IN THE TIME after Iceland had become Christian, and after the burning of Njal, but before the deaths of Snorri the Priest and Grettir the Outlaw, there lived at Cragness above Broadfirth a man named Hiarandi, called the Unlucky. And well was he so named, for he got a poor inheritance from his father, but he left a poorer to his son.

Now the farm of Cragness was a fertile fell, standing above the land round about, and girt with crags. Below lay Broadfirth, great and wide, and Cragness jutted out into it, a danger to ships. It had no harbor, but a little cove among the rocks, where Hiarandi kept his boat; and many ships were wrecked on the headland, bringing fortune to the owners of Cragness, both in goods and firewood. And all the land about once belonged to the farm. Rich, therefore, would have been the dwellers at Cragness, but for the doings of Hiarandi's father.

He would always be striving at the law, and he was of ill judgment or ill luck, for what he gained at the farm he always lost. The older he grew, the more quarrelsome he became; and judgments heaped heavy on him, until at last he was so hard put that he must sell all his outlying lands. So the farm, from a wide estate, became only the land of Cragness itself, and another holding of a few acres, lying inland on the uplands, within sight of Cragness and the sea.

In the time when Hiarandi was young, Iceland was still heathen. He sought his fortune in a trading voyage, and sailed West-over-the-Sea, trading in the South Isles as a chapman, trafficking in goods of all kinds. And he made money there, so that at last when he sailed again for home he counted on a fair future. But the ship was wrecked in a storm, and few of the men came ashore; and Hiarandi himself was saved by means of a maid who dwelt at the place, who dragged him from the surf. So Hiarandi came home on foot, his clothes in tatters, having lost money rather than gained it. Then his father, whose losses pressed heavy on him, struggled no more with the world, but went to his bed and died. And in that summer when all Iceland took to the new faith, Hiarandi became master at Cragness.

Hiarandi was a silent man, not neighborly, but hard-working. An unworldly choice he made of a wife, for he took that woman who had saved him from the waves; she was the daughter of a small farmer and brought neither dowry nor kinship of any power. So men said that Hiarandi had no wish to rise in the world. He lived upon his farm, with two thralls and a bondservant; and husbanding his goods well, by little and little he made money which he put out at call, and so bade fair to do better than his father, for all his poor start in life. And a loving spouse he had in Asdis, his wife, who one day bore him a son.

They named the lad Rolf, and he grew to be well knit; he was not powerful, but straight and supple, and of great craft in his hands. And from delight in the boy Hiarandi changed his ways, and became more cheerful, going to fairs and meetings for the sake of Rolf. And Hiarandi taught the lad all he knew of weapon-craft, which was not a little. The lad was swift of foot; he was skilled in the use of the sword and javelin, but most he delighted in the use of the bow.

And that was natural, for upon the cliffs seabirds lived in thousands, hard to catch. The boy went down to their nests with ropes, and took eggs in their season, or the young before they could fly, and both for food. So skilled was he in this that he was called Craggeir, the Cragsman; and no man could surpass him, whether in daring or skill. But there were times when there were no eggs nor fledglings, and from his earliest boyhood Rolf practised in shooting with his bow at the birds, and he kept the larder ever full.

Happy was Hiarandi watching his son, and his pride in him was great. As the lad grew stronger, the father made for him stronger bows and heavier arrows, until at the age of fourteen Rolf used the bow of a man. Then one winter they went down together into the valley, father and son, and watched the sports and games on the frozen mere.

There the men of the place played at ball, and great was the laughter or deep was the feeling. Now Hiarandi would not let Rolf play, for often matters came to blows, and he would not have his son maimed. But when it came to shooting with the bow, Hiarandi put Rolf forward, and it was seen who was the best at that play. For though the men shot, Rolf surpassed them all, not in distance but in skill. He hit the smallest mark at the greatest distance; and when Hiarandi brought a pigeon and freed it, then Rolf brought it down. No one there had seen such shooting. Then those who were not envious named the lad Rolf the Bowman.

But a man named Einar stood by, and he lived on the land which Hiarandi's father had sold. He was rich but covetous, and fond of show, and fond of praise. There lived with him one named Ondott, an Eastfirther who had left his district and come west, a man without property. He stood with Einar and watched the games.

"See," said Einar, "how proud is Hiarandi of his son!"

"Thou hast a son as well," said Ondott. "How he will shine among these churls when he returns from his fostering in the South Isles!"

"Aye," answered Einar. "Like an Earl will he be, and no farmer of these parts will compare with him."

