They were refreshed and well fed by the housekeeper, who could not stop comparing Gobbolino with his sister Sootica— “that vagabond cat!” as she described her.
Gobbolino, she decided, was a perfect prince of cats, and as good as he was handsome, while as for the little wooden horse, she had never seen such a fine and gentlemanly fellow in all her born days. She stood at the parsonage door beside the old priest, waving to them until her handkerchief became as small as a daisy on the grass of the plain.
The priest had blessed them before their journey, and they trotted along side by side feeling as fresh and as free as the morning itself The witch’s powers seemed so far behind them that they crossed the stream with hardly a thought that she could now no longer harm them.
Gobbolino rode on the horse’s saddle, and he swam them both across the water, laughing at the sparkling ripples, and pretending to chase the water rats that stood on their hind legs in the entrance to their burrows, most curious to see such a sight go by.
They clambered up the further bank shaking the drops of water from their feet and laughing in the sunshine.
“We will be in the forest before sundown,” said the little wooden horse, “and I feel fresh enough to trot for a hundred miles! What about you, my friend?”
“Oh, a thousand miles if necessary!” replied Gobbolino, but he knew that his home was much nearer than that.
Already a distant whiff of pine needles came wafting on the breeze. Home scents and secrets were blotting out the bleak memories of the Hurricane Mountains. Their hearts bounded with happiness.
So it was with a quite unexpected jolt of dismay that a far-off yet familiar sound came to their ears.
Both stopped dead in their tracks to listen.
It now seemed weeks, even months ago that they had been crossing the plain to the sound of just this same dreadful music— the cry of hounds, far off, but coming nearer… in pursuit of… what?
Without hesitation they turned round and hurried back to the stream. Better to hide for a while among the rocks and rushes than be caught out on the open plain. For the hounds were running between them and the forest, and although at times they seemed to be heading in the opposite direction, at others they turned about, and it was obvious that they were coming closer and closer.
There was a cluster of rocks in the middle of the stream, and to these rocks the little wooden horse waded with Gobbolino on his back. They thought that if they could wait there for an hour or so with the water all round them, the pack might not find their scent, and they crouched in the stones and the sparse scrub that grew round about them, hoping against hope that the hounds might pass by on the far side of the stream without seeing them.
But soon it became quite apparent that they were actually coming up the stream itself, and in the not-so-far distance they could hear the baying and the howls and barking of many dogs, now casting about with muted yelps and whimpers, now in full cry tearing up the shallow places or plunging and splashing in the deep pools of the stream.
What they were actually chasing the two friends could not tell. They only knew that they were in great danger, and that the forest side of the stream was more dangerous than the other.
When the pack was almost within sight they burst out of their hiding-place and splashed to the bank, scrambled up the side of it, over the top, and away across the plain in the direction of the Hurricane Mountains, back over the weary distance they had come, panting, gasping, limping, never pausing or looking behind them, while the great open spaces around them felt even more dangerous than the hounds.
At any moment they expected the pack to pick up their scent and pursue them, and once they did this there would be no chance of escape. So they ran and ran and ran, not looking for any landmark or direction, while first the afternoon and then the evening closed in around them.
They might have found refuge in the church, but they left it far away to the right of them. The mountains came nearer and nearer, but they did not look up to see them.
Far behind them came that terrible baying, and it continued to pursue them in imagination long after the hounds had given up their quarry and gone home to bed.
They never noticed that in the darkness the magic fire round the mountain no longer glowed. Utterly spent, and more dead than alive they stumbled from the plain on to the rocks. Flinging themselves down in the first cave they found, they fell into an exhausted sleep.
When they woke up it was daylight, and the bats who lived in that cave were twittering about them.
“Why have you come back? Where is the priest? We thought you wanted to go home! What is the matter with you?”
They questioned them over and over again.
Gobbolino and the little wooden horse were too tired and unhappy to answer them at first. As they opened their eyes they remembered they were back again in the witch’s country and between them and their homes were the terrible hounds. There was only the remotest chance that they would ever get back again without losing their lives.
They did notice, however, that the bats were no longer confined to the caves. They were flitting on and off the mountain, back to the plain and back again, as if all the world were theirs and there had never been a magic fire at all.
“Aren’t you afraid of burning your wings?” the little wooden horse asked them.
“Oh pooh no! The witch is finished!” scoffed the bats. “When she knew that you were gone she took a fit and fell down screaming! She is probably dead by now!” they added complacently.
Gobbolino and the little wooden horse sprang to their feet. They left the cave and galloped up the mountainside as if they had never made the long journey across the plain the day before. No matter that their feet were blistered and sore. They did not stop until they reached the crest of the mountain and burst into the cave.
It was as still as a tomb and very cold, since even the ashes under the cauldron were dead and finished.
At first they thought the cavern was empty and the witch must be out on the mountainside. But her broomstick was in its place, and her shoes thrown one after another into a comer. Her pointed hat lay on the floor. The water still dripped sluggishly from the spring in the rock. It was the only sound in the whole cave.
They were about to go outside and question the goats when in the shadows something moved.
What they had taken for a heap of old rags proved to have wizened arms and legs, bare feet and a head. The head was crowned with long black hair, out of which peered a long, sad, pale face. They had to stare hard at it to recognize the witch.
As they stared at her the witch’s eyes came open, and for a moment she seemed to recognize them. She held out a claw-like hand towards them, and then sank back with a heartbroken sob.
Gobbolino crept up to her and licked her shrivelled face.
“Go and get milk from the goats,” he told the little wooden horse, “and I will fetch her some honey! Then we will light the fire and make her warm again.”
They flew to fetch honey and some goats’ milk.
While Gobbolino fed her spoonful by spoonful, the little wooden horse lit the fire. By the time the cave was warm again and full of pink light and dancing shadows the old woman was sitting up and panting a little as she watched them with tears of gratitude running down her cheeks.
“To meet with such kindness! To have such goodness shown to a wicked old woman like me!” she muttered. “And I thought I was to be left alone for ever and ever! But these two cared for me after all!. These two came back to look after me when all the world had left me alone. I was going to die of loneliness and a broken heart, but now I shall get better. I shall never be lonely any morel”
Gobbolino and the little wooden horse looked at each other in some anxiety at these words, but for the moment the witch’s comfort was all their concern. They dressed her and combed her hair, and washed her hands and feet.