One night, standing before his cabin door, he surveyed the stars. The air was still and frosty: the quiet of the sleeping forest lay around him. This was the hour he felt his own most fully; himself awake, alive, while Nature slept. Even the trees were wrapt to slumber, very motionless, their bare branches darkly outlined against the luminous sky. There was no moon: among the brighter stars the Milky Way flung her whitely powdered track, a far-off illimitable path. Immensity around him, his soul winged dauntless out to it. Suddenly he came back to earth, very alert, on the scent of an intruder. You would have declared all around to be silent, still as the grave: Oswald stood with head bent, listening intently. The minutes passed: from far off came the lightest stirring of the undergrowth, a mere rustle as of the faintest breath of wind. Muscles tensioned, Oswald raised his head, looked towards the place whence the sound had come. Now it grew more distinct; there was the snapping of a twig. Suddenly from among the trees stepped a tall man, dark-cloaked. The two confronted each other, hostile for the moment. Oswald broke the silence, since truly it behooved one of them to break it. “Who are you?” he asked, putting the most natural question, and the one that came readiest to his tongue. “One, Peregrine,” replied the intruder. “Truly an’ you are surprised to see me, which I take it you be, I am none less surprised to see you. Are you spirit or mortal?” “Very much mortal,” returned Oswald laughing. “And mortal enough to be frankly startled by your appearance. I look not for wayfarers so far afield, and at this hour.” Peregrine gazed around him. In the moonlight he saw the cabin; a rough place enough, built of logs and wattles. “You live here?” he asked wondering. “I do. An’ you would have rest and shelter you are welcome to what I can offer you.” “I accept your offer gladly,” said Peregrine. “I have walked far enough for the nonce,—over far for that matter.” “Then the sooner you come to a halt the better,” returned Oswald. And he led the way within the cabin. For all its roughness it was clean and freshsmelling, holding a scent of peat, bracken, and dried herbs, which latter dangled in bunches from a string across one corner. A peat fire lighted the place dimly, flinging great shadows on the log walls. “Sit you there,” said Oswald, pointing to a heap of bracken; and forthwith busied himself with the preparation of food. Ere long he had it ready,—crushed corn mixed with goat’s milk and boiled to a smooth paste, sweetened with honey. He ladled it steaming from an iron pot into two bowls fashioned from the dried and seasoned rind of a pumpkin. Peregrine wolfed it down; you could see he brought hunger to it as a very excellent sauce. For drink, Oswald made a beverage from herbs of his own gathering, a dark brew but not unpalatable. Anon, filled and rested, Peregrine gave vent to a great sigh.