The low sun cast immense shadows. Ice and frost sparkled upon the branches of the trees and in hollows of the fields. Catching sight of a man ploughing a field, he was reminded of the families who lived upon his land and whose welfare had always been cause for concern to Miss Woodhope. An ideal conversation began to develop in his head. And what are your intentions regarding your tenants? she would ask – Intentions? he would say – Yes, she would say. How will you ease their burdens? Your father took every penny he could from them. He made their lives miserable – I know he did, Strange would say, I have never defended my father’s actions – Have you lowered the rents yet? she would say. Have you talked to the parish council? Have you thought about almshouses for the old people and a school for the children?

“It is really quite unreasonable for her to be talking of rents, almhouses and a school,” thought Strange gloomily. “After all, my father only died last Tuesday.”

“Well, that is odd!” remarked Jeremy Johns.

“Hmmm?” said Strange. He discovered that they had halted at a white gate. At the side of the road was a neat little white-painted cottage. It was newly built and had six sides and Gothic windows.

“Where is the toll-keeper?” asked Jeremy Johns.

“Hmmm?” said Strange.

“It is a tollhouse, sir. See, there is the board with the list of money to pay. But there is no one about. Shall I leave them sixpence?”

“Yes, yes. As you wish.”

So Jeremy Johns left the toll upon the doorstep of the cottage and opened the gate so that Strange and he could pass through. A hundred yards further on they entered a village. There was an ancient stone church with winter’s golden light upon it, an avenue of ancient, twisted hornbeams that led somewhere or other, and twenty or so neat stone cottages with smoke rising up from their chimneys. A stream ran by the side of the road. It was bordered by dry, yellow grasses with pendants of ice hanging from them.

“Where are all the people?” said Jeremy.

“What?” said Strange. He looked around and saw two little girls looking out of a cottage window. “There,” he said.

“No, sir. Those are children. I meant grown-ups. I do not see any.”

This was true; there were none to be seen. There were some chickens strutting about, a cat sitting on some straw in an ancient cart and some horses in a field, but no people. Yet as soon as Strange and Jeremy Johns left the village, the reason for this queer state of affairs became apparent. A hundred yards or so from the last house in the village a crowd was gathered round a winter hedge. They carried an assortment of weapons – billhooks, sickles, sticks and guns. It was a very odd picture, both sinister and a little ridiculous. Any one would have thought that the village had decided to make war upon hawthorn bushes and elder-trees. The low winter sun shone full upon the villagers, gilding their clothes and weapons and their strange, intent expressions. Long, blue shadows streamed behind them. They were completely silent and whenever one of them moved, he did so with great care as though afraid of making a noise.