Gradually the truth began to dawn on Mirestone. His own breath must have released Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched the feather would feel the sting of the power. Mirestone sat back dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die quickly like the goat or would his death be prolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested. He gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be a way out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as the feather turned red there was no turning back. Ah--there's the answer. The feather is still white ... there's still a chance. Mirestone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get an animal--another goat, perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working. The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress, but he struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn. It was so black outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at once he saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted; he would try the first one he came to. Wait--what's this holding his cloak? Mirestone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark, and he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran on in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in the barn head first. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in drunkenly, grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching one by the hind leg, he groped his way out again. Thrusting his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud, tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His leg left numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire, and a trickle of blood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down to rub the wound, but quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the fleshy sore? He couldn't see in the rain, but his leg told him that it was something hairy, almost bristly. He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud. Once he fell completely down in the slime. Wiping the dripping earth from his face, he was told again that something was wrong. His cheeks verified his shin's story of a rough, jagged caress. Holding his hand in front of his face he saw, amidst a flash of lightning, a curling, black claw, bristling with long, ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically he dropped the kid and fell forward into the door of the house. The latch gave way with his weight and he tumbled into the cottage. Dancing madly on the end of a thread was a blood red feather.