were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. That
realization, of course, didn't bother him, for he was not concerned
whether or not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he was
genuinely worried in the failure of the hex. He wondered if he had done
something wrong. If he had, the last link, that could have corrected him
was broken. From here on in he was on his own.

He calmed himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he had
done to see if he couldn't have found some margin in which error could
have crept in. He remembered how carefully he had bent over the feather
reciting the exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered
that part of the hex, for hadn't the feather been ruffled by his breath
when he spoke....

Gradually the truth began to dawn on Mirestone. His own breath must have
released Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched the
feather would feel the sting of the power. Mirestone sat back
dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was he
in for? Would he die quickly like the goat or would his death be
prolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested. He gripped
himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be a
way out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as the feather
turned red there was no turning back. Ah--there's the answer. The
feather is still white ... there's still a chance.

Mirestone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get an
animal--another goat, perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. He
must hurry lest the spell will start working.

The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress, but he
struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn. It was so
black outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at once
he saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted;
he would try the first one he came to. Wait--what's this holding his
cloak? Mirestone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. It
had snagged him in the dark, and he soon became hopelessly entangled in
it. Crying and shrieking, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran
on in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in the
barn head first. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealy
floor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in
drunkenly, grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching one by
the hind leg, h