“Are—are you a dwarf?” said Susan.

“That am I.” He bowed low. “By name, Fenodyree; Wineskin, or Squabnose, to disrespectful friends. Take your pick.”

He straightened up and looked keenly from one to the other of the children. His face had the same qualities of wisdom, of age without weakness, that they had seen in Cadellin, but here there was more of merriment, and a lighter heart.

“Oh please,” said Susan, “take us to the wizard, if you can. Something dreadful has happened, and he must be told at once, in case it’s not too late.”

“In case what is not too late?” said Fenodyree. “Oh, but there I go, wanting gossip, when all around is turmoil and urgent deeds! Let us find Cadellin.”

He ran his hands down the rough stone, like a man stroking the flanks of a favourite horse. The rock stirred ponderously and clove in two, and there were the iron gates, and the blue light of Fundindelve.

“Now the gates,” said Fenodyree briskly. “My father made them, and so they hear me, though I have not the power of wizards.”

He laid his hand upon the metal, and the gates opened. “Stay close, lest you lose the way. called Fenodyree over his shoulder.”

He set off at a jog-trot down the swift-sloping tunnel. Colin and Susan hurried after him, the rock and iron closed behind them, and they were again far from the world of men.

Down they went into the Edge, and came at last, by many zig-zag paths, to the cave where they had rested after their first meeting with Cadellin. And there they found him: he had been reading at the table, but had risen at the sound of their approach.