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contend with a hundred questions simultaneously.
    The crowd parted to let the nobles approach him, and at once closed in again, like water around a slow-moving boat.
    The margrave came up behind the rest, panting somewhat, for he was growing fat, and looked the stranger over with dismay, while the people’s voices rose to a roar and then sank again into a muttering buzz. At last, having cast a beseeching glance at his companions and received no offers of assistance, he was compelled to address the newcomer.
    “Sir, who are you and what do you want?”
    In the terribly patient tone of one dealing with lunatics, the stranger said, “My name is Bernard Brown, and all I want is to go home.”
    “That is easy enough to arrange,” said the margrave in relief – though had he paused to reflect that Tyllwin was concerned with this man’s arrival, he would not so soon have been optimistic. He rounded on Petrovic. “Will you oblige?”
    Petrovic looked up in the air and down at the ground. He scratched a number of ideograms in the dust with his staff Nitra, then hastily scuffed them over with his sandal. He said flatly, “No.”
    “Well, if you won’t you won’t,” sighed the margrave. He appealed next to Gostala, who merely shook her regal head and went on scrutinizing Bernard Brown.
    “Eadwil!” cried the margrave.
    The boy, whose face had turned perfectly pale, stammered a few incomprehensible words and burst into tears.
    “See? They can’t! What did I tell you?” bellowed a voice from the crowd, and the margrave shot a glance at the speaker as sharp as a spear.
    “Come forth!” he commanded, and with the aid of a number of bystanders the fellow pushed and shoved until he stood before his ruler. He was an insolent-faced churl with a shock of corn-colored hair, and wore a leather apron with large pockets in which reposed the tools of his trade. He appeared to be some kind of worker in metal.
    “You are …” said the margrave, and ran through a short formula in his mind. “You are Brim, a locksmith. What did you mean by what you just said?”
    “What my words meant and neither more nor less,” the locksmith retorted, seeming amused. “Why, anyone can see he’s not to be pushed around by ordinary folk!”
    “Explain further,” the margrave commanded.
    “Why, ’tis simple as your mind … sir. ” Brim thrust an errant lock of hair back into place with one blunt thumb. “I see it plain, and so do all of us. Here we’ve been saying these years past that what’s amiss with Ryovora is, we haven’t got a god like all those towns around the world every wherever. And now, today, what do the omens say? Can all your magicking unriddle them?”
    He thrust a stubby finger at the margrave’s chest. The latter recoiled and looked at him distastefully. But he was by temperament an honest man, so he had to admit that although the noble enchanters had speculated long and long about the recent omens they had failed to arrive at any conclusion.
    “There, mates! What did I tell you?” thundered Brim, whirling to face the crowd. There was an answering yell, and in a moment the situation had turned topsy-turvy. The throng had closed in on Bernard Brown, unmindful that they trod on noble toes, and had seized him and gone chairing him down the avenue, while men, women and children ran and skipped behind him, singing a rhythmic song and laughing like hyenas.
    “Well!” said the margrave in vexation. “This is a most improper and irregular state of affairs!”
     
    VI
     
    The margrave had cause to repeat those words, with still greater emphasis and an even more somber expression, the following morning. He sat once more at the head of the long table in the Moth Garden, for the air had become if anything more oppressive than yesterday; moreover, reports of omens seemed to have doubled in number.
    “This is extremely aggravating!” said the margrave testily. “Virtually the entire populace is firmly convinced this