The two without knocked. Carthew crossed the floor without sound, opened the forest-facing door, and with a gesture of farewell vanished. There was a continuous noise of wind and rain; what daylight was left and the lightning were all without; it might truly be doubted if one glancing through the window could either see or hear, the interior was so dusky, the voice of wind and wet so continuing. Joan, with a long, shuddering sigh, put down the hunting-knife, and going to the door opened it. The two who stood there were Will the smith’s son and his mother. They had, it seemed, the weather clearing, walked to see the forester’s people; then, the clouds returning, they had taken their leave to hurry home. But the storm had overtaken them—and they had thought to take refuge until the rain lessened in Heron’s cottage. But they did not know—they thought they had better go on. “Come in and warm and dry yourselves,” said Joan. They came in hesitatingly. They looked around them, confused and doubtful. They sat on the settle by the fire and stared at the grey and white cat. Will was trembling, and it could not be from the wet and chill, for he was used to that. His mother was of stouter mental make. “Were you alone, Joan? It seemed to us there was somebody else—” “Why, who else,” asked Joan, “could there have been?” She looked around her. “The shadows moving along the walls do look like people.” “It looked,” said Will, in a strange voice, “as though you and a shadow were locked and moving together. It looked like a tall black man.” He stared at the fire and at the grey and white cat. A fine, bead-like moisture that was not rain clung to his brow, beneath his yellow elf locks. “No, no black man,” said Joan. “I myself fancy all kinds of things in a storm.”