Bageye and Skinpaw looked quizzically at Slagar, but they knew better than to ask questions, even if they did not understand. Slagar the Cruel gave orders to be obeyed, not questioned.

Slagar led them along the crest of the hill, giggling wickedly to himself. Tonight he would have all the fish in one net and his revenge would be complete. They would die slowly, oh so slowly!

19

Late evening shades turned the stones of Redwall Abbey to a dull crimson, the last rays of the sun sending slender slivers of ruby and gold from behind a purple-blue cloudbank. Beneath the ground, Constance sat holding baby Rollo as they watched the Foremole and his team working expertly to remove the great foundation stone. They had bars, wedges and timber props, besides chisels and hauling ropes. The mole leader gave directions as he scuttled here and there surveying the job.

“You’m a-finisht chiselen thurr, Rooter?”

“Aye, that’ll do et, zurr.”

“Jarge, set they wedgin’s in. Gaffer’n oi’ll sloid these yurr greasy planks under. You’n Rooter set they ropes’n’ooks in’t stone. Stay a-clear, missis, an’ moind yon hinfant.”

A large solid implement which the moles called a “gurtpaw” had been set up. It was a strange affair resembling a sideways block and tackle. The busy mole workbeasts attached the ropes to a big round treetrunk bobbin and began cranking a long stout beech handle. Baby Rollo gazed wide-eyed. He whispered to Winifred the Otter. “What they doin’?”

“Hush now, little un, and watch. See, the slack’s bein’ taken up on those ropes the more they work that handle.”

Gradually the ropes tightened and began to creak and strain. The massive stone block moved a fraction, and its base was now resting on three flat well-greased sycamore planks. The moles began shouting in an even chant:

“Yurr she coom!

Hurr she doo!

Yurr she coom!

’eave, mole crew!”

The Founder’s stone began sliding out of the place where it had been set long ages ago. It moved at an angle, leaving Foremole room to scurry in and jam two upright sections of green pine as props.

“Look Rollo, see, the big stone is moving!” Cornflower was almost dancing with excitement.

Ants dashed this way and that, stone ground against stone, rope hawsers creaked and groaned as the mole crew chanted their rock-moving song, with baby Rollo’s gruff little voice singing in time with them. More props were brought up as the stone block slid ponderously forward, leaving a large square hole in the wall.

“Cease’n’alt, moles, the job be dun!” Foremole’s announcement set his crew to leaning and panting against the gurtpaw, their tongues lolling out as they passed a canteen of cider from one to another. The mole leader stood to one side and bowed low.

“Thurr it be, gennelbeasts, take they torcher an’ ’ave a gudd viewen insoides.”