"And as for the shooting of this lad," remarked Ondott, "it is not so fine after all."

"In the Orkneys," said Einar aloud, so that others should hear him, "they are better bowmen than here, and the Earl will have my son taught everything."

Now some who stood by brought Hiarandi this tale. "Have a care," said they. "Thy neighbor Einar sets himself above thee."

"Then he must set himself high," answered Hiarandi with a laugh, "for his land lies far lower than mine."

Then others carried that tale to Einar, and he laid it up in his mind; but Hiarandi forgot all that had been said, nor did he remember to tell of it to Asdis when they had returned from the games.

Then the winter passed on with severe storms, and ships were wrecked on Cragness rocks, but no men reached shore. And Einar envied the more the riches that came to Hiarandi from the wrecks, in firewood, timber, and merchandise. And once a whale came ashore, and that was great fortune. But one evening, as those at Cragness sat within the hall, Asdis came and stood beside her husband, and said, "Listen to the wind."

"There is no need to listen," said Hiarandi. "The wind howls for a storm, and this night will be bad."

Then Thurid the bondservant, who sat by the fire, looked up and said, "Ships are off the land."

"Hearest thou that?" asked Asdis in a low voice. "The woman is strange, but she forecasts well."

"Aye," answered Hiarandi, "it is likely that ships will be on the rocks by morning."

"Now," asked Asdis, "dost thou remember the time thou camest ashore, these many years ago?"

"How should I forget it?" responded Hiarandi.

"But no one can rush into the water here," said Asdis, "to save those who are wrecked."

"That is true," quoth Hiarandi. "I am sorry for the mariners, yet how is one to help?"

Then the bondservant raised her head and sang this song:

"The sea brings money;
Money is bonny.
Bless then the sea
Which brings good to thee."

After that she sat silent and sunken as before.

"Hear the hag," said Asdis, shuddering. "But we prosper through the misfortunes of others."

"What is to be done?" asked Hiarandi.

"It is in my mind," said Asdis, "that if we made a fire-beacon, people could steer from shore and so into safe harbor farther up the firth."

"Now," quoth Hiarandi, "that might be done."

"Wilt thou do it?" asked Asdis.

Then the woman raised her head and sang again:

"He is a fool
Who leaves old rule.
Set heart 'gainst head,
How then butter thy bread?"

Then Hiarandi said to Asdis: "No man has ever yet set beacons against shipwreck. All men agree to take the fortune of the sea; and what is cast on a man's beaches, that is his by old custom."

"Thinkest thou that is right?" asked Asdis.

"Moreover," went on Hiarandi, "the sea is but giving me again what it took away."

"Never can the sea," answered Asdis, "give thee true happiness through other men's misfortunes."

"Remember the boy," said Hiarandi. "Shall I leave him with nothing to begin the world with? For my own earnings bring me at most a mark of silver in the year."

"For all that," replied Asdis, "it is in my mind that to do otherwise were to do better. How canst thou have the heart that men should die longer on our rocks, and we not do our best to save them?"

Then Hiarandi, answering nothing, rose and paced up and down before the fire. And the carline sang once more:

"Take what is given.
No man is wise
Who asketh twice
If earth or heaven
Sends him his prize."

But Asdis stood upright, and she sang:

"Suffer not wrong
To happen long,
Lest punishment
From heaven be sent."

Now in Iceland all men loved the singing of skalds; but though Hiarandi had heard the carline sing many times before, never had he heard rhymes from his wife. So he stood astonished.

Then the bondservant sang again:

"Ill will attend
The beacon's lighting.
Bad spirit's guiding
Will bring false friend."

But Asdis sang with great vehemence:

"Let God decide
What fate shall ride
Upon the wind.
Be thou not blind
To duty's hest.
My rede is best.
List to the storm!
Go! Save from harm
The mariner
Whose fate is near.
To others do
As I did once to you."

And it seemed to Hiarandi as if she commanded him. Moreover, as he listened, the storm roared louder. Then he seized his cloak, and cried to his thralls, "Up, and out with me to make a beacon!"

Though they dared not disobey, they grumbled, and they got their cloaks slowly. For they saw slipping away from them the fine pickings from the wreck, which brought them warm clothes and handsome. Out they went with Hiarandi into the storm, and kindled a great fire at the edge of the cliff. And Rolf toiled too; but Asdis did best of all, for she brought out in a kettle great strips of whale's blubber, and flung them on the fire. Then the flames flared high and wide, as bright as day. And Rolf sprang to the edge of the cliffs and gazed upon the water. Then, pointing, he cried, "Look!"

