He launched into a long rigmarole of which I understood no word: the Skyriots speak a language all their own, and are unintelligible even to the Psariots, who inhabit the next island. But his tone, and the uninhibited delight of his expression, were eloquence enough.

He sought where grew, in aspect lew, / The skedgwith and the scow, / And he routed the sleepy hedgy-boar, / And the lively padgypaow.

This famous archaeological site marks the farthest limit of human migration out of Africa in the middle Stone Age—the outer edge of our knowledge of the cosmos. I trudge to the caves in a squall.

The answer appears on the forty-ninth page of the book.