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to pick them up he saw, much to his surprise that the wick of the candle was still smouldering.
    While he marvelled, he heard the sound of someone approaching. Coming from the east, walking beside the little stream, was a figure bent with age, cloaked and hooded, helping himself along with a long black staff which seemed to be carved out of ebony wood.
    Ewan ran to the man’s side, and without bothering with any formula of greeting, said: “Tell me quickly please—what day is this?”
    The bent figure unwound slightly, and the light penetrated the shadow within the hood just long enough for Ewan to catch the merest glimpse of two remarkable eyes.
    “You are in time,” said the hooded man. Just that and no more.
    Ewan did not pause but ran back to the mare and mounted her. He had turned her towards Jessamy an urged her into her shambling trot before it occurred to him that the answer he had received was really no answer at all. How could the old man possibly have known why he needed to know what day it was?
    He looked back quickly, but the hooded figure was no longer to be seen. Ewan shook his head, wonderingly. He was angry at himself for having taken the answer at face value like that. He had simply accepted it, and trusted it, without a moment’s thought.
    And yet, inside himself, he still felt that it was true. He would be in time.
    “Even so,” he said, aloud, while he reached forward to pat the old grey mare on the neck, “remind me to ask my questions more carefully next time we meet a man with purple eyes.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    While Helen studied the letter her facial expression registered puzzlement and dismay. It said, simply:
     
    My dearest Helen,
    The words written upon the stone beneath the signpost at the heart of Methwold forest were: TURN THE SIGNPOST ROUND. My question, obviously, is: “And what are those engraved… on Faulhorn’s horn…in Mirasol’s haunted banquet hall?” I trust you will find this query simple enough, as I found mine. I look forward to hearing your answer in two days’ time.
    Yours very sincerely, with all best wishes.
    Damian, prince of Caramorn
     
    “I just don’t believe it,” murmured Helen. “It’s a lie. He made it up.”
    Tears came into her eyes, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Partly it was annoyance, but partly it was the knowledge that she had somehow missed the target badly, and that she was now enmeshed by the consequences of her actions.
    She saw her father hurrying across the great hall, and she quickly folded up the letter and put it away.
    “The most incredible thing…” he began, and then broke off. “Was that the letter from Prince Damian?”
    “Yes,” she said, dully.
    “May I see it?”
    “Oh, no,” she said, hurriedly. “It contains his question. You’re bound to know the answer. I must find it myself.”
    “I won’t tell you what it is.”
    “You know perfectly well that you wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to drop hints,” she said, firmly. “I can’t let you see it.”
    “Oh, well,” sighed the enchanter. “But this does mean, doesn’t it, that he answered your first question correctly?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Helen, dryly. “He answered it.”
    “I’m so glad. Everything is going very well, isn’t it? You know, I was almost afraid that you’d attempt to set a question that was virtually unanswerable. I’m glad you’re playing fair.”
    Helen looked down at the floor, as if inspecting the carpet for stains.
    “You will be able to answer the prince’s question, won’t you?” asked Sirion Hilversun. “It’s not too hard for you?”
    She looked up at that, her eyes flaring as if she were about to lose her temper. But she only said, in a voice steeped in determination: “His question is no harder than mine. If Prince Damian can discover what I set him to find, then there’s no reason at all why I shouldn’t succeed just as well.”
    “Oh, good!” said the enchanter. “Excellent!”
    Helen managed