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before him a low square hut with rough-daubed clay walls and a roof high with a hat of snow like a thick-iced cake. In the doorway, paused irresolute with one hand on the ricketty door, stood the shambling old tramp of the day before. The long grey hair was the same, and so were the clothes and the wizened, crafty face.
    Will came close to the old man and said, as Farmer Dawson had said the day before: “So the Walker is abroad.”
    â€œOnly the one,” said the old man. “Only me. And what’s it to you?” He sniffed, squinting sideways at Will, and rubbed his nose on one greasy sleeve.
    â€œI want you to tell me some things,” Will said, more boldly than he felt. “I want to know why you were hanging around yesterday. Why you were watching. Why the rooks came after you. I want to know,” he said in a sudden honest rush, “what it means that you are the Walker.”
    At the mention of the rooks the old man had flinched closer to the hut, his eyes flickering nervously up at the treetops; but now he looked at Will in sharper suspicion than before. “You can’t be the one !” he said.
    â€œI can’t be what?”
    â€œYou can’t be . . . you ought to know all this. Specially about those hellish birds. Trying to trick me, eh? Trying to trick a poor old man. You’re out with the Rider, ain’t you? You’re his boy, ain’t you, eh?”
    â€œOf course not,” Will said. “I don’t know what you mean.” He looked at the wretched hut; the lane ended here, but there was scarcely even a proper clearing. The trees stood close all round them, shutting out much of the sun. He said, suddenly desolate, “Where’s the farm?”
    â€œThere isn’t any farm,” said the old tramp impatiently. “Not yet. You ought to know . . .” He sniffed again violently, and mumbled to himself; then his eyes narrowed and he came close to Will, peering into his face and giving off a strong repellent smell of ancient sweat and unwashed skin. “But you might be the one, you might. If you’re carrying the first sign that the Old One gave you. Have you got it there, then? Show us. Show the old Walker the sign.”
    Trying hard not to back away in disgust, Will fumbled with the buttons of his jacket. He knew what
the sign
must be. But as he pushed the sheepskin aside to show the circle looped on his belt, his hand brushed against the smooth iron and felt it burning, biting with icy cold; at the same moment he saw the old man leap backwards, cringing, staring not at him but behind him, over his shoulder. Will swung round, and saw the cloaked Rider on his midnight horse.
    â€œWell met,” said the Rider softly.
    The old man squealed like a frightened rabbit and turned and ran,blundering through the snowdrifts into the trees. Will stood where he was, looking at the Rider, his heart thumping so fiercely that it was hard to breathe.
    â€œIt was unwise to leave the road, Will Stanton,” said the man in the cloak, and his eyes blazed like blue stars. The black horse edged forward, forward; Will shrank back against the side of the flimsy hut, staring into the eyes, and then with a great effort he made his slow arm pull aside his jacket so that the iron circle on his belt showed clear. He gripped the belt at its side; the coldness of the sign was so intense that he could feel the force from it, like the radiation of a fierce, burning heat. And the Rider paused, and his eyes flickered.
    â€œSo you have one of them already.” He hunched his shoulders strangely, and the horse tossed its head; both seemed to be gaining strength, to be growing taller. “One will not help you, not alone, not yet,” said the Rider, and he grew and grew, looming against the white world, while his stallion neighed triumphantly, rearing up, its forefeet lashing the air so that Will could only press himself helpless against the wall. Horse and