Peter rose, overflowing with mysticism, but he too gasped when he got outside and saw the moor and sky. Indigo-tinted clouds were rolling slowly down Tavy Cleave, there was apparently no sky, and through rents in the clouds they could see blocks of granite and patches of black moor hanging as it were in space. In the direction of Ger Tor was a column of dark mist rising from the river. On each side of this column the outlook was clear for a little way before the clouds again blotted out everything. Those clouds in front were beneath their feet, and they could hear the roaring of the invisible river still further down. Overhead there was nothing except a dense blue mist from which the curious light, like the glow of pixy lanterns, seemed to be reflected. "I ha' never seen the like," said frightened Mary. "None o' the volks ha' ever seen the like on't. Some of 'em be praying down under, and wanting chapel opened. Old Betty Middleweek be scared so proper that her's paying money what her owes. They ses it be judgment coming. There be volks to the village a sotting wi' fingers in their ear-holes so as they wun't hear trumpets. What shall us du if it be judgment, Peter?" "Us mun bide quiet, and go along wi' the rest. If 'tis judgment us wun't have no burying expenses," said Peter. "I'd ha' gone in and asked Master if 'twas judgment, if I hadn't been so mazed like. He'd ha' knowed. A brave cruel larned man be Master. What happens to we if they blows on the trumpets?" "Us goes up to heaven in a whirlpool and has an awful doom," said Peter hazily. "Us mun go up wi' vull bellies," said practical Mary, marching off to blow at the fire. Peter followed, walking delicately, hoping that witchcraft would come to an end so soon as he had procured the crock of gold. Inside the hut, surrounded with comforting lamplight, he told his sister all about Grandfather's loquacity. Mary was so astounded that she dropped a piece of peat into the pot and placed a turnip on the fire. "Aw, Peter! Telled to ye same as Master might?" she gasped. "Ah, told I to break the mommet and he'd give I gold." Mary sat down, as she could think better that way. She had always regarded Grandfather as a sentient member of the family, but in her wildest moments had never supposed he would arouse himself to preach morality in their own tongue. Things were coming to a pretty pass when clocks began to talk. She would have her geese lecturing her next. She did not want any more men about the place, as one Peter was quite enough. If Grandfather had learnt to talk he would probably proceed to walk; and then he would be like any other man, and go to the village with her brother, and return in the same condition, and be pestering her continually for money. The renaissance of Grandfather was regarded by Mary as a particularly bad sign; and for that reason she decided that it was impossible and Peter had been dreaming. "You'm a liar," he answered in the vulgar tongue. "'Tis down in my buke."