She lifted her head on the sudden, hearing a pad of hoofs across the peaty ground. Gaunt’s horse, weary of his freedom already and finding himself lost on the edge of an alien moor, was searching for his master. Cilla was the first human being he had seen since Widow Mathewson loosed his bridle and sent him wide across the heath; so now he came, with mincing steps across the broken ground, and laid his muzzle in her hand, and asked for guidance. Cilla knew the horse; it was the best in Garth, indeed, and known to folk less interested than she in Reuben. Out from the blue sky and the sunshine fear came suddenly to Priscilla of the Good Intent. Apart from love of his master, there is always something of portent and foreboding when a riderless horse comes fawning at one’s hand. “Where is the master?” cried Priscilla, soothing his muzzle with a hand that trembled. The cob tossed his head. That was the question he had brought to Cilla, trusting that in her wisdom she would give him a plain answer. She had none, it seemed, and presently, growing restless again, he shook his head free and cantered off. Cilla watched him take wide circuits, slacken to a trot, then to a walk. He was snuffing the ground like a hound on trail, and last of all he seemed to find a clue, for he turned down the moor along a narrow track, found the gate open at the bottom and trotted out of sight. The girl turned, and wandered as aimlessly about the moor as the horse had done; she was sure that Reuben was lying somewhere in the heather, thrown and badly hurt, and unable to help himself. What had she said to her father not long ago? That snow might follow all this April weather. And now she recalled the words, recalled the cold sense of foreboding that had accompanied them. Tired and out of breath she halted to look about her. Again, like the horse, she sought for help--sought dumbly for it--when her own instincts were at fault. “Good day to ye now. Te-he! Rare weather for the time o’ year,” came a voice at her elbow. “Why, Billy, Billy, you startled me!” “Wouldn’t do that--nay, not for a pipeful o’ baccy,” said Billy the Fool. “’Tis this way, as a body’s body might strive to put that same into plainish speech. I’d been peeping into a nest here, and a lile nest there, right up the pastures; and Fool Billy got to the moor, he did, and fancied he’d see if the peewits were a-laying on yond ancient ground o’ theirs up by Butter-grass Bogs. Then I sees ye--and, durn th’ odd button that’s left on my coat, Miss Priscilla, if I thought twice again o’ the peewits.” Billy was always the courtier with Miss Good Intent; but she was too tired, too anxious, to give him more than a wan smile. “Help me to find Mr. Gaunt,” she said. “His horse came to me just now, Billy, with no one in the saddle. He’s lying somewhere on the moor, and I cannot find him. You’re quick to find missing folk, they say, when they’re four-footed--well, find Mr. Gaunt for me.”