But before then, a rather shamefaced Luke arrived with his confession that Master Ranulph had made proper fools of them.
“So, Miss Hazel, if you’ll give me a bite of something, and lend me a horse, I’ll go after the young scamp to Moongrass. To think of his giving us the slip like that and never having told me he’d heard from his father! And there was me expecting a letter from his Worship every day, telling us to leave at once, and …”
Hazel raised her eyebrows. “You were expecting a letter ordering you to leave us? How was that?”
Luke turned red, and mumbled something inaudible. Hazel stared at him for a few seconds in silence, and then she said quietly, “I’m afraid you were wise if you asked the Seneschal to remove Master Ranulph.”
He gave her a shrewd glance. “Yes … I fear this is no place for Master Ranulph. But if you’d excuse me for being so bold, miss, I’d like to give you a word of warning—don’t you trust that Endymion Leer further than you can see him, and don’t you ever let your Granny take you out fishing!”
“Thank you, Master Hempen, but I am quite able to look after myself,” said Hazel haughtily. And then an anxious look came into her eyes. “I hope—oh! I hope that you’ll find Master Ranulph safe and sound at Moongrass! It’s all so … well, so very strange. That old goatherd, who do you suppose he was? One meets strange people near the Elfin Marches. You’ll let me know if all is well … won’t you?”
Luke promised. Hazel’s words had dampened his spirits and brought back all his anxiety, and the fifteen miles to Moongrass, in spite of a good horse, seemed interminable.
Alas! there was no Ranulph at the Jellygreens’ farm; but, to Luke’s bewilderment, it turned out that the farmer had been expecting him, as he had, a few days previously, received a letter from Master Nathaniel, from which it was clear that he imagined his son was already at Moongrass. So there was nothing for Luke but, with a heavy heart, to start off the next morning for Lud, where, as we have seen, he arrived a few hours after Master Nathaniel had left it.
XXII
Who Is Portunus?
About halfway to Swan, Master Nathaniel, having tethered his horse to a tree, was reclining drowsily under the shade of another. It was midday, and the further west he rode the warmer it grew; it was rather as if he were riding backward through the months.
Suddenly he was aroused by a dry little laugh, and looking round, he saw crouching beside him, an odd-looking old man, with very bright eyes.
“By my Great-aunt’s rump, and who may you be?” enquired Master Nathaniel testily.
The old man shut his eyes, gulped several times, and replied:
“Who are you? Who is me?
Answer my riddle and come and see,”
and then he stamped impatiently, as if that had not been what he had wished to say.
“Some cracked old rustic, I suppose,” thought Master Nathaniel, and closed his eyes; in the hopes that when the old fellow saw he was not inclined for conversation he would go away.
But the unwelcome visitor continued to crouch beside him, now and then giving him little jogs in the elbow, which was very irritating when one happened to be hot and tired and longing for forty winks.
“What are you doing?” cried Master Nathaniel irritably.
“I milk blue ewes; I reap red flowers,
I weave the story of dead hours,”
answered the old man.
“Oh, do you? Well, I wish you’d go now, this moment, and milk your red ewes … I want to go to sleep,” and he pulled his hat further down over his eyes and pretended to snore.
But suddenly he sprang to his feet with a yap of pain. The old man had prodded him in his belly, and was standing looking at him out of his startlingly bright eyes, with his head slightly on one side.
“Don’t you try that on, old fellow!” cried Master Nathaniel angrily. “You’re a nuisance, that’s what you are. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
The old man pointed eagerly at the tree, making little inarticulate sounds; it was as if a squirrel or a bird had been charged with some message that they could not deliver.
Then he crept up to him, put his mouth to his ear, and whispered, “What is it that’s a tree, and yet not a tree, a man and yet not a man, who is dumb and yet can tell secrets, who has no arms and yet can strike?”
Then he stepped back a few paces as if he wished to observe the impression his words had produced, and stood rubbing his hands and cackling gleefully.
“I suppose I must humour him,” thought Master Nathaniel; so he said good-naturedly, “Well, and what’s the answer to your riddle, eh?”
But the old man seemed to have lost the power of articulate speech, and could only reiterate eagerly, “Dig … dig … dig.”
“ ‘Dig, dig, dig.’ … so that’s the answer, is it? Well, I’m afraid I can’t stay here the whole afternoon trying to guess your riddles. If you’ve got anything to tell me, can’t you say it any plainer?”
Suddenly he remembered the old superstition that when the Silent People returned to Dorimare they could only speak in riddles and snatches of rhyme. He looked at the old man searchingly. “Who are you?” he said.
But the answer was the same as before. “Dig … dig … dig.”
“Try again. Perhaps after a bit the words will come more easily,” said Master Nathaniel. “You are trying to tell me your name.”
The old man shut his eyes tight, took a long breath, and, evidently making a tremendous effort, brought out very slowly, “Seize—your—op-por-tun-us. Dig … dig. Por-tun-us is my name.”
“Well, you’ve got it out at last. So your name is Portunus, is it?”
But the old man stamped his foot impatiently. “Hand! hand!” he cried.
“Is it that you want to shake hands with me, old fellow?” asked
