The first that arrived was the thrush, hearing the message from the king.  Choo Hoo, delighted beyond expression at so pleasant a solution of the business, which he knew must, if it came to battle, entail great slaughter of his friends, received the thrush with the highest honours, called his principal counsellors around him, and acceded to everything King Kapchack had proposed.  The territory should be equally divided:  Choo Hoo to have the plains, and Kapchack the woods and hills, and peace should be proclaimed, Choo Hoo engaging to support Kapchack against all domestic enemies and traitors.  This treaty having been completed, the thrush made as if about to depart, but Choo Hoo would in no wise permit this.  “Remain with us,” he said, “my dear Thrush, till the evening; feast and make merry.”

So the thrush was surrounded with a guard of honour, and conducted to the choicest feeding places, and regaled upon the fat of the land.  Thus enjoying himself, he thought it was the happiest day of his life, and was not at all desirous of seeing the shadows lengthen.

Hardly had the thrush gone with his guard to the banquet, than the humble-bee was announced, bearing the message from the weasel.  To this the assembled counsellors listened attentively, but Choo Hoo, being only a barbarian, could on no account break faith, but was resolved to carry out his compact with King Kapchack.  Nevertheless, he reflected that the king was extremely cunning, and not altogether to be relied upon (the humble-bee, for aught he knew, might have been in reality sent by Kapchack to try him), and therefore he would go so far as this, he would encourage the weasel without committing himself.  “Return,” he said to the humble-bee, “return to him who sent you, and say:  ’Do you do your part, and Choo Hoo will certainly do his part’.”  With which ambiguous sentence (which of course the weasel read in his own sense) he dismissed the humble-bee, who had scarce departed from the camp, than the flag of truce arrived from Ki Ki, and the young hawk, bright and defiant in his bearing, was admitted to the great Emperor Choo Hoo.

When the council heard his message they all cried with one accord:  “Koos-takke! koos-takke! the enemy are confounded; they are divided against each other.  They are delivered over to us.  Koos-takke!”

So soon as there was silence, Choo Hoo said: —

“Young sir, tell your master that we do not need his assistance,” and he waved the messenger to depart.

But the hawk said:  “Mighty emperor, consider that I am young, and that if I go to my master with so curt a message, you know that he is fierce beyond reason, and I shall infallibly be torn to pieces”.

“Very well,” said Choo Hoo, speaking in a harsh tone of voice, for he hated the whole race of hawks, and could scarce respect the flag of truce, “very well, tell your master the reason I do not want his assistance is, first, because Kapchack and I have concluded a treaty; secondly, because the weasel has been before him, and has told me where the secret spring is in the squirrel’s copse — the spring that does not freeze in winter.”

The hawk, not daring to parley further with the emperor, bowed his way out, and went direct to Ki Ki with this reply.

All the council of Choo Hoo rejoiced exceedingly, both at the treaty which assured so peaceful and pleasant a conclusion to their arduous labours, and to a sanguinary war which had lasted so many years, and in which they had lost so many of their bravest, and also at the treachery which prevailed in Kapchack’s palace and confounded his efforts.  They cried “Koos-takke!” and the shout was caught up throughout the camp with such vehemence that the woods echoed to the mysterious sound.

Now the young hawk, winging his way swiftly through the air, soon arrived at the trees where Ki Ki was waiting for him, and delivered the answer in fear and trembling, expecting every moment to be dashed to the ground and despatched.  Ki Ki, however, said nothing, but listened in silence, and then sat a long time thinking.

Presently he said:  “You have done ill, and have not given much promise of your future success; you should not have taken Choo Hoo’s answer so quickly.  You should have argued with him, and used your persuasive powers.  Moreover, being thus admitted to the very presence of our greatest enemy, and standing face to face with him, and within a few inches of his breast, you should have known what it was your business to do.  I could not tell you beforehand, because it would have been against my dignity to seem to participate before the deed in things of that kind.  To you the opportunity was afforded, but you had not the ready wit either to see or to seize it.

“While Choo Hoo was deliberating you should have flown at his breast, and despatched the archrebel with one blow of your beak.  In the confusion you could have escaped with ease.  Upon such a catastrophe becoming known, the whole of Choo Hoo’s army would have retreated, and hanging upon their rear we could have wreaked our wills upon them.  As for you, you would have obtained fame and power; as for me, I should have retained the chief command; as for Kapchack, he would have rewarded you with untold wealth.  But you missed — you did not even see — this golden opportunity, and you will never have another such a chance.”

