They had reached a grassy level where three paths met - the place where they had seen Uncle Micah from the top of the rock - when Mary suddenly realized how silly they were. She was cold and tired. No longer did she feel a leader, and all she longed for was her sleeping-bag at Seven Gates, or, better still, her cosy little bed at Witchend. There was no sign of Uncle Micah and no indication of the direction in which he had gone, although she seemed to remember that he had crossed this little oasis and gone straight up towards the Chair. She looked at Dickie and unexpectedly felt for his hand. He knew what she was thinking without words.

"All right, twin. Let's go back now. We'll never find the silly old man now, and it doesn't really matter, does it?... Let's just rest here a minute, 'cos I'm jolly tired, and then we'll go straight back an' just slip in quietly and not say a word till breakfast-time."

Just then the moon came out from behind a cloud and the night was made day again.

"I don't like this place any longer," Mary said suddenly. "I hate it, Dickie. Let's go. If I wasn't so tired we'd run."

"Sssshh!" Dickie interrupted suddenly. "Listen, Mary. I heard something."

They stood stock still, but only the wind moaned among the rocks and the stream gurgled and sang at their feet on its way down the valley.

Dickie's voice was shaking when he spoke again.

"Voices," he whispered. "Someone talking, far away. Listen, Mary, and tell me if you can hear... Mary, I did hear something. True I did... Keep still, Mackie, and don't pant, you silly little dog... Oh, gosh! Mary, I do hate this beastly place. Let's go now."

But almost before he had finished speaking Mary grabbed his arm so fiercely that he winced and shook himself free. She was pointing up towards the cliff on their left.

"Look, twin, I can see them. Look! Oh, Dickie, I hate it! Let's go."

But then, at that very instant, the moon was covered again and it was as if a veil had been drawn over a picture of the high cliff-tops and the woods below them. Where, a second before, all had been sharp in the clear, cold light of the moon, now all was hazy and indistinct. But as Dickie strained his eyes to follow Mary's shaking finger, it did seem as if tiny, shadowy figures moved across the skyline. Not one figure. Not Uncle Micah's lonely silhouette, but an uncanny, silent procession of shapes that might have been men or beasts or both.

Now it was Mary who weakened. She gave a little wail of fear and covered her face in her hands.