch of the catastrophe. Say, father, the quicker you forget this and take a few lessons in the up-to-date language of the real world that perished, the better! I see now why you don't get on to the idea of steamships and railroads, telephones and wireless and all the rest of it. God! but you've got a lot to learn!"
The old man closed up the precious volume and once more began wrapping it in its many coverings.
"Not for me, all this, I fear," he answered with deep melancholy. "It is too late, too late--I cannot understand."
"Oh, yes, you can, and will!" the engineer assured him. "Buck up, father! Once I get my biplane to humming again you'll learn a few things, never fear!"
He stepped to the door of the hut and peered out.
"Rain's letting up a bit," he announced. "How about it? Do the signs say it's ready to quit for keeps? If so--all aboard for the dredging expedition!"