At this the young hawk hung his head, and could have beaten himself to death against the tree, in shame and sorrow at his folly.

“But,” continued Ki Hi, “as I see you are unfeignedly sorry, I will even yet entrust you with one more commission (the hawk began to brighten up a little).  You know that at the end of the Long Pond there is a very large wood which grows upon a slope; at the foot of the slope there is an open space or glade, which is a very convenient spot for an ambush.  Now when the thrush comes home in the evening, bringing the treaty to Kapchack, he is certain to pass that way, because it is the nearest, and the most pleasant.  Go there and stay in ambush till you hear him coming, then swoop down and kill him, and tear his heart from his breast.  Do not fail, or never return to my presence.

“And stay — you may be sure of the place I mean, because there is an old oak in the midst of the glade, it is old and dead, and the route of the thrush will be under it.  Strike him there.”

Without waiting a moment, the hawk, knowing that his master liked instant obedience, flew off swift as the wind, determined this time to succeed.  He found the glade without trouble, and noted the old oak with its dead gaunt boughs, and then took up his station on an ash, where he watched eagerly for the shadows to lengthen.  Ki Ki, after sitting a little longer, soared up into the sky to reflect upon further measures.  By destroying the thrush he knew that the war must continue, for Choo Hoo would never believe but that it had been done by Kapchack’s order, and could not forgive so brutal an affront to an ambassador charged with a solemn treaty.  Choo Hoo must then accept his (Ki Ki’s) offer; the weasel, it was true, had been before him, but he should be able to destroy the weasel’s influence by revealing his treachery to Kapchack, and how he had told Choo Hoo the secret of the spring which was never frozen.  He felt certain that he should be able to make his own terms, both with Kapchack and Choo Hoo.

Thus soaring up he saw his messenger, the young hawk, swiftly speeding to the ambush, and smiled grimly as he noted the eager haste with which the youthful warrior went to fulfil his orders.  Still soaring, with outstretched wings, he sought the upper sky.

Meantime Bevis had grown tired of waiting for the squirrel, who had gone off to see about the stores, and flung himself at full length on the moss under the oak.  He hardly stopped there a minute before he got up again and called and shouted for the squirrel, but no one answered him; nor did the dragon-fly appear.  Bevis, weary of waiting, determined to try and find his way home by himself, but when he came to look round he could not discover the passage through the thicket.  As he was searching for it he passed the elm, which was hollow inside, where the weasel lay curled up on his divan, and the weasel, hearing Bevis go by, was so puffed up with pride that he actually called to him, having conceived a design of using Bevis for his own purposes.

“Sir Bevis!  Sir Bevis!” he said, coming to the mouth of his hole, “Sir Bevis, I want to speak to you!”

“You are the weasel,” said Bevis, “I know your hateful voice — I hate you, and if ever I find you outside the copse I will smash you into twenty pieces.  If it was not for the squirrel, whom I love (and I have promised not to hurt anything in his copse), I would bring my papa’s hatchet, and chop your tree down and cut your head off; so there.”

“If you did that,” said the weasel, “then you would not know what the rat is going to do in your house to-night.”

“Why should I not know?” said Bevis.

“Because if you cut my head off I could not tell you.”

“Well, tell me what it is,” said Bevis, who was always very curious, “and make haste about it, for I want to go home.”

“I will,” said the weasel, “and first of all, you know the fine large cake that your mamma is making for you?”

“No,” said Bevis, excitedly.  “Is she making me a cake?  I did not know it.”

“Yes, that she is, but she did not tell you, because she wished it to be a surprise to you to-morrow morning at lunch, and it is no use for you to ask her about it, for she would not tell you.  But if you are not very sharp it is certain that you will never touch a mouthful of it.”

“Why not?” said Bevis.

“Because,” said the weasel, “the mouse has found out where your mamma has put it in the cupboard, and there is a little chink through which he can smell it, but he cannot quite get through, nor is he strong enough to gnaw such very hard wood, else you may depend he would have kept the secret to himself.  But as he could not creep through he has gone and told Raoul, the rat, who has such strong teeth he can bite a way through anything, and to-night, when you are all in bed and firm asleep, and everything is quiet, Yish, the mouse, is going to show the rat where the chink is, the rat is going to gnaw a hole, and in the morning there will be very little left of your cake.”

