“I canna’ do no swayin’ back’ard and for’ard,” said Ben Weatherstaff. “I’ve got th’ rheumatics.”

“The Magic will take them away,” said Colin in a High Priest tone, “but we won’t sway until it has done it. We will only chant.”

“I canna’ do no chantin’,” said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. “They turned me out o’ th’ church choir th’ only time I ever tried it.”

No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin’s face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic.

“Then I will chant,” he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. “The sun is shining⁠—the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing⁠—the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic⁠—being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me⁠—the Magic is in me. It is in me⁠—it is in me. It’s in every one of us. It’s in Ben Weatherstaff’s back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!”