Furgle did an angry little dance around Arula. “Why can’t moles ever learn to speak properly? Seen them! Of course I did, two evil smelly vermin, slashing away at my woods as if they owned them. You don’t need to hurry to catch those two, though.”

Samkim bowed politely to the hermit. “My name is Samkim. This is Arula. You are right, of course—we are both from Redwall Abbey. Why do you say that we have no need to hurry?”

Furgle waited until Samkim had unnotched his arrow. “Because one of them is very ill. He won’t go much further. I’ve never been ill a day in my life. Come on then, Redwallers. I’ll go along with you—I know Mossflower better than you ever will. By the oak and the ash, I’ll give that stoat a piece of my mind when I meet him. How dare he go about chopping up my woodlands!”

Without further ado the woodvole set off. In a short while both Samkim and Arula were having difficulty keeping up with the energetic pace he set.

*   *   *

An hour’s swift journey found them on the edge of a clearing.

Arula sighted Thura lying curled up. “Lookum o’er thurr. ’Ee must be the sick un!”

“Wait!” Furgle restrained them both from running over to Thura. “You can never tell with vermin. Give me an arrow, Samkim. We’ll see if he’s sick or shamming—better careful than careless I always say, generally to myself though.”

Furgle snapped the point from the arrow and tied a pad of leaves in its place, then returned it to Samkim. “Fire that at the creature, young squirrel.”

Samkim shot the shaft perfectly. It thudded against Thura’s back and bounced off onto the grass. The stoat made no move.

“As I thought, he’s finished.” The hermit nodded knowingly.

The two young ones dashed over to the body. Furgle was right: Thura was freshly dead. Samkim rolled the stoat over. “Dead? I can’t believe it. Only yesterday he was as lively as you or I.”

“Humm, ee’m dead aroight. Deader’n ’ee black acorn.” Arula scratched her head with a huge digging claw.

Furgle pulled them away from the body. “Don’t get too close—that stoat died of some form of fever or ague. Well, it was nice meeting you, but now I must go about my business. If you are going to bury him then do it quickly, but try not to touch him. Er, sorry, there’s some urgent business I must attend to. See you later. Goodbye.”

In the twinkling of an eye he had vanished back into the depths of Mossflower. Samkim and Arula stood looking at each other, slightly disappointed at Furgle’s abrupt departure.

“Burr, yon owd un doant ’ang about, do ’ee?”