Basil’s ears stood straight up with indignation. “I say, steady in the ranks there. I wouldn’t be able to have any, doncha know.”

Amid gales of unrestrained laughter, Abbot Mordalfus dug his fork into the delicious dish. A whisker’s-breadth away from his lips he stopped the loaded fork and said, “Friar Hugo, my most old and valued chef, I pronounce this dish totally excellent merely by the sight and aroma, knowing that when I actually taste it, I will be lost for words.”

A cheer went up at the Abbot’s gallant pronouncement. Hugo fanned himself furiously with pleasure at the compliment.

Basil Stag Hare actually ate four portions, claiming that he had an otter ancestor somewhere in his family tree.

Then the toasting started, led by Ambrose Spike. “I would like to toast all Redwall Abbots past, and in particular good old Mordalfus, our present Abbot.”

“Yurr yurr, gudd owd M’dalfuzz.”

“I would like to toast Matthias the Warrior, our champion,” called out Brother Rufus.

“Good egg, I’ll second that, old bean.”

“I would like to toast our young ones, the hope of future seasons to come.”

“Hear, hear, Cornflower. Well toasted.”

“Ahem, as a retired regimental buffer, I’d like to toast anything on toast: cheese, mushrooms, what have you. . . .”

“Oh, all right, Basil. Here’s to tomatoes on toast.”

“I toast Mr. Hare and Mr. Spike.”

“Sit down, baby Rollo, and drink your milk.”

“Here’s to the otters and the squirrels.”

“Bravo, here’s to the sparrows and the moles.”

“To Redwall Abbey.”

“To Mossflower Woods.”

The toasts flew fast and thick. Laughter, song, good food, sufficient drink and friendly company were making it a feast to remember.

Then Slagar the Cruel knocked upon the door of Redwall Abbey.

10

Slagar turned to the group at the cart. They had been watching him banging fruitlessly upon the main gate.

“They’ll never hear you, Chief,” Wartclaw ventured. “We’ll have to think of some other way to distract them.”

Slagar’s paw was numb from hitting the woodwork. “We? You mean me, don’t you? Here, Skinpaw, sing that song. Halftail, get that little drum from the cart and beat it. Scringe, there’s a flute in the cart. See if you can get a tune out of it.”

Skinpaw was the only one of the slavers who had actually been in a travelling show. Filling his lungs, he began singing the song of strolling performers, in a cracked voice.

“Lalalalalalala, we travel from afar,

Derrydown dill, over vale and hill.

We camp beneath the stars.

Lalalalalalala, good fortune to you, sir.

The strolling players bring to you

Magic from everywhere. . . .”

Skinpaw shrugged at Slagar. “Chief, that’s all I know. I’ve forgotten the rest.”