“You are named Murgh, Gate of the Gods,” he said.  “Murgh, whom old Sir Andrew saw in that courtyard over which the iron dragons watch in the country called Cathay, that courtyard with the pool of water and the many doors.”

“Ay,” answered the Man in a new voice, a great voice that seemed to fill the air like the mutter of distant thunder.  “I am Murgh, Gateway of the Gods, and since you have striven to defend Murgh, he who is the friend of all men, although they know it not, will above all be your friend and the friend of those you love.”

He stretched out his long arms and laid his white-gloved hands for an instant, one of them upon Hugh’s head and one on the shoulder of Grey Dick, who sat upon the pillar of stone.

Hugh muttered, “I thank you,” not knowing what else to say.  But in his heart he wondered what kind of friendship this mighty and awful being would show to him and his.  Perhaps he might hold that the truest kindness would be to remove him and them from the miseries of a sinful world.

If Murgh read his thoughts he only answered them with that smile of his cold eyes which was more awful than the frown of any mortal man.  Turning his head slowly he began to contemplate Dick sitting on his stone.

“If I had a son,” he said, “by that face of yours you might be he.”

“Perchance,” answered Dick, “since I never knew for certain who my father was.  Only I have always heard that Life begets, not Death.”

“Death!  You honour me with a great name.  Well, life and death are one, and you and I are one with the moon and the stars above us, and many other things and beings that you cannot see.  Therefore the begetter and the begotten are one in the Hand that holds them all.”

“Ay,” answered Dick, “and so my bow and I are one:  I’ve often thought it.  Only you nearly made me one with my own arrow, which is closer kinship than I seek,” and he touched the cut upon his chin.  “Since you are so wise, my father, or my son, tell me, what is this Hand that holds them all?”

“Gladly.  Only if I do, first I must ask you to die, then—­say in a minute or two—­you shall know.”

Dick peered at him doubtfully, and said: 

“If that be so, I think I’ll wait for the answer, which I am sure to learn soon or late.”

“Ah!  Many men have thought the same, and you have sent some to seek it, have you not, being so good an archer.  For instance, that was a long shaft you shot before Crecy fray at the filthy fool who mocked your English host.  Doubtless now he knows the answer to your riddle.”

“Who told you of that?” asked Dick, springing up.

“A friend of mine who was in the battle.  He said also that your name was Richard the Archer.”

“A friend!  I believe that you were there yourself, as, if you are Death, you may well have been.”