“I will tell the bailiff,” said Bevis, in a rage, “and the bailiff shall set a trap for the rat.”

“Well, that was what I was going to suggest,” said the weasel; “but upon consideration I am not so sure that it is much use telling the bailiff, because, as I daresay you recollect, the bailiff has often tried his hand setting up a trap for the rat, but has never yet caught him, from which I conclude that the rat knows all the places where the bailiff sets the trap, and takes good care not to go that way without previous examination.”

“I’ll set up the trap,” said Bevis, “I’ll set it up myself in a new place.  Let me see, where can I put it?”

“I think it would be a very good plan if you did put it up yourself,” said the weasel, “because there is no doubt you understand more about these things than the bailiff, who is getting old.”

“Yes,” said Bevis, “I know all about it — I can do it very well indeed.”

“Just what I thought,” said the weasel; “I thought to myself, Bevis knows all about it — Bevis can do it.  Now, as the bailiff has set up the trap by the drain or grating beside the cart-house, and under the wood-pile, and by the pump, and has never caught the rat, it is clear that the rat knows these places as well as the bailiff, and if you remember there is a good deal of grass grows there, so that the rat no doubt says to himself:  ’Aha!  They are sure to put the trap here, because they think I shall not see it in the grass — as if I was so silly.’  So that, depend upon it, he is always very careful how he goes through the grass there.

“Therefore I think the best place you could select to set up the trap would be somewhere where there is no kind of cover, no grass, nor anything, where it is quite bare and open, and where the rat would run along quickly and never think of any danger.  And he would be sure to run much faster and not stay to look under his feet in crossing such places, lest Pan should see him and give chase, or your papa should come round the corner with a gun.  Now I know there is one such place the rat passes every evening; it is a favourite path of his, because it is a short cut to the stable — it is under the wall of the pig-sty.  I know this, because I once lived with the rat a little while, and saw all his habits.

“Well, under this wall it is quite open, and he always runs by extremely fast, and that is the best place to put the trap.  Now when you have set the trap, in order to hide it from view do you get your little spade with which you dig in your garden, and take a spadeful of the dust that lies about there (as it is so dry there is plenty of dust) and throw it over the trap.  The dust will hide the trap, and will also prevent the rat (for he has a wonderful sharp nose of his own) from scenting where your fingers touched it.  In the morning you are sure to find him caught.

“By-the-by, you had better not say anything to your mamma that you know of the cake, else perhaps she will move it from the cupboard, and then the rat may go on some other moonlit ramble instead.  As I said, in the morning you are sure to find him in the trap, and then do not listen to anything he has to say, for he has a lying tongue, but let Pan loose, who will instantly worry him to death.”

“I will do as you say,” said Bevis, “for I see that it is a very clever way to catch the rat, but, Sir Weasel, you have told me so many false stories that I can scarce believe you now it is plain you are telling me the truth; nor shall I feel certain that you are this time (for once in your wicked life) saying the truth, unless I know why you are so anxious for the rat to be caught.”

“Why,” said the weasel, “I will tell you the reason; this afternoon the rat played me a very mean and scurvy trick; he disgraced me before the king, and made me a common laughing-stock to all the council, for which I swore to have his life.  Besides, upon one occasion he bit his teeth right through my ear — the marks of it are there still.  See for yourself.”  So the weasel thrust his head out of his hole, and Bevis saw the marks left by the rat’s teeth, and was convinced that the weasel, out of malice, had at last been able for once to tell the truth.

“You are a horrid wretch,” said Bevis, “still you know how to catch the rat, and I will go home and do it; but I cannot find my way out of this thicket — the squirrel ought to come.”

“The way is under the ash bough there,” said the weasel, “and when you are outside the thicket turn to your left and go downhill, and you will come to the timber — and meantime I will send for the dragon-fly, who will overtake you.”

“All right, horrid wretch,” said Bevis, and away he went.  Now all this that the weasel had said really was true, except about the cake; it was true that the rat was very careful going through the grass, and that he knew where the bailiff set the gin, and that he used to run very quickly across the exposed place under the wall of the pig-sty.  But the story about the cake he had made up out of his cunning head just to set Bevis at work to put up the trap; and he hoped too, that while Bevis was setting up the gin, the spring would slip and pinch his fingers.