Down below was a ship; its sail flapped in rags, and the crew were laboring mightily at the oars to save themselves, looking with dread at the white breakers and the looming rocks. Now in the strength of their fear they held the vessel where she was; and by the broad light of the fire every man of them was visible to the Cragness-dwellers. To Rolf that was a dreadful sight. But the bit of a sail was set, and men ran to the steering-oar to hold the vessel stiff; and behold, she moved forward, staggered past the rocks, made clearer water, and wore slowly out into the firth. Even the thralls shouted at the sight.

Then Hiarandi left one of the thralls to keep the fire, and went back to the hall with those others. There the carline still sat.

"So he is safe past the rocks?" she asked, yet speaking as if she knew.

"Aye, safe," answered Hiarandi.

"Now," said she, "thou hast brought thy evil fortune on thyself, and it will be hard to avoid the extreme of it."

"I care not," answered Hiarandi, "even though I suffer for a good deed."

"Nevertheless," said the carline, "the future may be safe, though without riches, if thou wilt be guided by me. Wilt thou follow my redes?"

"No advices of thine do I follow," replied Hiarandi. "For methinks thou still servest the old gods, and canst work witchcraft. Speak no more of this matter in my house; and practise not thy sorcery before my eyes, for the law gives death as punishment."

"Now," answered the woman, "like a foolish man, thou rushest on thy fate. And I see clearly that thou art not he who was spoken of in the prophecy. Not a fortunate Soursop art thou."

"Since the slaying of Kol, who put the curse on all our stock," answered Hiarandi, "has but one of the Soursops prospered. How then should I be fortunate?"

"Two were to prosper," the woman replied. "And each was to put an end to the curse in his branch of thy race. Snorri the Priest is one of those two, as all men know. But thou art not the other; and I believe that thou art doomed to fail, even as thy father was."

"So I have long believed," said Hiarandi calmly.

Then the carline rose, and her eyes were strange, as if they saw beyond that upon which she looked. "More misfortune is coming than thou deemest," she said. "Outlawry. Mayhap even death. Be warned!"

"Thou art a heathen and a witch," said her master. "Be still!"

But she said: "I will not abide the curse. Hiarandi, I have worked long in thy house. Give me now my freedom and let me go."

"Thou hast long been free to go," he replied. "Take thy croaking to another man's board! But this little prophecy I give to thee, that no man will believe thine ill-speaking."

"No great foresight hast thou in that," she answered. "Never have I been believed." Then she drew on her cloak and hooded her face.

"Thou will not go in the storm?" asked Asdis.

"All times are alike," the woman said. "Heed thou this, Hiarandi. Beware the man who came in the ship thou didst save!"

"He is one," answered Hiarandi, "whom I fear not at all."

"Beware suits at law," said the carline again, and she turned to go.

"It needs no great wisdom to say that," retorted Hiarandi upon her. "But stay! I send not people from my door penniless. Nothing is owing from me to thee, yet I will give a piece of money."

"Soon," answered Thurid, "thou wilt need all thou hast." And she went out into the night.

JORIS VERHAGEN was six years old when the Germans invaded Holland. At ten he could remember little of what it had been like before the war. Dirk Jan, his brother, who was four years older, could tell him more about it, but Joris suspected that he made things up. Surely there never could have been a time when people threw away potato parings and apple cores and fed their precious sugar beets to the pigs! But Dirk Jan said it was all true, and you did not have to walk to the farms to get your food either; people actually brought it to the door! And shops had shelves bulging with merchandise. "The most marvelous stuff!" said Dirk Jan. "For St. Nicholas there were animals made of sugar and great big spiced cakes, and chocolate letters."

"What does chocolate taste like?" asked Joris, but Dirk Jan didn't know how to explain a taste.

"Toys too," he said, "and clothes! You didn't need ration coupons then; you could buy anything you wanted and the shopkeeper bowed and said 'thank you' and asked you to come again!"

That made Joris laugh. Imagine Mrs. Jansen of the bare little grocery store in the village saying "Thank you!" She usually started to scream, "I'm all sold out!" before you could slip off your clogs and enter the store.

"I don't believe it," he cried.

But Dirk Jan nodded. "When I made my First Communion," he said, "Mother bought me new underclothes and a whole new suit, and Mr. Solomon, who had the clothing store before the Germans took him, kept smiling and showing her more.

