They got off their bicycles rather thankfully, for even Jon and Penny were tired after a long day's travel, and trudged into Clun. There was nothing very unusual about the village street but before they could ask the way to Keep View, Penny stopped and pointed ahead.

Although it was nearly dark now the setting sun, at that very moment, flung out a final, fiery challenge to the dying day, Suddenly the western sky glowed red and orange and silhouetted against this strip of colour the travellers saw, for the first time, the ruins of the Castle of Clun dominated by its mighty keep.

Then, as, almost spellbound, they watched this dramatic welcome, they saw five tiny black cut-out figures move across the scene like marionettes on the stage of a toy theatre.

"I know who they are," Tom said quietly as the figures slowly climbed the edge of the hillside. "Dickie and Mary in front... Then Peter with Sally... and Jenny at the back. I bet Mackie's there, too, but he's too small for us to see. Wonder what they're up to already?"

4. Peter's Ride

Only the faintest lightening of the sky showed in the east as Peter went out to saddle Sally on the morning of the Lone Piner's journey to Clun. Above her the rolling grandeur of the hills blocked out the stars, and the air was clear and cold as it stung her cheeks. Sally came at her whistle and nuzzled at the pocket of her jacket as she saddled her quickly and competently.

Mr Sterling was waiting by the little gate of the cottage with Peter's rucksack.

"Are you warm enough, Petronella?" he asked.

She nodded and smiled at him fondly. "Don't worry, Father."

"Well be off if you're going," he said gruffly as she hugged him. "Your flask and sandwiches are at the top of the rucksack. Ride slowly and take care. Which way are you going? Down to Onnybrook or over the mountain?"

"Over the top," Peter said as she swung into the saddle. "I'll telephone you if I'm in trouble. Goodbye, Daddy, and thank you for letting me go."

Mr Sterling raised his hand as if to wave it and Peter felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes as she waved her own and called, "Good-bye!"

She turned Sally by the reservoir and along the track that ran up the valley which led to the top of the mountain.

There was no need to guide Sally, for the pony knew every inch of these hills and picked her way delicately up the rough track by the side of the rushing stream. The valley narrowed as they rode on, but within half an hour of leaving home Sally turned up a path that could only have been made by rabbits and left behind the bog that was the source of the stream that fed Hatchholt's reservoir. Then she stopped and tossed her head, as if to say: