Across the lawn they hurried, into Great Hall, down the stairs to Cavern Hole, through the small corridor at the far side and down the sloping ramp into the wine cellars. Ambrose Spike lay snoring gently, an empty jug beside him. At a nod from Foremole they tiptoed past the slumbering hedgehog and followed baby Rollo through the dim cellar. He led them to a tun barrel of preserved damsons, a huge old oaken affair which had stood there longer than any creature cared to remember. There was a crack between the staves where the withe had perished, causing a slight leak. Rollo pointed to the floor where a tiny pool of the dark sticky juice was congealing. Ants busily collected the sweet residue, trooping in a continuous column.

“Lookit, see, li’l folkses.”

Cornflower clapped her paws in delight. “Good vole, Rollo. Come on, let’s follow them and see where they go.”

The procession of ants marched busily along, hugging the wall, deeper into the cellars, where they took a right turn, following an old passage.

“Wait a moment,” Winifred said. “I’ll go and get a torch. It’s very dark in here.”

They paused, watching the line of ants industriously plodding along, with other ants passing them on their way back to the juice. Winifred returned, and the light from the blazing faggot torch she held aloft helped greatly.

They continued down the old passage, which twisted and turned, dry, dark and musty. The light revealed a heavy wooden door barring the way. The ants, however, marched straight on, under the space at the bottom of the door. Between them the others tugged on the tarnished brass ring handle. The door opened slowly, its iron hinges creaking rustily. This frightened the ants. They dispersed, breaking the continuous trail.

“Be still and quiet now, give the little folk time to settle,” Cornflower advised.

They waited until the ants had forgotten the intrusion upon their line and continued progress.

They were in a small cavelike room, full of forgotten barrels, tools and old benches. The ants wove a tortuous path, around crumbling and broken casks, firkins and butts, across the room to another passage which was little more than an unpaved tunnel. With baby Rollo still leading, they crouched and followed. The going began to get steep.

“This looks like some kind of disused working, maybe a mistake in the digging plans of the foundations that was left abandoned,” Cornflower remarked.

“Burr, could be, missus,” Foremole called from the rear. “Oi b’aint been yurr afore. We’m a-goen uphill by moi reckernen. Oi spect they arnts knows where they be bound, tho.”