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We passed through an open gate, then another; then out upon hard road for half-a-mile or so (but I can tell you nothing of the actual distance or the pace), and then through a third gate. All the gates stood open; had been left so on purpose, of course; and the grey granite side-posts were my only mile-stones throughout the journey. Every mortal thing was strange as mortal thing could be. Here I was, in a foreign land I had never seen in my life, and could not see now; on horseback for the first time in my life; and going the dickens knew whither, at the dickens knew what pace; in much certain and more possible danger; alone, and without speech to explain myself when–as I supposed must happen sooner or later–my runaway fate should shoot me among human folk. And overhead– this seemed the oddest thing of all–shone the very same stars that were used to look in at my bedroom window over Roscoff quay. My mother had told me once that these were millions of miles away, and that people lived in them; and it came into my head as a monstrous queer thing that these people should be keeping me in view, and my own folk so far away and lost to me.

But the stars, too, began to grow faint; and little by little the fields and country took shape around us–plough, and grass, and plough again; then hard road, and a steep dip into a valley where branches met over the lane and scratched the back of my head as I ducked it; then a moorland rising straight in front, and rounded hills with the daylight on them. And as I saw this, we were dashing over a granite bridge and through a whitewashed street, our hoofs drumming the villagers up from their beds. Faces looked out of windows and were gone, like scraps of a dream. But just beyond the village we passed an old labourer trudging to his work, and he jumped into the hedge and grinned as we went by.

We were climbing the moor now, at a lopping gallop that set the packet of dolls bob-bobbing on my back to a sort of tune. The horses behind were nearly spent, and the sweat had worked their soaped hides into a complete lather. But the mare generalled them all the while; and striking on a cart-track beyond the second rise of the moor, slowed down to a walk, wheeled round and scanned the troop. As they struggled up she whinnied loudly. A whistle answered her far down the lane, and at the sound of it she was off again like a bird.

The track led down into a hollow, some acres broad, like a saucer scooped between two slopes of the moor; and in the middle of it–just low enough to be hidden from the valley beneath–stood a whitewashed farmhouse, with a courtlege in front and green-painted gate; and by this gate three persons watched us as we came–a man and two women.

The man by his dress was plainly a farmer; and catching sight of me, he called out something I could not understand, and turned towards the woman beside him, whom I took to be his wife. But the other woman, who stood some paces away, was a very different person–tall and slight, like a lady; grey-haired, and yet not seeming old; with long white hands and tiny high-heeled shoes, and dressed in black silk, with a lace shawl crossed over her shoulders, and a silver whistle hanging from her neck. She came forward, holding out a handful of sugar, and spoke to the mare, if you’ll believe me, in my very own Breton.

“Good Lilith!” said she. “Ah, what a mess for me to groom! See what a coat! Good Lilith!” Then, as Lilith munched the sugar–“Who are you, little boy? I never saw you before. Explain yourself, kindly, little boy.”