Since the night when Jimbo had nearly fallen into the yard and risked capture, Fright, the horrible owner of the house, had kept himself well out of the way, and had allowed himself to be neither seen nor heard.

But the boy was not foolish enough to fall into the other trap, and imagine, therefore, that He did not know what was going on.  Jimbo felt quite sure that He was only waiting his chance; and the governess’s avoidance of the subject tended to confirm this supposition.

“He’s disappeared somewhere and taken the children with him,” she declared when he questioned her.  “And now you know almost as much as I do.”

“But not quite!” he laughed mischievously.

“Enough, though,” she replied.  “We want all our energy for escape when it comes.  Don’t bother about anything else for the moment.”

During the day, when he was alone, his thoughts and fancies often terrified him; but at night, when he was rushing through the heavens, the intense delight of flying drove all minor emotions out of his consciousness, and he even forgot his one great desire ­to escape.  One night, however, something happened that brought it back more keenly than ever.

He had been out flying alone, but had not gone far when he noticed that an easterly wind had begun to rise and was blowing steadily behind him.  With the recent instructions fresh in his head, he thought it wiser to turn homewards rather than fight his way back later against a really strong wind from this quarter.  Flying low along the surface of the fields so as to avoid its full force, he suddenly rose up with a good sweep and settled on the top of the wall enclosing the yard.

The moonlight lay bright over everything.  His approach had been very quiet.  He was just about to sail across to the window when something caught his eye, and he hesitated a moment, and stared.

Something was moving at the other end of the courtyard.

It seemed to him that the moonlight suddenly grew pale and ghastly; the night air turned chilly; shivers began to run up and down his back.

He folded his wings and watched.

At the end of the yard he saw several figures moving busily to and fro in the shadow of the wall.  They were very small; but close beside them all the time stood a much larger figure which seemed to be directing their movements.  There was no need to look twice; it was impossible to mistake these terrible little people and their hideous overseer.  Horror rushed over the boy, and a wild scream was out in the night before he could possibly prevent it.  At the same moment a cloud passed over the face of the moon and the yard was shrouded in darkness.

A minute later the cloud passed off; but while it was still too dark to see clearly, Jimbo was conscious of a rushing, whispering sound in the air, and something went past him at a tremendous pace into the sky.  The wind stirred his hair as it passed, and a moment later he heard voices far away in the distance ­up in the sky or within the house he could not tell ­singing mournfully the song he now knew so well: ­

  We dance with phantoms and with shadows play.

But when he looked down at the yard he saw that it was deserted, and the corner by the little upright stones lay in the clear moonlight, empty of figures, large or small.

Shivering with fright, he flew across to the window ledge, and almost tumbled into the arms of the governess who was standing close inside.

“What’s the matter, child?” she asked in a voice that trembled a little.

And, still shuddering, he told her how he thought he had seen the children working by the gravestones.  All her efforts to calm him at first failed, but after a bit she drew his thoughts to pleasanter things, and he was not so certain after all that he had not been deceived by the cunning of the moonlight and the shadows.

A long interval passed, and no further sign was given by the owner of the house or his band of frightened children.  Jimbo soon lost himself again in the delights of flying and the joy of his increasing powers.

Most of all he enjoyed the quiet, starlit nights before the moon was up; for the moon dazzled the eyes in the rarefied air where they flew, whereas the stars gave just enough light to steer by without making it uncomfortable.

Moreover, the moon often filled him with a kind of faint terror, as of death; he could never gaze at her white face for long without feeling that something entered his heart with those silver rays ­something that boded him no good.  He never spoke of this to the governess; indeed, he only recognised it himself when the moon was near the full; but it lay always in the depths of his being, and he felt dimly that it would have to be reckoned with before he could really escape for good.  He took no liberties when the moon was at the full.

He loved to hover ­for he had learned by this time that most difficult of all flying feats; to hold the body vertical and whirr the wings without rising or advancing ­he loved to hover on windless nights over ponds and rivers and see the stars reflected in their still pools.  Indeed, sometimes he hovered till he dropped, and only saved himself from a wetting by sweeping up in a tremendous curve along the surface of the water, and thus up into the branches of the trees where the governess sat waiting for him.  And then, after a little rest, they would launch forth again and fly over fields and woods, sometimes even as far as the hills that ran down the coast of the sea itself.

They usually flew at a height of about a thousand feet, and the earth passed beneath them like a great streaked shadow.  But as soon as the moon was up the whole country turned into a fairyland of wonder.  Her light touched the woods with a softened magic, and the fields and hedges became frosted most delicately.  Beneath a thin transparency of mist the water shone with a silvery brilliance that always enabled them to distinguish it from the land at any height; while the farms and country houses were swathed in tender grey shadows through which the trees and chimneys pierced in slender lines of black.  It was wonderful to watch the shadows everywhere spinning their blue veil of distance that lent even to the commonest objects something of enchantment and mystery.

Those were wonderful journeys they made together into the pathways of the silent night, along the unknown courses, into that hushed centre where they could almost hear the beatings of her great heart ­like winged thoughts searching the huge vault, till the boy ached with the sensations of speed and distance, and the old yellow moon seemed to stagger across the sky.

