“Well,” said Strange, doubtfully, “I suppose that it is better than nothing.”

Jeremy equipped himself with another branch just the same, and, thus armed, they rode back to the village and the silent crowd of people.

“You there!” cried Strange, singling out a man dressed in a shepherd’s smock with a number of knitted shawls tied over it and a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. He made a few flourishing gestures with his club in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

“What …?”

Upon the instant several of the crowd turned together and put their fingers to their lips.

Another man came up to Strange. He was dressed rather more respectably than the first in a coat of brown cord. He touched his fingers to his hat and said very softly, “Beg pardon, sir, but could not you take the horses further off? They stamp their feet and breathe very loud.”

“But …” began Strange.

“Hush, sir!” whispered the man, “Your voice. It is too loud. You will wake him up!”

“Wake him up? Who?”

“The man under the hedge, sir. He is a magician. Did you never hear that if you wake a magician before his time, you risk bringing his dreams out of his head into the world?”

“And who knows what horrors he is dreaming of!” agreed another man, in a whisper.

“But how …” began Strange. Once again several people among the crowd turned and frowned indignantly at him and made signs that he was to speak more softly.

“But how do you know he is a magician?” he whispered.

“Oh! He has been in Monk Gretton for the past two days, sir. He tells everyone he is a magician. On the first day he tricked some of our children into stealing pies and beer from their mothers’ larders, saying that they were for the Queen of the Fairies. Yesterday he was found wandering in the grounds of Farwater Hall, which is our great house here, sir. Mrs Morrow – whose property it is – hired him to tell her fortune, but all he said was that her son, Captain Morrow, has been shot dead by the French – and now, poor lady, she has lain down upon her bed and says she will lie there until she dies. And so, sir, we have had enough of this man. We mean to make him go. And if he will not, we shall send him to the workhouse.”

“Well, that seems most reasonable,” whispered Strange. “But what I do not understand is …”

Just at that moment the man under the hedge opened his eyes. The crowd gave a sort of soft, communal gasp and several people took a step or two backwards.

The man extracted himself from the hedge. This was no easy task because various parts of it – hawthorn twigs, elder branches, strands of ivy, mistletoe and witches’ broom – had insinuated themselves among his clothes, limbs and hair during the night or glued themselves to him with ice. He sat up. He did not seem in the least surprized to find he had an audience; indeed one would almost have supposed from his behaviour that he had been expecting it. He looked at them all and gave several disparaging sniffs and snorts.