"A whole new suit," whispered Joris enviously. For his own First Communion Mother had made him a new shirt out of an old sheet and had knitted stockings for him out of a black sweater of hers. He had been very proud of himself, too—but a whole suit! You could not get that now even if you saved your rations for years and years, he thought.

"You'll see. Once the war is over, those times will come back again," promised Dirk Jan.

Joris wondered. He could not even imagine what it would be like when the war was over. He'd got used to the regular drone of English bombers on their way to Berlin, and to the exploding shells of antiaircraft guns. He'd got used to the feel of danger, always threatening. These things were part of his life, like hail and thunder. But he did not like them. He hated any kind of strife. He'd walk a long way round not to pass two women shouting at each other across the street, and he seldom took part in school quarrels.

Yet once he started a fight himself. It was early in the summer vacation of 1944, and Joris was on his way to the village on an errand for his mother. He was crossing the highway when he saw two boys, wearing threadbare city clothes and patched leather shoes. They had hitched a collie pup, no more than three months old, to a homemade cart. One of the boys knelt in the cart and shouted to the pup to pull him. The pup tried hard, tongue out, eyes popping. It pulled the cart for a few paces and then sat down, whimpering. It looked around with pleading eyes, thumping its tail.

"Go on, stupid mutt!" the boys cried, and the one in the cart began to hit the pup over the head with a stick.

Joris never could remember afterwards exactly what happened. He only knew that he flew into a wild fury and charged at those boys, head down. It was two against one, but perhaps his head was harder than most, or perhaps anger gave him unusual strength. His wooden shoes were also excellent weapons which the boys could not match. At any rate, he chased them off long enough to be able to unhitch the pup. He grabbed the furry, squirming animal in his arms and ran—for the boys had recovered from their surprise and were after him. They threw stones at him. One hit his head, and he staggered for a moment but kept running.

"Thief!" the boys shouted. "Give us back our pup!" But their voices grew fainter. The stones stopped falling, and after a while Joris slackened his speed. His head throbbed and his nose bled. He wiped it with his sleeve and shifted the heavy pup, who was licking his ear.

It was quiet on the dike road between the lush green fields of the diked-in "polders." In the distance loomed the thatched body and whirling wings of the "Watchman," his father's windmill.

His mother gasped when she saw him come in. He had a big lump on his head where the stone had hit him. One eye was black and his clothes were spattered with blood.

"Whatever happened?" she cried. "Don't tell me you've been fighting!"

"I had to rescue this pup," said Joris, putting it on the floor, where it started to sniff around curiously.

"Merciful St. Joseph!" cried Mother. "And what about my message?"

"Oh, the buttons! I forgot—" stammered Joris.

"Well, you will have to wait for your jacket then," said Mother. "Never mind. Come to the pump and I'll clean you up, you poor child!" She bustled about, tending to her wounded warrior, while she listened to his tale.

"Many's the time I've had to do this for Dirk Jan," she said, placing a cold, wet cloth on Joris' swollen eye. "I never thought I'd have to do it for you! Still, you did right to defend a helpless creature, but you'll have to find out where it belongs and bring it back."

"Mother!" cried Joris in anguish, "I can't bring it back. Those boys will kill it!"

When Mother insisted, he began to sob wildly. Mother felt sorry for him.

"We'll ask Father," she said.

The Verhagen family discussed the pup during supper. Three-year-old Trixie, a tiny child with a headful of red curls, sat in her high chair, rubbing spinach over her face. Mother told Father what had happened while Joris stared at his plate. He was praying inside: "Dear God, please let me keep the pup! I'll never do anything wrong again . . . I promise. Please, God."

"I know where the pup belongs," said Dirk Jan. "It's the de Wits' pup. Hans and Habel de Wit showed it to me. They're from Amsterdam and they're staying at the Schenderhans' farm for the summer. I never thought Joris would dare take on anyone that big!"

"Yes, it is quite a feat for our Joris," said Father. When he smiled, little lines ran from the corners of his eyes in all directions like the rays of the sun. Father's face was broad and strong and peaceful.

"Well Joris," he said, "if I try to get this pup for you, will you pay me back in chores?"

"Oh, yes, Father, yes! I'll weed the garden, I'll chop wood, I'll mind Trixie—" Joris was stammering with happiness.

After dinner Father, Dirk Jan and Joris went together to the Schenderhans' farm. Joris carried the pup.

