Foremole winked broadly at the pretty young squirrel. “Hurr, you’m gonna loik et, missie, us’n’s h’eat et noight’n’day. ’Tis ee moles’ fayvurrt grub, burr aye!”

Rusvul treated Janglur to a tankard of October Ale and a thick slab of yellow cheese studded with hazelnuts and carrot, with a small farl of hot brown bread. “Git that down yore famine-fed chops, mate. ’Twill make yer feel like a real warrior!”

Janglur’s hooded eyes gazed around at the scene. “I came here once when I was but a mite. Have y’ever seen a more cheery an’ welcomin’ bunch than these Redwallers? No wonder travelers tell tales an’ legends of this Abbey!”

Dwopple was sitting on Skipper’s lap, in company with Blinny and Wugger. The otter Chieftain allowed them to sample his soup.

“Eat ’earty, mateys. ’Tis called watershrimp an’ ’otroot soup, full o’ dried watershrimps, bulrush tips, ransoms, watercress an’ special spices. Otters like it ’cos it makes ’em big’n’strong!”

Sister Sloey rapped Skipper’s paw with her fork. “You are naughty, Skipper. Those Dibbuns won’t be able to cope with your dreadful hot spicy soup.”

The big otter chortled as he saw the Dibbuns ladle soup from his bowl. “Marm, beggin’ yore pardon, but I’m a great believer in lettin’ young ’uns find out things for theirselves. This’ll learn ’em a lesson.”

However, contrary to expectations Dwopple and the molebabes thoroughly enjoyed the fiery concoction.

“Burr, ee soop be luvly an’ warm. Oi dearly loiks gudd soop!”

“Mmmm! Dwopple ’ave more a diss soop, tasty nice!”

The delicious repast continued into late evening, when candles and lanterns were lit in Great Hall. During a lull in the proceedings, Log a Log hailed Florian.

“Ahoy there, matey, how’s about you an’ yore troupe puttin’ on that show you promised when we rescued yer cart from the swamp?”

The hare stood and bowed to the assemblage. “Why not indeed? The Wandering Noonvale Companions would be churlish in the extreme not to return the compliment of such fabulous fare. But I know that seated here at table this evenin’ is one among us who possesses a voice of pure gold. Janglur’s daughter, who is aptly named Song. Mayhap she would honor us? In anticipation of this, I meself scribed a small ballad.” Florian produced a scroll with a resounding flourish. “Ahem, a few simple lines I recorded while in the paws of the muse, wot wot! Goes to the tune of ‘Breeze in the Meadow.’ D’you know that one, Song?”

The young squirrel took the scroll and studied the lines. “I’d be pleased to, sir. These words fit the tune nicely. Father?”