Spitfire stood by the brazier, spreading his strong hands above the glow. After a time he spake more soberly. “It is not these few ships burnt in the north should trouble me; and indeed Laxus hath not five hundred men to man his whole fleet withal. But he holdeth the sea, and ever since his putting out into the deep with thirty sail from Lookinghaven I do expect fresh succours out of Witchland. ’Tis that maketh me champ still on the bit till this hold be won again; for then were we free at least to meet their landing. But ’twere most unfit at this time of the year to carry on a siege in low and watery grounds, the enemy’s army being on foot and unengaged. Wherefore, this is my mind, O my friend, that thou go with haste over the Stile and fetch me supply of men. Leave force to ward our ships a-building, wheresoever they be; and a good force in Krothering and thereabout, for I will not be found a false steward of his lady sister’s safety. And in thine own house make sure. But these things being provided, shear up the war-arrow and bring me out of the west fifteen or eighteen hundred men-at-arms. For I do think that by me and thee and such a head of men of Demonland as we shall then command Owlswick gates may be brast open and Corsus plucked out of Owlswick like a whilk out of his shell.” Zigg answered him, “I’ll be gone at point of day.” Now they rose up and took their weapons and muffled themselves in their great campaigning cloaks and went forth with torch-bearers to walk through the lines, as every night ere he went to rest it was Spitfire’s wont to do, visiting his captains and setting the guard. The rain fell gentlier. The night was without a star. The wet sands gleamed with the lights of Owlswick Castle, and from the castle came by fits the sound of feasting heard above the wash and moan of the sullen sleepless sea. When they had made all sure and were come nigh again to Spitfire’s tent and Zigg was upon saying good-night, there rose up out of the shadow of the tent an ancient man and came betwixt them into the glare of the torches. Shrivelled and wrinkled and bowed he seemed as with extreme age. His hair and his beard hung down in elf-locks adrip with rain. His mouth was toothless, his eyes like a dead fish’s eyes. He touched Spitfire’s cloak with his skinny hand, saying in a voice like the night-raven’s, “Spitfire, beware of Thremnir’s Heugh.” Spitfire said, “What have we here? And which way the devil came he into my camp?” But that aged man still held him by the cloak, saying, “Spitfire, is not this thine house of Owlswick? And is it not the most strong and fair place that ever man saw in this countree?” “Filth, unhand me,” said Spitfire, “else shall I presently thrust thee through with my sword, and send thee to the Tartarus of hell, where I doubt not the devils there too long await thee.”