She sat down on the edge of the bed and mopped her own brow. “Whew! Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

Faith Spinney felt her forehead. “Are you all right, m’dear? My, you do look frazzled.”

Nasturtium stood up, swaying a little. “Silly me, complaining of the heat. Now all of a sudden I feel quite cold!”

Abbess Vale placed a paw about her shoulders. “Good job I’ve just made up this fresh bed, Sister. Time you had a rest—you’re a patient from now on.”

Droony waved a limp paw at Nasturtium. “Plenty o’ roseywater an’ medsin furr ’ee, Sister. Naow you’m lie abed an’ go t’ sleep. Do ’ee gudd!”

“Thank you, Doctor Droony.” Hollyberry smiled as he mopped the little mole’s brow. “Now how about taking a bit of your own advice and trying to get some sleep?”

The Abbess and Faith Spinney folded a sheet together, worry and concern showing through the weariness on their faces.

“Oh, Faith, do you think Thrugg will get the Flowers of Icetor?”

“There there, Vale. I’m sure he will. Mr. Thrugg is a good otter. I ’ope he’s takin’ good care of Baby Dumble.”

*   *   *

Thrugg and Baby Dumble were in fine form, composing songs as they marched northward on the old path.

“O give me a road to walk along,

An’ a bite of food or two,

I’ll tramp an’ eat the livelong day,

My liddle friend, with you.”

Dumble rummaged in the haversack and found a vegetable pastie. Passing it down to Thrugg, the infant dormouse threw back his head and sang uproariously loudly:

“O, I’ll sit on top’ a Mista Thugg

An’ give ’m food to scoff,

’Cos he’s my great big matey an’

’E won’t let me fall off!”

Thrugg munched the pastie as he thought of his next verse.

“O, Dumble is a scallywag,

Fat as a liddle frog.

He’s eaten so much vittles,

He’s ’eavier than a hog!”

Dumble selected an apple and began polishing it on Thrugg’s head. As he did he chanced to look back down the road. Dumble’s eyes widened, then he turned them ahead again, this time singing in a low urgent voice:

“O Mista Thugg, don’t turn around,

And don’t you cause a fuss.

There’s four ol’ foxes wiv big sticks—

I fink they’re followin’ us!”

*   *   *

Keeping his paws in front, Thrugg fitted a stone to his sling. “Let’s see what these coves want then, matey.”

He halted and stood in the center of the path as the four foxes approached. They were roving beggars who haunted the path, waiting for helpless travelers or any easy prey that came their way. Two of them carried rusty swords, the other two were armed with cudgels.

“Good summer day to ye, mates!” the brawny otter greeted them.