Suddenly Hazel raised her eyes from her plate and they were sparkling with defiance and anger. "And who," she cried shrilly, "sits by the fire when he thinks no one is watching him roasting little live frogs and eating them? Portunus." With each word her voice rose higher, like a soaring bird. But at the last word it was as if the bird when it had reached the ceiling suddenly fell down dead. And Luke saw her flinch under the cold indignant stare of the widow. And he had noticed something else as well. It was the custom in Dorimare, in the houses of the yeomanry and the peasantry, to hang a bunch of dried fennel over the door of every room; for fennel was supposed to have the power of keeping the Fairies. And when Ranulph had given his eerie scream, Luke had, as instinctively as in similar circumstances a mediaeval papist would have made the sign of the Cross, glanced towards the door to catch a reassuring glimpse of the familiar herb. But there was no fennel hanging over the door of the widow Gibberty. The men grinned, the maids tittered at Hazel's outburst; and then there was an awkward silence. In the meantime, Ranulph seemed to have recovered from his fright and was going on stolidly with his supper, while the widow was saying to him reassuringly, "Mark my words, little master, you'll get to love Portunus as much as we all do. Trust Portunus for knowing where the trout rise and where all the birds' nests are to be found ... eh, Portunus?" And Portunus chuckled with delight and his bright eyes twinkled. "Why," the widow continued, "I have known him these twenty years. He's the weaver in these parts, and goes the round from farm to farm, and the room with the loom is always called 'Portunus' Parlour.' And there isn't a wedding or a merry-making within twenty miles where he doesn't play the fiddle." Luke, whose perceptions owing to the fright he had just had were unusually alert, noticed that Endymion Leer was very silent, and that his face as he watched Ranulph was puzzled and a little anxious. When supper was over the maids and labourers vanished, and so did Portunus; but the three guests sat on, listening to the pleasant whirr of the widow's and Hazel's spinning-wheels, saying but little, for the long day in the open air had made all three of them sleepy. At eight o'clock a little scrabbling noise was heard at the door. "That's the children," said Hazel, and she went and opened it, upon which three or four little boys came bashfully in from the dusk. "Good evening, my lads," said the widow, genially. "Come for your bread and cheese ... eh?" The children grinned and hung their heads, abashed by the sight of three strangers. "The little lads of the village, Master Chanticleer, take it in turn to watch our cattle all night," said the widow to Ranulph. "We keep them some miles away along the valley where there is good pasturage, and the herdsman likes to come back to his own home at night."