In the morning all was white and dazzling; the big tors had nearly doubled in size, and the sides of Tavy Cleave were bulging as though pregnant with little Tavy Cleaves. It was a glorious day, one of those days when the ordinary healthy person wants to stand on his head or skip about like a young unicorn. The sun was out, the sky was as blue as a baby's eyes, and the clouds were like puffs of cigarette smoke. Peter embraced himself, recorded in his work of creation that it was all very good, then floundered outside and made for the well. He shovelled a foot of snow from the cover, wound up the bucket, caught a glimpse of yellow water, and then of something golden, more precious than water, air, or sunshine, brave yellow pieces of gold, five in number, worth one-hundred-and-twenty pints of beer apiece. They were lying at the bottom of the bucket like a beautiful dream. Peter had come into a fortune; his teeth informed him that the coins were genuine, his tongue sent the glad tidings to Mary, his mind indulged in potent flights of travel and dissipation. He had inherited twelve hundred pints of beer. "Aw, Peter," Mary was calling. "There ha' been witches abroad to-night." "They'm welcome," cried Peter. "Look ye here," Mary went on in a frightened voice. "Look ye here, will ye? Here be a whist sight, I reckon." Mary was standing near the edge of the cleave, knee-deep in snow, looking down. When Peter floundered up to her side she said nothing, but pointed at the snow in front. Peter's hilarious countenance was changed, and the five sovereigns in his hand became like so many pieces of ice. The snow ahead was marked with footprints, not those of an animal, not those of a man. The marks were those of a biped, cloven like a cow's hoof but much larger, and they travelled in a perfectly straight line across the moor, and behind them the snow was ruffled occasionally as by a tail. Peter began to blubber like a frightened child. "'Tis him," he muttered. "Aw ees, 'tis him," said Mary, "Us shouldn't meddle wi' mommets and such. 'Tis sure to bring 'en." "He must ha' come up over from Widdecombe in the snow," gasped Peter. "Going beyond?" asked Mary, with a motion of her head. "Ees," muttered Peter. "Us will see which way he took." "T'row the gold away, Peter. T'row 'en away," pleaded Mary. "I wun't," howled Peter. He wouldn't have parted with his six hundred pints of beer for ten thousand devils.