It was the fifth day of January. The deputy from Elfwick had arrived—a lacklustre fairy with a cough; all was in readiness. Sir Bodach was brought out for his death. He looked uncommonly healthy, unsuitably so for the occasion, and walked with an easy gait as though he were strolling out on a spring morning instead of a very cold winter one. The spectators were aligned in order of precedence, the grandest in front. As he passed between their ranks he paused here and there for a word of greeting, a how d’y’do. When he bowed to the Mistress of the Robes, she cut him dead; at which the bailiff commented very audibly that he wished it could be the old bitch. Sir Bodach smiled demurely, looked round for a fellow-feeler, caught sight of Snipe and gave him a wave of the hand. When he mounted the platform there was a murmur of relief.

He came down in the Moray Firth, landing on a whaling vessel bound for Atlantic waters. A storm was raging, the faint glimmer of his person was taken for Saint Elmo’s fire. For some days he remained invisible; he did not wish to find himself among mortals who might also wish to burn him for heresy. But hearing the seamen pledge themselves to eternal damnation if such and such a statement were not true he realized that they were sound—if a little off-hand—in respect of the soul and its immortality. By venturing into visibility at discreet intervals he established himself as a new hand who had come aboard at Peterhead or Lybster and stayed below till he got his sea-legs. From that day on he led a happy, secluded, sea-faring life, reached a great age and was buried at sea.

They packed his equipment—alembics, chart of the heavens, book of spells, skull, etc—and were off before the first calm light of an April morning. As they travelled southward Elphenor counted windmills and church towers and found windmills slightly predominating. Church towers were more profitable, observed Master Blackbone. Millers were rogues and cheats, but wherever there was a church you could be sure of fools; if Elphenor were not a fairy and ignorant of Holy Writ he would know that fools are the portion appointed for the wise. But for the present they would lie a little low, shun the Devil, and keep to love philtres and salves for the itch, for which there is always a demand in spring. He talked on about the herbs they would need, and the henbane that grew round Needham in Suffolk, where he was born and played with fairies, and whither they were bound. ‘What were they like?’ Elphenor asked. He did not suppose Master Blackbone’s fairies were anything resplendent. Master Blackbone replied that they came out of a hill and were green. Searching his memory, he added that they smelled like elderflowers. At Zuy, elderflowers were used to flavour gooseberry jam—an inelegant conserve.