At the very walls of the High-king’s manse, the walker in the fog was again challenged by two men. Helmeted they were, and mailed, armed with swords and bucklers with brazen decor, and long spears and each man draped in a cloak of dark red woollen. These stalwarts took note of the newcomer’s long walking-staff, that might have been a cudgel but for his druid’s robe.

The robe-swathed man said no word, but again showed them his fist on which flashed a ring of gold and enamel and carbuncle.

“Enter then, Lord Druid,” one sentry said, opening the great door.

“And come ye in from such a surly night, Lord Druid,” the other said, with a smile, though he did not forget the respectful inclining of his head in its shining round helm.

Robes of dark green rustled like fallen leaves; leather heels fell softly; the holly stick tapped once and then was lifted clear of the floor. Otherwise in silence, the visitor passed them by. From the wall he took a candle, which he waved a bit that it might flare the better while he paced through the dark defense-hall. On his way to the chamber he sought in that high house he saw only a woman abroad. She was not the wife of the High-king, and made a little obeisance as the cowled robe passed. It gave no sign of acknowledgement.

A tawny-haired man in clean green leggings and blue smock of wool sat before the door the visitor approached. The door seemed to crawl with carven knotwork and fantastickal animals, lit and as if animated by the torch burning in a cresset of bronze to either side.

“The lord High-king is receiving no visitors, Druid.”

Once again the cowled man displayed his ring, and in silence. The other gazed upon it, blinking.