The old man pointed eagerly at the tree, making little inarticulate sounds; it was as if a squirrel or a bird had been charged with some message that they could not deliver. Then he crept up to him, put his mouth to his ear, and whispered, "What is it that's a tree, and yet not a tree, a man and yet not a man, who is dumb and yet can tell secrets, who has no arms and yet can strike?" Then he stepped back a few paces as if he wished to observe the impression his words had produced, and stood rubbing his hands and cackling gleefully. "I suppose I must humour him," thought Master Nathaniel; so he said good-naturedly, "Well, and what's the answer to your riddle, eh?" But the old man seemed to have lost the power of articulate speech, and could only reiterate eagerly, "Dig ... dig ... dig." "'Dig, dig, dig.' ... so that's the answer, is it? Well, I'm afraid I can't stay here the whole afternoon trying to guess your riddles. If you've got anything to tell me, can't you say it any plainer?" Suddenly he remembered the old superstition that when the Silent People returned to Dorimare they could only speak in riddles and snatches of rhyme. He looked at the old man searchingly. "Who are you?" he said. But the answer was the same as before. "Dig ... dig ... dig." "Try again. Perhaps after a bit the words will come more easily," said Master Nathaniel. "You are trying to tell me your name." The old man shut his eyes tight, took a long breath, and, evidently making a tremendous effort, brought out very slowly, "Seize--your--op-por-tun-us. Dig ... dig. Por-tun-us is my name." "Well, you've got it out at last. So your name is Portunus, is it?" But the old man stamped his foot impatiently. "Hand! hand!" he cried. "Is it that you want to shake hands with me, old fellow?" asked Master Nathaniel. But the old man shook his head peevishly. "Farm hand," he managed to bring out. "Dig ... dig." And then he lapsed into doggerel: "Dig and delve, delve and dig, Harness the mare to the farmer's gig." Finally Master Nathaniel gave up trying to get any sense out of him and untethered his horse. But when he tried to mount, the old man seized the stirrup and looking up at him imploringly, repeated, "Dig ... dig ... dig." And Master Nathaniel was obliged to shake him off with some roughness. And even after he had left him out of sight he could hear his voice in the distance, shouting, "Dig ... dig." "I wonder what the old fellow was trying to tell me," said Master Nathaniel to himself. On the morning of the following day he arrived at the village of Swan-on-the-Dapple. Here the drama of autumn had only just reached its gorgeous climax, and the yellow and scarlet trees were flaming out their silent stationary action against the changeless chorus of pines, dark green against the distant hills. "By the Golden Apples of the West!" muttered Master Nathaniel, "I'd no idea those accursed hills were so near. I'm glad Ranulph's safe away."