"At the top of the Stiperstones is the Devil's Chair - a big outcrop of shining black rock. My father told me once that these rocks are the oldest in England and that long ago, when all this part of the country under sixteen hundred feet was buried under a sheet of ice, the Devil's Chair stood up like a black island. But that's as may be. What we do know is that one day Satan came with giant strides out of the west, and you can still see the imprint of his foot on a stone in the brook which he crossed in the valley below. He was on his way to the Long Mynd to fill one of the valleys - we call 'em Gutters - with stones which he was carrying in his apron. We reckon the old devil was a bad walker, for they say he picked up a stone in his shoe and sat down in his chair to rest. He undid his shoe and flicked out the pebble which landed nine miles away in a field near Bishop's Castle. Some say this great stone turns round when the church clock there strikes thirteen."

"Go on," said Mary. "Tell us more."

"Well, he rested on his chair a bit, but when at last he got up to step across the Mynd his apron string broke and all the stones dropped out, and you can see 'em there to-day."

Mrs. Morton was smiling at him.

"Sometimes we smile, too," he said. "But there are many as still hold that he comes back to his throne. Only when his chair is vacant can it be seen by mortal eyes. When it's clear and can be seen a long way off we know the weather will be fine, but sometimes while we watch a mist comes up from the west and hides it, and he comes back to his throne and the cottagers below go indoors and put up the shutters. And that's why I tell you, young man," he went on, turning to David, "not to trust too much to the weather on these mountains. Always watch the west, where the bad weather comes racing over from Wales, and if you're doubtful turn back and always keep to the tracks."

Their new friend was still yarning when the train started. He told them that his name was Bill Ward, that his father had a big farm away down in the plain some seven miles from Witchend and he invited them all to come down and see him.

"Do you like castles, Mary?" he went on. "You do? There's one at Ludlow. You can go and see it for yourself. If you do, climb a twisting turret stair and from the watchtower look out across a broad river to the Marches of Wales."

Mary clasped a protesting Macbeth to her.

"I just can't wait to begin," she said.