By thus catching the rat, the weasel meant in the first place to gratify his own personal malice, and next to get rid of a very formidable competitor.  For the rat was very large and very strong, and brave and bold beyond all the others; so much so that the weasel would even have preferred to have a struggle with the fox (though he was so much bigger), whose nostril he could bite, than to meet the rat in fair and equal combat.  Besides, he hated the rat beyond measure, because the rat had helped him out of the drain, which was when his ear was bitten through.  He intended to go down to the farmyard very early next morning when the rat was caught, and to go as near as he dared and taunt the rat, and tell him how Pan would presently come and crunch up his ribs.  To see the rat twist, and hear him groan, would be rare sport; it made his eyes glisten to think of it.  He was very desirous that Bevis should find his way home all right, so he at once sent a wasp for the dragon-fly, and the dragon-fly at once started after Bevis.

Just after the weasel had sent the wasp, the humble-bee returned from Choo Hoo, and delivered the emperor’s message, which the weasel saw at once was intended to encourage him in his proposed treachery.  He thanked the humble-bee for the care and speed with which his errand had been accomplished, and then curled himself up on his divan to go to sleep, so as to be ready to go down early in the morning and torment the rat.  As he was very happy since his schemes were prospering, he went to sleep in a minute as comfortable as could be.

Bevis crept through the thicket, and turned to the left, and went down the hill, and found the timber, and then went along the green track till he came to the stile.  He got over the bridge and followed the footpath, when the dragon-fly overtook him and apologised most sincerely for his neglect.  “For,” said he, “we are so busy making ready for the army, and I have had so much to do going to and fro with messages, that, my dear Sir Bevis, you must forgive me for forgetting you.  Next time I will send a moth to stay close by you, so that the moment you want me the moth can go and fetch me.”

“I will forgive you just this once,” said Bevis; and the dragon-fly took him all the way home.  After tea Bevis went and found the gin, and tried to set it up under the pig-sty wall, just as the weasel had told him; but at first he could not quite manage it, being as usual in such a hurry.

Now there was a snail on the wall, and the snail looked out of his shell and said:  “Sir Bevis, do not be too quick.  Believe me, if you are too quick to-day you are sure to be sorry to-morrow.”

“You are a stupid snail,” said Bevis.  Just then, as the weasel had hoped, he pinched his fingers with the spring so hard that tears almost came into his eyes.

“That was your fault,” he said to the snail; and snatching the poor thing off the wall, he flung him ever so far; fortunately the snail fell on the grass, and was not hurt, but he said to himself that in future, no matter what he saw going on, he would never interfere, but let people hurt themselves as much as they liked.  But Bevis, though he was so hasty, was also very persevering, and presently he succeeded in setting up the trap, and then taking his spade he spread the dust over it and so hid it as the weasel had told him to.  He then went and put his spade back in the summer-house, and having told Pan that in the morning there would be a fine big rat for him to worry, went indoors.

Now it is most probable that what the weasel had arranged so well would all have happened just as he foresaw, and that the trap so cleverly set up would have caught the rat, had not the bailiff, when he came home from the fields, chanced to see Bevis doing it.  He had to attend to something else then, but by-and-by, when he had finished, he went and looked at the place where Bevis had set the gin, and said to himself:  “Well, it is a very good plan to set up the gin, for the rat is always taking the pigs’ food, and even had a gnaw at my luncheon, which was tied up in my handkerchief, and which I — like a stupid — left on the ground in my hurry instead of hanging up.  But it is a pity Sir Bevis should have set it here, for there is no grass or cover, and the rat is certain to see it, and Bevis will be disappointed in the morning, and will not find the rat.  Now I will just move the gin to a place where the rat always comes, and where it will be hidden by the grass, that is, just at the mouth of the drain by the cart-house; it will catch the rat there, and Sir Bevis will be pleased.”

So the bailiff, having thought this to himself, as he leant against the wall, and listened to the pigs snoring, carefully took up the gin and moved it down to the mouth of the drain by the cart-house, and there set it up in the grass.

The rat was in the drain, and when he heard the bailiff’s heavy footsteps, and the noise he made fumbling about with the trap, he laughed, and said to himself:  “Fumble away, you old stupid — I know what you are doing.  You are setting up a gin in the same place you have set it twenty times before.  Twenty times you have set the gin up there and never caught anything, and yet you cannot see, and you cannot understand, and you never learn anything, and you are the biggest dolt and idiot that ever walked, or rather, you would be, only I thank heaven everybody else is just like you!  As if I could not hear what you are doing; as if I did not look very carefully before I come out of my hole, and before I put my foot down on grass or leaves, and as if I could not smell your great clumsy fingers:  really I feel insulted that you should treat me as if I was so foolish.  However, upon the whole, this is rather nice and considerate of you.  Ha!  Ha!” and the rat laughed so loud that if the bailiff had been sharp he must have heard this unusual chuckling in the drain.  But he heard nothing, but went off down the road very contented with himself, whistling a bar from “Madame Angot” which he had learnt from Bevis.

