Nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree--more terrible tree than any in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on which the village folk hung those who did evil. Finan could see the tree where it stood alone in the sunset light. And he heard the rough cawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost. "Caw, caw," croaked one raven, "ba-a-d man, ba-ad man." "Caw, caw," sang another raven, "ba-ad." Then they flapped their wings and settled to their sleep. "Uncle," Finan said, "I will go up the cliffside." The fisherman looked up. He heard the chanting from the church, and saw an immense white cross upright on the cliff's edge. But he knew not of what adventure little Finan was thinking. "Aye," he said, "go. Perhaps you will see the blessed Hild." So it came about that little Finan climbed the cliff on that evening which was to prove a night wonderful in its miracle. There was born that night that which, like the love of Christ, has made children's lives better and happier. Finan reached the top of the cliff by those steps which were cut into it, and then took the main road, paved and straight, which led toward the Great Hall. He went along slowly under the apple-trees. He saw a black-haired Welsh woman draw water. Little children not so big as Finan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, who were spinning in their doorways. He passed a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its supper. A cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw Finan and greeted him. A jeweler was fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had polished. Carpenters were leaving a little cottage which they were building. The road was full of men--swineherds and cowherds, plowboys and wood-choppers from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds--all on their way to the Great Hall. Some men there were in armor, too, their long hair floating over their shoulders. Inside the windows, which in those days contained no window-glass, torches and firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead would be passed. Already a loud horn was calling all who would to come. Suddenly something sharp stabbed Finan, and he cried out. A man, a woman, and a little child came rushing from one of the household yards, flapping their garments and screaming: "The bees! The bees!" They had just found their precious hive empty. The bees had swarmed, and unless they could find them there would be no more sweet-smelling mead made from honey in that household that year. Another bee stung Finan. And there they were clinging to a low apple bough just above his head. They hung in a great cluster, like a bunch of dark grapes. "Dame," said a cowherd, who was in the road, to the people who were crying out for their bees, "yonder lad knows where the bees are." Finan rubbed his head and looked up at the angry, humming swarm. "Aye," he said, and laughed. "Throw gravel on the swarming bees," called the cowherd, Cædmon.