The churchyard was narrow and surrounded by a high grey wall, mostly hidden by an inner belt of well-grown cypresses.  On the south side the ranks of these trees were broken for some thirty feet, and here the back of a small dwelling-house abutted on the cemetery.  There was one window only in the yellow-washed wall, and this window—­a melancholy square framed in moss-stained plaster—­looked straight into the church porch.  The flageolet-player eyed it suspiciously; but the casement was shut and the blind drawn down.  The whole aspect of the cottage proclaimed that its inhabitants were very poor folk—­not at all the sort to tell tales upon a casual tramp if they spied him bivouacking upon holy ground.

He limped into the porch, and cast off the blue bag that was strapped upon his shoulders.  Out of it he drew a sheep’s-wool cape, worn very thin; and then turned the bag inside out, on the chance of a forgotten crust.  The disappointment that followed he took calmly—­being on the whole a sweet-tempered man, nor easily angered except by an affront on his vanity.  His violent rancour against the people of Gantick arose from their indifference to his playing.  Had they taken him seriously—­had they even run out at their doors to listen and stare—­he would not have minded their stinginess.

He who sleeps, sups.  The little man passed the flat of his hand, in the dusk, over the two benches, chose the one which had fewest asperities of surface, tossed his bag and flageolet upon the other, pulled off his boots, folded his cape to make a pillow, and stretched himself at length.  In less than ten minutes he was sleeping dreamlessly.

For four hours he slept without movement.  But just above his head there hung a baize-covered board containing a list or two of the parish ratepayers and the usual notice of the spring training of the Royal Cornwall Eangers Militia.  This last placard had broken from two of its fastenings, and towards midnight flapped loudly in an eddy of the light wind.  The sleeper stirred, and passed a languid hand over his face.  A spider within the porch had been busy while he slept, and his hand encountered gossamer.

His eyes opened.  He sat upright, and lowered his bare feet upon the flags.  Outside, the blue firmament was full of stars sparkling unevenly, as though the wind were trying in sport to puff them out.  In the eaves of the porch he could hear the martins rustling in the crevices—­they had returned but a few days back to their old quarters.  But what drew the man to step out under the sky was the cottage-window over the wall.

The lattice was pushed back and the room inside was brightly lit.  But between him and the lamp a white sheet had been stretched right across the window; and on this sheet two quick hands were weaving all kinds of clever shadows, shaping them, moving them, or reshaping them with the speed of summer lightning.