This was what happened to me on this day. I had gone for my afternoon walk in the forest. The trees were thick with leaves, and it was pleasant to walk in their shade for it was a hot and sultry day. I was struck by the stillness; all the usual murmurs of the forest were silent on this day—there was a hushed heavy atmosphere. I wondered if on such a day as this William Rufus had ridden out to the hunt and had he had any premonition that he would never ride back? One account said that his body had been found inside the crumbling walls of a building from which no doubt his father had turned out the owners that it might be part of his forest, though others believed that the body of the King was found under an oak tree and that this was a ritual killing. There he had lain with the arrow in his chest—and that was the mysterious end of the man known as the Red King.

What fancies I had in the forest! I used to wonder how much of life was predestined. I remembered that even Mr. Sylvester Milner had studied the yarrow sticks. Had what he saw there made him decide to offer me the position which I had accepted? If I had not picked up those sticks at precisely the right moment would my mother and I now be asking ourselves what sort of way of earning a living I should find? Could a man such as Mr. Sylvester Milner really believe in such things?

I was thinking today about the Sung Kuan Yin and how wonderful it would be if I could be the one to discover this much sought after piece.

The stillness of the forest was unearthly. The sky was rapidly darkening. Then the forest was suddenly illuminated and away in the distance I heard the clap of thunder.

A heavy storm was about to break. Mrs. Couch was always terrified of thunder. She used to hide herself in the cupboard under the stairs which led from the servants’ hall to the ground floor. She used to say: “My old granny told me it was God’s anger. It was His way of showing us we’d done wrong.” I tried to give her the scientific explanation but she scorned it. “That’s come out of books,” she said. “All very well but I prefer to believe my granny. ‘Never shelter under trees/ she told me once. Trees is terrible things for getting struck.’”

My mother joined her voice to that. “Get wet,” she would say, “but never stand under trees when there’s thunder and lightning about.”

The darkness made it eerie. I was aware that the storm was coming closer and I knew that it would break overhead in a few minutes and I should not have time to get out of the forest. I was, however, close to my ruin and the jutting parapet would provide some shelter until the storm was over.

I ran to it and was just in time, for the deluge had begun. While I was congratulating myself on having got to shelter in time, a man came running towards me.

A voice said: “What a storm! May I share your shelter?” His jacket was soaked and when he took off his hat a stream of water fell from it.

I noticed at once how pleasant he was to look at. As he looked up at the sky and laughed, I saw strong-looking white teeth but his most startling feature was his eyes because they were a dark blue—and his brows and short thick lashes were as black as his hair. But it was not the contrast of blue and black which was arresting, it was something in his expression. I could not analyze it in a few moments but I was definitely aware of it. For the rest he was tall and rather lean.

“It seems as though I came just in time.” His eyes were on me and I flinched a little under his gaze, which had the effect of making me wonder whether my hair was tousled and reminding me that the morning dress of sprigged cotton which I was wearing was not my most becoming.

“May I come under the parapet?”

“You will get very wet if you don’t.”

He came and stood beside me. I withdrew as far as I could, for he disturbed me.

“Were you taking a walk too?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I often do. I love the forest. It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s also very wet at the moment. Do you often walk here… alone?”

“I like to be alone.”

“But a young lady on her own! Might she not meet with… dangers?”

“I had never thought of that.”

His blue eyes seemed to be alight with laughter. “Then you should without delay.”

“Should I?”

“How can you know what you will meet here?”

“I am not far from the house.”

“Your home, you mean?”

“Yes, my home. In fact when the storm started I debated whether to make a dash for it or come to this place.”

“I’m still surprised that you are allowed to roam here alone.”

“Oh, I am well able to take care of myself.”

I moved a step or two away from him.

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment. So your home is near here?”

“Yes… it’s Roland’s Croft.”

He nodded.

“You know it?”

“Owned by an eccentric old gentleman. Is that right?”

“Mr. Sylvester Milner is not eccentric, nor is he old. He is a very interesting man.”

“But of course. You are a relative of his?”

“I work for him. My mother is the housekeeper there.”

“I see.”

“Do you think the storm is abating?”

“Perhaps, but it would be a mistake to leave this shelter yet. Storms have a habit of returning. One should make absolutely sure that they really are over before venturing out into them.”

“And you live in this neighborhood?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I am taking a short holiday here. I was just out walking when the storm arose. I saw you through the trees making off with such resolution that I was certain you were going to a shelter. So I followed.” His eyes crinkled with a kind of secret amusement. “I wonder what this place was,” he went on. “Look at these walls. They must be hundreds of years old.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“What was here, do you think? Some sort of dwelling?”

“I think so. I believe it could have been here for nine hundred years.”

“You could well be right.”

“Perhaps it was some house which was partially razed to the ground to make way for forest that kings might hunt to their pleasure. Can’t you imagine it? The King gives the order: lands to be made forest land and the devil take anyone whose home is on it. No wonder those kings were hated. You can feel the hatred sometimes in this forest.”

I stopped. Why was I talking to him in this way? I could see that he was amused. The manner in which he looked at me showed it.

“I can see that as well as being a young lady bold enough to roam the forest alone you are a highly imaginative one. Now I think that that is a very interesting combination—boldness and imagination. That should take you far.”

“What do you mean, take me far?”

He leaned towards me slightly. “As far as you want to go. I can see too that you are very determined.”

“Are you a fortune teller?”

Again he laughed. “At moments,” he said, “I have clairvoyant powers. Shall I tell you something? I’m a descendant of Merlin, the magician. Can you sense his presence in the forest?”

“I can’t and he could not have been here—had he existed at all. The forest was made by the Norman kings long after Merlin died.”

“Oh, Merlin fluttered from century to century. He had no sense of time.”

“I can see you are amused. I’m sorry if I seemed foolish.”

“Far from it. Foolish is the last word I would apply to you and if I am amused it is in the nicest possible way. One of the greatest pleasures of life is to be amused.”

“I love this forest,” I said. “I’ve read a great deal about it. I suppose that’s what makes me imagine things.” And I thought what an extraordinary conversation to be holding with a stranger. I said quickly: “The sky is a little lighter. The storm is beginning to fade away.”

“I hope not. It is so much more interesting sheltering from the storm than walking through the forest alone.”

“I am sure it is abating.” I stepped out from the parapet. He took my arm and drew me back.

I was very much aware of him.

“It’s unsafe to venture yet,” he said.

“I’ve such a little distance to go.”

“Stay and make sure. Besides, we don’t want to cut short this absorbing conversation. You’re interested in the past, are you?”

“I am.”

“That’s wise. The past is such an excellent warning to the present and future. And you feel that there is something significant about this ruin?”

“Any ruin interests me. It must at some time have been someone’s home. People must have lived within its walls. I can’t help wondering about them, how they lived, loved, suffered, rejoiced…”

He watched me closely. “You’re right,” he said. “There is something here. I sense it too. This is a historic spot. One day we shall look back and say, ‘Ah, that was the place where we sheltered from the storm,’”

He put out a hand as though to grasp mine and drawing back I said: “Look. It is lighter. I’m going to chance it now. Goodbye.”

I left him standing there and ran out into the forest.

The rain was teeming down, the wet foliage wrapped itself round me as my feet squelched through the sodden ground. I had to get away though. I was uncertain of what he would do. There was something about him—some vitality which I felt would submerge me if I stayed. He had been laughing at me, I was well aware of that, and I was not sure of him. I was very excited though. I had half wanted to stay and had been half eager to get away.

What an extraordinary encounter and yet it had merely been two people sheltering from the rain.