n came through
the low, open doorway. It was the light of a fire and a candle; and
there was a delicious aromatic smell of wood smoke in the air. Sir
Lionel explained, as we walked up to the place, that some of these huts
were hundreds of years old, remnants of the time when debtors and
robbers and criminals of all sorts used to hide in the forest under the
protection of the malfays. As he spoke, we almost stumbled over some
obstacle in the dark, and he said that very likely it was the hearth of
a vanished cottage. People had the right to leave the hearth if their
house were torn down, to establish "cottage rights"; and there were a
good many such, still scattered through the forest, even in the gardens
of modern houses; for no one dared take them away.

The charcoal-burner was "at home," and receiving. He was engaged in
cooking eggs and bacon for his supper, and if you could only guess how
good they smelled! Nothing smells as nice as eggs and bacon when you are
hungry, and we were ravenous.

Most things as old as that charcoal-burner are in museums; and his eyes
were so close together it seemed as if they might run into one when he
winked. Also, he was deaf, so we had to roar to him, before he could
understand what had happened. When he did understand, though, he was a
thorough trump, and said we could have his supper if we "would be
pleased to eat it." Bread and cheese would do for him. And we might have
tea, if we could take it without milk.

But there were three eggs, and three strips of bacon, so we insisted
that we must share and share alike, or we would have nothing. I made the
tea, in a battered tin pot which looked like an heirloom, and we all sat
at an uncovered kitchen table together, though our host protested. It
was fun; and the old thing told us weird tales of the forest which made
me conscious that I have a spine and marrow, just as certain wild music
does. His name is Purkess; he thinks he is descended from Purkess, the
charcoal-burner who found the body of William Rufus; and his ancestors,
some of whom were smugglers and poachers, have lived in the forest for a
thousand years. He was so old that he could remember as a child hearing
his old grandfather tell of the days of the wicked, illegal
timber-selling in the forest for the building of warships. Just think,
grand oaks, ash and thorn, trees stanch as English hearts, sold for the
price of firewood!

I sat at the table, watching the firelight play o