"In that case," exclaimed Peter, "I won't let myself be a foothold for
your damned work--it is of the devil and I'll have no part of it." "Shut up, fool. You are a part of it already." "Not if my body is destroyed before you can get hold of it." Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and slipped out the
door into the storm. Mirestone jumped up after him, but it was too late. He peered out into the raging tempest making out the figure of Peter
struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak about
him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face,
blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass
pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him. Down the road sped Peter on the horse--down the road and towards the
foot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow
staccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by a
splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry
pierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seething
death awaiting them. Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house. He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There was
one more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a glass. If
one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into his
wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread
over Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to play
the hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestone
fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the
hex had worked--a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he
certainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted on
examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out
of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex at
least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the
rocks would be enough proof on that score. Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed
the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the
wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As he
slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view--the ceiling
first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging
from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, the
thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to
see the end of the line. Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the end
of it was a pure white feather. *       *       *       *       *

In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's
death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely
plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have
long since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accident
and Mirestone's hands 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, he groped his way out again. Thrusting his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud,
tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His leg
left numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire, and a trickle of
blood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down to
rub the wound, but quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that
horrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the fleshy sore? He couldn't see in the rain, but his leg told him that it was something
hairy, almost bristly. He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud. Once he
fell completely down in the slime. Wiping the dripping earth from his
face, he was told again that something was wrong. His cheeks verified
his shin's story of a rough, jagged caress. Holding his hand in front of his face he saw, amidst a flash of
lightning, a curling, black claw, bristling with long, ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically he dropped the kid and fell forward into the door
of the house. The latch gave way with his weight and he tumbled into the
cottage.