“Yes, yes, let’s be off!” cried Ranulph excitedly; Luke felt it would be useless to protest further, so the little cavalcade dived into the moonlit night.
The world was looking very beautiful. At one end of the scale of darkness stood the pines, like rich black shadows; at the other end of the scale were the farm buildings, like white glimmering human masks. And in between these two extremes were all the various degrees of greyness—the shimmer of the Dapple that was more white than grey, and all the different trees—plane-trees, liege-oaks, olives—and one could almost recognize their foliage by their lesser or greater degree of density.
On they trudged in silence, up the course of the Dapple—Luke too anxious and aggrieved to talk, Ranulph buried too deep in dreams, and the little herdsmen far too shy. There were nothing but rough cattle paths in the valley—heavy enough going by day, and doubly so by night, and before they had yet gone half the way Ranulph’s feet began to lag.
“Would you like to rest a bit and then go back?” said Luke eagerly.
But Ranulph shook his head scornfully and mended his pace.
Nor did he allow himself to lag again till they reached their destination—a little oasis of rich pasturage, already on rising ground though still a mile or two away from the hills.
Once here—in their own kingdom, as it were—the little herdsmen became lively and natural; laughing and chatting with Ranulph, as they set about repairing such breaches as had been made in the huts by the rough and tumble of twelve odd hours. Then there was wood to be collected, and a fire to be lit—and into these tasks Ranulph threw himself with a gay, though rather feverish, vigour.
At last they settled down to their long watch—squatting round the fire, and laughing for sheer love of adventure as good campaigners should; for were there not marching towards them some eight dark hours equipped with who could say what curious weapons from the rich arsenal of night and day?
The cattle crouched round them in soft shadowy clumps, placidly munching, and dreaming with wide-open eyes. The narrow zone of colour created by the firelight was like the planet Earth—a little freak of brightness in a universe of impenetrable shadows.
Suddenly Luke noticed that each of the three little herdsmen was, like himself, wearing a sprig of fennel.
“I say! why are all you little chaps wearing fennel?” he blurted out.
They stared at him in amazement.
“But you be wearing a bit yourself, Master Hempen,” said Toby, the eldest.
“I know”—and he could not resist adding in an offhand tone—“it was a present from a young lady. But do you always wear a bit in these parts?” he added.
“Always on this night of the year,” said the children. And as Luke looked puzzled, Toby cried in surprise, “Don’t you wear fennel in Lud on the last night of October?”
“No, we don’t,” answered Luke, a little crossly, “and why should we, I should like to know?”
“Why,” cried Toby in a shocked voice, “because this is the night when the Silent People—the dead, you know—come back to Dorimare.”
Ranulph looked up quickly. But Luke scowled; he was sick to death of western superstitions, and into the bargain he was feeling frightened. He removed the second sprig of fennel given him by Hazel from his buttonhole, and holding it out to Ranulph, said, “Here, Master Ranulph! Stick that in your hatband or somewhere.”
But Ranulph shook his head. “I don’t want any fennel, thank you, Luke,” he said. “I’m not frightened.”
The children gazed at him in half-shocked admiration, and Luke sighed gloomily.
“Not frightened of … the Silent People?” queried Toby.
“No,” answered Ranulph curtly. And then he added, “At least not tonight.”
“I’ll wager the widow Gibberty, at any rate, isn’t wearing any fennel,” said Luke, with a harsh laugh.
The children exchanged queer little glances and began to snigger. This aroused Luke’s curiosity: “Now then, out with it, youngsters! Why doesn’t the widow Gibberty wear fennel?”
But their only answer was to nudge each other, and snigger behind their fingers.
This put Luke on his mettle. “Look here, you bantams,” he cried, “don’t you forget that you’ve got the High Seneschal’s son here, and if you know anything about the widow that’s … well, that’s a bit fishy, it’s your duty to let me know. If you don’t, you may find yourselves in gaol some day. So you just spit it out!” and he glared at them as fiercely as his kindly china-blue eyes would allow.
They began to look scared. “But the widow doesn’t know we’ve seen anything … and if she found out, and that we’d been blabbing, oh my! wouldn’t we catch it!” cried Toby, and his eyes grew round with terror at the mere thought.
“No, you won’t catch it. I’ll give you my word,” said Luke. “And if you’ve really anything worth telling, the Seneschal will be very grateful, and each of you may find yourselves with more money in your pockets than your three fathers put together have ever had in all their lives. And, anyhow, to begin with, if you’ll tell me what you know, you can toss up for this knife, and there’s not a finer one to be found in all Lud,” and he waved before their dazzled eyes his greatest treasure, a magnificent six-bladed knife, given him one Yuletide by Master Nathaniel, with whom he had always been a favourite. At the sight of this marvel of cutlery, the little boys proved venal, and in voices scarcely above a whisper and with frequent frightened glances over their shoulders, as if the widow might be lurking in the shadows listening to them, they told their story.
One night, just before dawn, a cow called Cornflower, from the unusually blue colour of her hide, who had recently been added to the herd, suddenly grew restless and began to moo, the strange moo of blue cows that was like
