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And the same with all those
stories about human sacrifices and tortures. There was not a word of
truth in them. So Mr. Eames had decided, after a systematic
investigation of both of the older authorities and of the grotto
itself. The legends, too, were simply invented to give a zest to a
locality whose original antique name had apparently been lost, though
he had not yet abandoned all hope of stumbling across it by one of
those lucky accidents which reward the lover of old parchments and
title-deeds. A pure invention. It was plain the Mr. Eames from what
remained of ancient symbols on the spot, that the cave had been
consecrated to older and worthier rites--to some mysterious, primeval,
fecund Mother of Earth. Her name, like that of her habitation, had
lapsed into oblivion.
"There is something grand in this old animistic conception," Eames had
said. "Later on, under the Romans, the place seems to have been
dedicated to Priapic rites. That is rather a depreciation, isn't it? It
brings us down from fruitfulness to mere lasciviousness.


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