When Bevis went to bed he just peeped out of the window to look at the moon, but the sky was now overcast, and the clouds were hurrying by, and the wind rising — which the snail had expected, or he would not have ventured out along the wall.  While Bevis was peeping out he saw the owl go by over the orchard and up beside the hedge.

The very same evening the young hawk, as has been previously related, had gone to the glade in the wood, and sat there in ambush waiting for the thrush.  Like Sir Bevis, the hawk was extremely impatient, and the time as he sat on the ash passed very slowly till at last he observed with much delight that the sun was declining, and that the shadow of the dead oak-tree would soon reach across towards him.

The thrush, having sat at the banquet the whole of the afternoon, and tasted every dainty that the camp of Choo Hoo afforded, surrounded all the time by crowds of pleasant companions, on the other hand, saw the shadows lengthening with regret.  He knew that it was time for him to depart and convey the intelligence to King Kapchack that Choo Hoo had fully agreed to his proposal.  Still loth to leave he lingered, and it was not until dusk that he quitted the camp, accompanied a little way over the frontier by some of Choo Hoo’s chief counsellors, who sought in every way to do him honour.  Then wishing him good-night, with many invitations to return shortly, they left him to pursue his journey.

Knowing that he ought to have returned to the king before this, the thrush put forth his best speed, and thought to himself as he flew what a long account he should have to give his wife and his children (who were now grown up) of the high and important negotiation with which he had been entrusted, and of the attentions that had been paid to him by the emperor.  Happy in these anticipations, he passed rapidly over the fields and the woods, when just as he flew beneath the old dead oak in the glade down swooped the hawk and bore him to the ground.  In an instant a sharp beak was driven into his head, and then, while yet his body quivered, the feathers were plucked from his breast and his heart laid bare.  Hungry from his fast, for he had touched nothing that day, being so occupied with his master’s business, the hawk picked the bones, and then, after the manner of his kind, wishing to clean his beak, flew up and perched on a large dead bough of the oak just overhead.

The moment he perched, a steel trap which had been set there by the keeper flew up and caught him, with such force that his limbs were broken.  With a shriek the hawk flapped his wings to fly, but this only pulled his torn and bleeding legs, and overcome with the agony, he fainted, and hung head downwards from the bough, suspended by his sinews.  Now this was exactly what Ki Ki had foreseen would happen.  There were a hundred places along the thrush’s route where an ambush might have been placed, as well as in the glade, but Ki Ki had observed that a trap was set upon the old dead oak, and ordered his servant to strike the thrush there, so that he might step into it afterwards, thus killing two birds with one stone.

He desired the death of his servant lest he should tell tales, and let out the secret mission upon which he had been employed, or lest he should boast, in the vain glory of youth, of having slain the ambassador.  Cruel as he was, Ki Ki, too, thought of the torture the young hawk would endure with delight, and said to himself that it was hardly an adequate punishment for having neglected so golden an opportunity for assassinating Choo Hoo.  From the fate of the thrush and the youthful hawk, it would indeed appear that it is not always safe to be employed upon secret business of state.  Yet Ki Ki, with all his cruel cunning, was not wholly successful.

For the owl, as he went his evening rounds, after he had flown over the orchard where Bevis saw him, went on up the hedge by the meadow, and skirting the shore of the Long Pond, presently entered the wood and glided across the glade towards the dead oak-tree, which was one of his favourite haunts.  As he came near he was horrified to hear miserable groans and moans, and incoherent talking, and directly afterwards saw the poor hawk hanging head downwards.  He had recovered his consciousness only to feel again the pressure of the steel, and the sharp pain of his broken limbs, which presently sent him into a delirium.

The owl circling round the tree was so overcome by the spectacle that he too nearly fainted, and said to himself:  “It is clear that my lucky star rose to-night, for without a doubt the trap was intended for me.  I have perched on that very bough every evening for weeks, and I should have alighted there to-night had not the hawk been before me.  I have escaped from the most terrible fate which ever befell any one, to which indeed crucifixion, with an iron nail through the brain, is mercy itself, for that is over in a minute, but this miserable creature will linger till the morning.”

