Gravely he bowed his thanks, then wheeled his horse and was gone, white as a gull over the long curve of the dunes.

The witch went back into the hut, glancing about its one room to see that everything was in place: bats, onions, cauldrons, carpets, broom, toad-stones, crystal balls (cracked through), the thin crescent moon hung up on the chimney, the Books, the familiar—She looked again, then hurried out and called, «Dicky!»

The wind from the west was cold now, bending the coarse grass down.

«Dicky! … Kitty, kitty kitty!»

The wind caught the voice from her lips, tore it into bits, and blew it away.

She snapped her fingers. The broom came zooming out the door, horizontal and about two feet off the ground, while the hut shivered and hopped about in excitement. «Shut up!» the witch snapped, and the door obediently slammed. Mounting the broom she took off in a long gliding swoop southward down the beach, now and then crying out, «Dicky! … Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!»

The young prince, rejoining his men, had dismounted to walk with them. As they reached the pass and saw the city below them on the plain, he felt a tug at his cloak.

«Prince—»

A little boy, so little he was still fat and round-cheeked, stood with a scared look, holding up a battered, sandy box. Beside him a black cat sat smiling broadly. «The sea brought this—it's for the prince of the land, I know it is—please take it!»

«What's in it?»

«Darkness, sir.»

Rikard took the box and after a slight hesitation opened it a little, just a crack. «It's painted black inside,» he said with a hard grin.