It was wonderful to be out with Father. It did not happen often, for he was a busy man. He was responsible for keeping the Rynsater polder dry. Each polder, a piece of reclaimed land, has its own mill to pump away the excess water that gathers between its dikes. When the mill wasn't working, Father was fishing or helping on a farm.

Farmer Schenderhans lived in the Noorderaar polder. Father and the boys took the short way: along the broad drainage canal which was cupped between two dikes, as it was much higher than the fields on either side. Cattle grazed below them, swishing their tails at dancing midges; frogs croaked in the ditches and birds twittered in the willow trees that lined the road. The Noorderaar polder was a large one. It had had two windmills. One, the far one at the other end of the polder, had been pulled down and replaced by an electric pump. This did the work of two, and the other windmill, the "Giant," stood wingless and idle. Father and the boys passed it on their way to the Schenderhans farm. Joris felt sorry for it, and Father seemed sad, too.

"It's a shame to let that mill go," he said. "Who knows when it might be needed? Too many windmills are scrapped in Holland. There are fewer and fewer boys now who want to be millwrights. After a while we won't know how to build windmills any more."

"I want to be a millwright, Father," cried Dirk Jan.

Father nodded. "I know, son, and I'm glad, but we need more than one to keep our windmills in repair. The trouble is that people think electricity is foolproof and easy. It certainly does not require much skill to run an electric pump. What they forget is that you have no control over your power that way. You make yourself dependent on a supply which is generated miles away in some central spot. If that fails, you are helpless. And can we afford to be helpless when it may mean drowning?"

Father stared into the distance where the Saterwoude church spire lifted itself like an exclamation point out of the hazy blue of the trees.

A dreadful thought came to Joris. "They won't scrap the Watchman, will they?" he asked.

Father sighed. "There are farmers in our polder who are envious of the modern Noorderaar pump. They imagine it is more efficient and costs less. There is talk of electrifying the mill after the war."

"But what will happen to us then?" asked Joris.

"I suppose we'd have to look for another mill," said Father.

"And leave our home?" cried Joris.

"That wouldn't be fair!" protested Dirk Jan. "Grandfather and Great-grandfather lived in our mill. It belongs to us!"

"Not really," explained Father. "It belongs to the Rynsater polder committee and they will decide whether to keep it or scrap it."

The boys were silent the rest of the way. They had never realized the danger that threatened their home.

The Schenderhans' farm was as wealthy as a farm could be in occupied territory. The Germans wanted a large share of the waving wheat and heavy cattle. All the same, Farmer Schenderhans lived comfortably enough in his long, rambling farmhouse with its thatched roof and small windows. Hay bulged high under a cap on stilts in the yard. Chickens scratched and clucked; pigs grunted in the shed. Nero, the Schenderhans' Alsatian, came bounding out of the house to greet the visitors. After him ran Hendrik, the younger son of the farmer and a classmate of Joris.

"I know what you've come for!" he shouted. "You've come to bring back the pup! Hans and Habel said you had stolen it, but I told them I knew you and you'd be sure to bring it back!" He sounded triumphant. "Hans and Habel aren't here. They've gone fishing. Come, I'll show you the farm. I've got to gather eggs for Mother," he added, waving a basket. But Joris shook his head and ran after Father and Dirk Jan, who had already entered the house. The puppy hid its head under Joris' arm as if it were scared. Joris felt scared too. He tightened his clasp on the dog and entered the house timidly.

The de Wit parents were at home, and so were Mr. and Mrs. Schenderhans. They were all sitting in the dark parlor with its heavy lace curtains, stiff red plush chairs and flowered wallpaper.

Mr. and Mrs. de Wit did not seem pleased to see the pup, and they were amazed that it was Joris who had attacked their sons.

"You're sure it wasn't this one?" they asked, pointing at Dirk Jan. But it was Joris who had the black eye, and that convinced them.

Father apologized for Joris' having taken the pup, and offered to buy it. Mr. and Mrs. de Wit looked at each other.

"As a matter of fact," said Mr. de Wit, "we don't want a dog. It's a nuisance in the city, and we're hard put to feed ourselves, let alone animals." Mrs. de Wit nodded at each word. She was a thin, nervous woman who looked underfed, in spite of the good farm food she had been getting.

"It was only because the boys begged for it that we bought the dog," Mr. de Wit continued, "but they haven't been kind to it, and I confess that I'll be relieved to sell it to you."

So Father got the pup for a few florins, and Mrs. Schenderhans, a thick-set patient woman, served freshly-made buttermilk and real wheat cookies to seal the bargain.