Sometimes they rose very high into freezing air, so high that the earth became a dull shadow specked with light.  They saw the trains running in all directions with thin threads of smoke shining in the glare of the open fire-boxes.  But they seemed very tiny trains indeed, and stirred in him no recollections of the semi-annual visits to London town when he went to the dentist, and lunched with the dreaded grandmother or the stiff and fashionable aunts.

And when they came down again from these perilous heights, the scents of the earth rose to meet them, the perfume of woods and fields, and the smells of the open country.

There was, too, the delight, the curious delight of windy nights, when the wind smote and buffeted them, knocking them suddenly sideways, whistling through their feathers as if it wanted to tear them from their sockets; rushing furiously up underneath their wings with repeated blows; turning them round, and backwards and forwards, washing them from head to foot in a tempestuous sea of rapid and unexpected motion.

It was, of course, far easier to fly with a wind than without one.  The difficulty with a violent wind was to get down ­not to keep up.  The gusts drove up against the under-surfaces of their wings and kept them afloat, so that by merely spreading them like sails they could sweep and circle without a single stroke.  Jimbo soon learned to manoeuvre so that he could turn the strength of a great wind to his own purposes, and revel in its boisterous waves and currents like a strong swimmer in a rough sea.

And to listen to the wind as it swept backwards and forwards over the surface of the earth below was another pleasure; for everything it touched gave out a definite note.  He soon got to know the long sad cry from the willows, and the little whispering in the tops of the poplar trees; the crisp, silvery rattle of the birches, and the deep roar from oaks and beech woods.  The sound of a forest was like the shouting of the sea.

But far more lovely, when they descended a little, and the wind was more gentle, were the low pipings among the reeds and the little wayward murmurs under the hedgerows.

The pine trees, however, drew them most, with their weird voices, now far away, now near, rising upwards with a wind of sighs.

There was a grove of these trees that trooped down to the waters of a little lake in the hills, and to this spot they often flew when the wind was low and the music likely, therefore, to be to their taste.  For, even when there was no perceptible wind, these trees seemed always full of mysterious, mournful whisperings; their branches held soft music that never quite died away, even when all other trees were silent and motionless.

Besides these special expeditions, they flew everywhere and anywhere.  They visited the birds in their nests in lofty trees, and exchanged the time of night with wise-eyed owls staring out upon them from the ivy.  They hovered up the face of great cliffs, and passed the hawks asleep on perilous ledges; skimmed over lonely marshes, frightening the water-birds paddling in and out among the reeds.  They followed the windings of streams, singing among the meadows, and flew along the wet sands as they watched the moon rise out of the sea.

These flights were unadulterated pleasure, and Jimbo thought he could never have enough of them.

He soon began to notice, too, that the trees emanated something that affected his own condition.  When he sat in their branches this was very noticeable.  Currents of force passed from them into himself.  And even when he flew over their crests he was aware that some woods exhaled vigorous, life-giving forces, while others tired and depleted him.  Nothing was visible actually, but fine waves seemed to beat up against his eyes and thoughts, making him stronger or weaker, happy or melancholy, full of hope and courage, or listless and indifferent.

These emanations of the trees ­this giving-forth of their own personal forces ­were, of course, very varied in strength and character.  Oaks and pines were the best combination, he found, before the stress of a long flight, the former giving him steadiness, and the latter steely endurance and the power to steer in sinuous, swift curves, without taking thought or trouble.

Other trees gave other powers.  All gave something.  It was impossible to sit among their branches without absorbing some of the subtle and exhilarating tree-life.  He soon learned how to gather it all into himself, and turn it to account in his own being.

“Sit quietly,” the governess said.  “Let the forces creep in and stir about.  Do nothing yourself.  Give them time to become part of yourself and mix properly with your own currents.  Effort on your part prevents this, and you weaken them without gaining anything yourself.”

Jimbo made all sorts of experiments with trees and rocks and water and fields, learning gradually the different qualities of force they gave forth, and how to use them for himself.  Nothing, he found, was really dead.  And sometimes he got himself into strange difficulties in the beginning of his attempts to master and absorb these nature-forces.

“Remember,” the governess warned him more than once, when he was inclined to play tricks, “they are in quite a different world to ours.  You cannot take liberties with them.  Even a sympathetic soul like yourself only touches the fringe of their world.  You exchange surface-messages with them, nothing more.  Some trees have terrible forces just below the surface.  They could extinguish you altogether ­absorb you into themselves.  Others are naturally hostile.  Some are mere tricksters.  Others are shifty and treacherous, like the hollies, that move about too much.  The oak and the pine and the elm are friendly, and you can always trust them absolutely.  But there are others !”

She held up a warning finger, and Jimbo’s eyes nearly dropped out of his head.

“No,” she added, in reply to his questions, “you can’t learn all this at once.  Perhaps ­” She hesitated a little.  “Perhaps, if you don’t escape, we should have time for all manner of adventures among the trees and other things ­but then, we are going to escape, so there’s no good wasting time over that!”