It was the remains of a handsome man that lay on the bed, and of a man who before age and beggardom had broken him must have belonged to the gentry. When they began to pull away the blanket, he came out of his stupor, sat up, and said arrogantly, ‘What now?’

‘We’re just moving you,’ said the woman.

‘Leave me alone, please,’ said the sick man. ‘Kindly leave me alone, so that I may get back my strength. For I’m on my way to Elfhame, I must be there before nightfall. Leave me alone, woman—and you, whoever you may be. Leave me alone, I tell you. Aren’t I in torment enough?’ His fever came back, he began to cry and boo-hoo, and clutched the blanket to his breast.

‘Elfhame,’ said Adam. ‘Where may that be? Is it far from here?’

’It’s no place for a respectable man to go to,’ said the woman, tweaking away the blanket. ‘That’s all I care to know of it. But he’s forever raving about how he’s on his way back there.’

‘Let him be for a day longer,’ said Adam. ‘Mercy never comes amiss.’

He could scarcely believe his luck.

He put some money in the woman’s hand. When she had gone, he sat down to listen. Presently the man began to rave again.

‘Titania! Titania! What have they done to your wings? Why don’t you fly to me? Why don’t you come, you cruel child? Oh, they’ve caught her! They’ve tied her! O Titania, my little love, what have they done to you? My bird’s in a cage, and the cage has a black cloth over it. The Chamberlain of Elfhame put it there. Wait till I get at him! Don’t flutter so, my bird. Sit patiently till I come. I’m on my way. I’ll be home before nightfall. I’ll knock on the hill—it’s all brambles now—the door will open. There they’ll all be, singing and dancing like bees in a hive. Elfhive. Elfhame. They’ll make me welcome. But I won’t speak to one of them, no, not to Tiphaine herself, till I’ve pulled off the black cloth and kissed your wings. Titania! Titania! O my darling!’ He hugged the bolster49 to him, so hard that the feathers burst out of it. Adam sat and pondered.

Fairies can take any shape they will; so much is agreed by the best authorities. Yet if this derelict greybeard were indeed a fairy, why did he lie bemoaning on a dirty bed instead of resuming himself and flying to that Titania he called on? If he were a fairy, threescore years and ten would be nothing to him—so there was no need to be precipitate. But again, if he were a fairy, in a flash he might cast off his disguise of mortality and fly to Elfhame, taking the secret of his unexplored blood with him. And if he were not, it would be waste of time to hang about waiting for a dying man to declare his mortality by dying.