Joris and Dirk Jan were relishing every mouthful of this treat, Joris sharing his with the pup, and the grownups had started a polite conversation about the difficulties and scarcities of wartime, when a loud yelping outside startled them. The pup began to whimper and hid her head under Joris' arm again.

"Leendert, don't be mean. Nero wasn't doing anything. Stop it!" they heard Hendrick cry.

"Keep him out of my way then," came a gruff voice. "That wretched dog!"

A moment later a young man slouched into the room. His small eyes took in the company, but there was no smile on his face, nor did he utter a word of welcome. He just looked, and everyone in the room became uncomfortable.

"Hello, Leendert," said Mrs. Schenderhans with forced cheerfulness. "Do you want supper?"

"Of course," said Leendert, his mouth twisting up a little as if he were trying to smile, but it was too much trouble for the rest of his face. He was still staring at the company.

Mrs. de Wit got up. "Well, we'd better be going to our own room now, Bertus," she said nervously to her husband. Mr. de Wit got up too, but Mr. Schenderhans interfered.

"Stay!" he said. "I won't have you chased away by my son's bad manners." The de Wits sat down again awkwardly. Mr. Schenderhans glared at Leendert.

"Can't you greet our guests properly?" he asked. "If you can't behave, you'd better go."

Now a smile curved Leendert's mouth, a real smile that lit a triumphant green spark in his eyes. He stood a little straighter. "You'd better mind how you talk to me, Pa," he said. "I was made a landwatcher today."

Landwatchers were detested Dutchmen who enforced the laws of the Nazi occupation. Mr. Schenderhans jumped up, very red. He would have said something if Leendert had not thrown him an odd look through his pale eyelashes and added:

"I can have you arrested, you know, if I tell about your black market activities."

Mr. Schenderhans swallowed and stared and said nothing. A little muscle twitched in his cheek.

Leendert laughed softly and stretched himself. "Where's the food, Mom?" he asked insolently. His mother hurried to get it for him, and he followed her to the kitchen.

Mr. Schenderhans sat down heavily. Father tried to console him. "He's probably only boasting," he said. "He doesn't mean it."

Veins stood out on Mr. Schenderhans' forehead. "Mean it? Of course he means it," he growled. "He always was a good-for-nothing scamp. Eighteen he is, and never raised a finger to help me. But that he should become a traitor. . . ." Mr. Schenderhans put his head in his hands.

The de Wits made a sign to each other to leave. Father got up too. The farmer hardly noticed when they all said good-by.

When Father and the boys stepped outside, they saw Hendrick with his arms around his dog.

"What's the matter?" asked Joris.

"Leendert kicked him!" Hendrik was sniffling. "He kicked him for nothing!"

Joris was glad he didn't have a brother like Leendert. "Father bought the pup!" he said. "She's mine! I'm going to call her Freya."

"Why Freya?" asked Hendrick. Joris didn't know how to explain. He loved to read, was always taking out books from the school library, especially fairy tales and sagas. Freya, the Norse goddess for whom Friday is named, had always been a favorite of his. He had pictured her white and gold, like the pup. But he did not think Hendrik would understand, so he said:

"Oh, just because."

"You live in a windmill, don't you?" asked Hendrik. "Could I come and look at it sometime? Our Giant doesn't work any more. And anyway, I'm scared to go there." He let his voice drop into a mysterious whisper as he added, "It's haunted—honest! I saw ghosts there myself."

Joris would have liked to question him further, but the others had gone on.

"Come and see our mill then, and bring Nero," he shouted as he ran off.

The sun had gone down and mists were rising from the polders. Black bats fluttered drunkenly against the last turquoise glimmer of the day. The ruined mill loomed large and sinister.

"Is it haunted?" whispered Joris. Father squeezed his hand and laughed. It was true that every spring he repainted the white cross on the wall of the Watchman, which was supposed to ward off evil. His father had done it, and his grandfather before him. But with ghosts he did not hold.

"Good people need not fear ghosts," he said.

It was past curfew, and a German soldier or a landwatcher who saw them might shoot. They walked cautiously, keeping in the shadow of the willow trees that lined the dike.

Joris was glad when he saw the lighted windows of the Watchman. Mother was there, waiting to hear the news about the puppy! Joy flooded Joris' heart when he thought of it. He had longed so much for a dog of his own, and here she was, more lovely than he could have imagined! Freya!

He kissed the pup between her ears.