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hand that was on top. It was clammy from the damp and ice-cold, but not that kind of cold, not cold and rigid. “It’s all right, Padarn, the crows are gone. They won’t get at you. What’s happened here?”
    Gently Madoc drew the old man’s arms away from his face. Padarn’s knees relaxed a bit; he rolled over on his back, his eyes wide open, staring up into the cobweb-snarled, bat-hung, stone-buttressed ceiling. His lips moved a bit, but nothing came out.
    Madoc knew shock when he saw it. No use in trying to make the poor chap talk sense yet. He felt quickly for injuries, saw no blood, found no apparent damage except one great lump on the head. Padarn must have been hit with his cap still on, thank God; the skull seemed to be intact. It was probably safe enough to move him—he couldn’t stay here in the damp, not with all this blood splashed about. Take him into the farmhouse, get him warm, give him stimulants, send for the doctor. Padarn had never been a big man; age had whittled him down to a wisp. Madoc picked up the old sheepman easily enough, he was steering a path to the door through the carnage when his uncle arrived.
    “Madoc! What in God’s name is going on here? What are you doing with Padarn?”
    “Hello, Uncle Huw. I was bringing him to you, actually. He’s badly in shock and probably concussed.”
    “How did it happen?”
    “As you see, somebody’s been up to nasty tricks. I’d guess that Padarn heard the ram in trouble, came to see what was wrong, and got knocked on the head. He’s got a lump the size of a doorknob, it’s a mercy his skull isn’t fractured. We’d best get him warm and send for the doctor. And the police.”
    “No! Give him to me and go back to the manor.”
    “I can’t do that, Uncle Huw.”
    “Then you will do as I say. I am not having my father’s ninetieth birthday ruined by some damned fool playing at witchcraft—Padarn will be best in his own bed. We will light him a fire and give him hot tea to drink. Then we will come back and clean up this unspeakable mess before the mist lifts and others come to see what the crows are fussing about. Then I will go back to Padarn. If he does not come to himself in an hour or so, I will drive him to hospital and tell some awful lie about an accident. You will say not one word of this to any living soul, nor shall I. After the party is over and done with, I will see that all steps are taken to track down and punish the culprit.”
    By the time the party was over, the culprit could be over the hills and far away. Madoc knew better than to argue. Uncle Caradoc had, ten years ago, yielded over to his son all responsibility for the vast sheep farm as well as his hereditary position as local magistrate. One of these days, Huw would be fifteenth baronet and lord of the manor. As a policeman, Madoc deplored Huw Rhys’s decision. As a Rhys, he could not but think his uncle was right in putting the family first. When Huw offered to take the old sheepman’s limp body from him, he shook his head and followed his uncle, docile as a sheep himself, to Padarn’s cottage.
    The place was tiny, its inside walls were blackened from many an open fire, but it was no hovel. Electricity had been laid on and Padarn’s creature comforts not neglected. The bed had a decent mattress and was neatly made up with clean sheets and good woolen blankets, all smooth and snug.
    “Looks as though he never went to bed last night,” Huw grunted. “All those hours in the cold and damp. Make up the fire, Madoc, and boil the kettle.”
    A shiny little electric kettle was sitting on the shelf by the sink, left filled with water in the practical way of country folk. Madoc plugged it in and went to tend the fire while Huw, gently as a mother, eased Padarn out of his clammy garments and into a flannel nightshirt, chafed his feet to get the blood flowing, and covered them with socks of Padarn’s own knitting to keep in the warmth. The kettle boiled, Madoc made tea,