We reached the bridge without incident. Luck was with us there, for we fell in with a horse-trader who had a couple of nags in hand which he hoped to sell in the town. I bought one of them from him, haggling just enough to prevent suspicion; he was pleased enough with the price to throw in a rather worn saddle. By the time the transaction was finished it was full light and there were one or two people about, but no one gave us more than a cursory glance, except for one fellow who, apparently recognising the horse, grinned, and said—to Cadal rather than to me: “Were you planning to go far, mate?”

I pretended not to hear, but from the corner of my eye saw Cadal spread his hands, shrug, and turn his eyes up in my direction. The look said, all too plainly, “I only follow where he goes, and he’s crazy anyway.”

Presently the towpath was empty. Cadal came alongside, and hooked a hand through the neck-strap. “He’s right, you know. That old screw won’t get you far. How far is it, anyway?”

“Probably not nearly as far as I remember. Six miles at the outside.”

“Uphill most of the way, you said?”

“I can always walk.” I smoothed a hand along the skinny neck. “He’s not as much of a wreck as he looks, you know. There’s not much wrong that a few good feeds won’t put right.”

“Then at least you won’t have wasted your money. What are you looking at over that wall?”

“That’s where I used to live.”

We were passing my grandfather’s house. It looked very little changed. From the cob’s back I could just see over the wall to the terrace where the quince tree grew, its brilliant flame-coloured blossoms opening to the morning sun. And there was the garden where Camlach had given me the poisoned apricot. And there the gate where I had run in tears.