So saying, he felt so faint that (first looking very carefully to see that there were no more traps) he perched on a bough a little way above the hawk.  The hawk, in his delirium, was talking of all that he had done and heard that day, reviling Ki Ki and Choo Hoo, imploring destruction upon his master’s head, and then flapping his wings and so tearing his sinews and grinding his broken bones together, he shrieked with pain.  Then again he went on talking about the treaty, and the weasel’s treason, and the assassination of the ambassador.  The owl, sitting close by, heard all these things, and after a time came to understand what the hawk meant; at first he could not believe that his master, the king, would conclude a treaty without first consulting him, but looking underneath him he saw the feathers of the thrush scattered on the grass, and could no longer doubt that what the hawk said was true.

But when he heard the story of Ki Ki’s promised treason on the day of battle, when he heard that the weasel had betrayed the secret of the spring, which did not freeze in winter, he lifted up his claw and opened his eyes still wider in amazement and terror.  “Wretched creature!” he said, “what is this you have been saying.”  But the hawk, quite mad with agony, did not know him, but mistook him for Ki Ki, and poured out such terrible denunciations that the owl, shocked beyond measure, flew away.

As he went, after he had gone some distance under the trees, and could no longer hear the ravings of the tortured hawk, he began to ask himself what he had better do.  At first he thought that he would say nothing, but take measures to defeat these traitors.  But presently it occurred to him that it was dangerous even to know such things, and he wished that he had never heard what the hawk had said.  He reflected, too, that the bats had been flying about some time, and might have heard the hawk’s confessions, and although they were not admitted at court, as they belonged to the lower orders, still under such circumstances they might obtain an audience.  They had always borne him ill-will, they must have seen him, and it was not unlikely they might say that the owl knew all about it, and kept it from the king.  On the other hand, he thought that Kapchack’s rage would be terrible to face.

Upon the whole, however, the owl came to the conclusion that his safest, as well as his most honourable course, was to go straight to the king, late as it was, and communicate all that had thus come to his knowledge.  He set out at once, and upon his way again passed the glade, taking care not to go too near the dead oak, nor to look towards the suspended hawk.  He saw a night-jar like a ghost wheeling to and fro not far from the scaffold, and anxious to get from the ill-omened spot, flew yet more swiftly.  Round the wood he went, and along the hedges, so occupied with his thoughts that he did not notice how the sky was covered with clouds, and once or twice narrowly escaping a branch blown off by the wind which had risen to a gale.  Nor did he see the fox with his brush touching the ground, creeping unhappily along the mound, but never looked to the right nor left, hastening as fast as he could glide to King Kapchack.

Now the king had waited up that night as long as ever he could, wondering why the thrush did not return, and growing more and more anxious about the ambassador every moment.  Yet he was unable to imagine what could delay him, nor could he see how any ill could befall him, protected as he was by the privileges of his office.  As the night came on, and the ambassador did not come, Kapchack, worn out with anxieties, snapped at his attendants, who retired to a little distance, for they feared the monarch in these fits of temper.

Kapchack had just fallen asleep when the owl arrived, and the attendants objected to letting him see the king.  But the owl insisted, saying that it was his particular privilege as chief secretary of state to be admitted to audience at any moment.  With some difficulty, therefore, he at last got to the king, who woke up in a rage, and stormed at his faithful counsellor with such fury that the attendants again retired in affright.  But the owl stood his ground and told his tale.

When King Kapchack heard that his ambassador had been foully assassinated, and that, therefore, the treaty was at an end — for Choo Hoo would never brook such an affront; when he heard that Ki Ki, his trusted Ki Ki, who had the command, had offered to retreat in the hour of battle, and expose him to be taken prisoner; when he heard that the weasel, the weasel whom that very afternoon he had restored to his highest favour, had revealed to the enemy the existence of the spring, he lost all his spirit, and he knew not what to do.  He waved the owl from his presence, and sat alone hanging his head, utterly overcome.

The clouds grew darker, the wind howled, the trees creaked, and the branches cracked (the snail had foreseen the storm and had ventured forth on the wall), a few spots of rain came driving along.  Kapchack heard nothing.  He was deserted by all:  all had turned traitors against him, every one.  He who had himself deceived all was now deceived by all, and suffered the keenest pangs.  Thus, in dolour and despair the darkness increased, and the tempest howled about him.