Without the flocks to eat the seedlings of shrubs and trees, the ancient cover of beech tree and oak was returning, uprooting on its way the houses where the sheep-consumers had lived.
This vigorous young forest, still dripping from the recent rain, brushed against the stone walls of the barn to which the party was directed. The front and rear walls of the barn were, in fact, broken in, with the result that the floor was muddy. But a wooden stair led up to a small balcony, on to which two rooms opened, snug under a still effective roof. They had recently been lived in, and held the offer of a comfortable night. Pitt and Charley took one room, Martha and Greybeard the other.
They made a good meal of a pair of young ducks and some peas Martha had bought off one of the women on the boat, for the priestesses had proved not adverse to a haggle in their off-hours. A search for bugs revealed that they were unlikely to have company during the night; with this encouragement, they retired early to their room. Greybeard lit a lantern and he and Martha pulled off their shoes. She began to comb and brush her hair. He was pulling the barrel of his rifle through with a piece of cloth when he heard the wooden stairs creak.
He stood up quietly, slipping a cartridge into the breach and levelling the rifle at the door.
The intruder on the stairs evidently heard the click of the bolt, for the voice called, “Don’t shoot!”
Greybeard heard Pitt next door call out a challenge. “Who’s that out there, you devils?” he shouted. “I’ll shoot you dead!”
“Greybeard, it’s me – Jingadangelow! I wish to speak to you.”
Martha said, “Jingadangelow and not the Master!”
He extinguished their lantern and threw open the door. In the protracted twilight, Jingadangelow stood half-way up the stairs, a small lamp held above his head. Its light, slanting down, lit only his gleaming forehead and cheeks. Pitt and Charley came out on to the little balcony to look at him. “Don’t shoot, men. I am alone and mean you no harm. I only wish to speak to Greybeard. You may go to bed and sleep securely.”
“We’ll decide that for ourselves,” Pitt said, but his tone suggested he was mollified. “You saw earlier on that we’ll stand no nonsense from you.”
“I’ll handle him, Jeff,” Greybeard said. “You’d better come up, Jingadangelow.”
The hawker of eternal life had put on flesh recently; the timbers creaked under his tread as he pulled himself up on to the platform. Greybeard stood aside, and Jingadangelow entered their room. On seeing Martha, he made the jerk at his hips that was a portly substitute for a bow. He placed his lantern on a stone shelf set in the wall and stood there, pulling at his lip and observing them, breathing heavily as he did so.
“Is this a social call?” Martha asked.
“I’ve come to make a bargain with you,” he said.
“We don’t make bargains; that’s your trade, not ours,” Greybeard said. “If your two toughs want their revolvers back, I’m willing to return them in the morning when we leave, provided you can guarantee their good behaviour.”
“I didn’t come to discuss that. You needn’t use that sharp tone just because you have me at a slight disadvantage. I want to put a straightforward proposition to you.”
Martha said coolly, “Dr. Jingadangelow, we hope to be moving early in the morning. Do please come directly to what you have to say.”
“Is it something to do with that girl Chammoy?” Greybeard asked.
Muttering that someone would have to help him up again, Jingadangelow sank to the floor and sat there.
“I see I have no option but to lay some of my cards upon the metaphorical table. I want you both to listen generously, since I have indeed come to unburden myself. May I say I’m sorry you don’t receive me in a more friendly way. Despite that little spot of trouble on the boat, my regard for you is unchanged.”
“We are interested in hearing about the girl in your possession,” Martha said.