The wind murmured and sought, and brought boughs to strike against wall and roof. Fire burned on the hearth, light and shadow went around the room. Some one knocked, then opened the door. “I am the charcoal burner, I’ve got a child here who is ill!”
He had him in his arms a thin and gasping six-year-old.
“It’s his throat, and he’s burning in this cold wind! He’ll choke to death.”
They laid him on a bed. The charcoal burner was big and black with a black that brushed off. “What can ye do to help?”
They helped, but Morgen Fay the most, for she took the child upon her knees and with long, fine fingers drew from his throat the stuff that choked. Through the night she crooned to him, comforted him, and at the dawn they wiled him to take a little broth that Richard made, after which he slept, still in her arms.
“Leave him here till he is well.”
“I do not mind, if you do not mind. He will give ye a lot of trouble.”
“Leave him!”
They looked after this boy and he became a great light and play to them. When he was better they took him with them, wrapped in a mantle, into the wood and sat him in the sunshine. Diccon Dawn felled a tree and hewed it into logs for the manor house, Alice Dawn brought faggots, heaping together for the manor cart. When they must rest they sat in the sun with the boy, and the great wind rushed and laughed and clattered in the wood.
“Tell me a story!” said the boy. Richard told saint’s legend, Christ-child story.