They had come to a rise in the Polwint Road. To their right, running to the very foot of their path, was the moor. It stretched away, like a cloud, vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark brown field rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in midair, was shining like a golden fire. "What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging. What the devil!" They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they had gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again. "It's like a man with a golden helmet. He's got legs, he's coming to us." They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, "Why, it's only an old Scarecrow. We might have guessed." The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey. The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can hanging over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to wink at them. The shadows came streaming up from the sea and the dark woods below in the hollow drew closer to them. The Scarecrow seemed to lament the departure of the light. "Here, mind," he said to the two of them, "you saw me in my glory just now and don't you forget it. I may be a knight in shining armour after all. It only depends upon the point of view." "So it does," said Mr. Pidgen, taking his hat off, "you were very fine, I shan't forget." VI They stood there in silence for a time.... VII At last they turned back and walked slowly home, the intimacy of their new friendship growing with their silence. Hugh was happier than he had ever been before. Behind the quiet evening light he saw wonderful prospects, a new life in which he might dream as he pleased, a new friend to whom he might tell these dreams, a new confidence in his own power.... But it was not to be. That very night Mr. Pidgen died, very peacefully, in his sleep, from heart failure. He had had, as he had himself said, a happy life. VIII