Not until the young trio had already set out on their wood-gathering mission, did Samuel note that there was no shortage of trees around Redwall. Most likely the Friar had planned all of this - after all, there had been no mention of any dwindling fuel supplies until that mad squirrelmaid had appeared upon the scene - after Marianne had escorted her to Cavern Hole, to feast upon sweetmeats. Now that she had emerged from her Hermitage - the Friar must have decided - somebeast must play the role of nursemaid, so that he wouldn't be forced to carry the burden.

Though Salome could see that Samuel was none-too-cheerful, her spirits were beginning to soar. Not until now had she realized how badly she had missed the crude freedom of the outdoors.

Samuel was not nearly as jovial, now that he'd been assigned this new role as mad-squirrelmaid-watcher. The rush of the afternoon had prevented him from lighting into Salome, but she knew well that she had not escaped his wrath. In fact, Salome, by way of self-preservation, vowed that she would never utter Muryet's name again, while Samuel was present.

Now, Samuel walked at the head of the little wood-gathering party, and, at his insistence, Muryet travelled at his side, while Salome and Marianne -towing the wheelbarrow (meant for carrying wood) by turns - brought up the rear. At the moment, Marianne was on wheelbarrow-towing duty, but she voiced no complaint. She had been completely silent since their departure from the Abbey, and - except for the occasional murderous glare in Salome's direction - she had been careful to maintain a blank, polite and noncommittal expression.

Meanwhile, Muryet skipped along, quite oblivious to the discomfort of her companions. She pranced, smiled, blew kisses to butterflies and serenaded all of the Woods, as if she were the happiest squirrelmaid alive. Samuel couldn't help but to regard this squirrelmaid out of the corner of his vision, though he pretended to be concerned with the road ahead of him, and nothing else.

Only an hour before, Samuel had stood in the presence of this very squirrelmaid, and announced to Friar Jerome that Abbey business was Abbey business, and that, while he was willing to fetch all of the wood that the Friars heart should desire, now that he had gotten a glimpse of the full extent of what Salome called her "queerness," he was unwilling to drag her off into the Woods with him.

Scarcely had the refusal left his mouth, before the scrawny, wild-eyed creature had ceased her sugar-drunken giggling - had literally thrown herself upon her hapless ferret guest, clinging to his tunic.

"Oh, take me! Take me! Friar, force him to take me! Oh, Master Samuel. . . don't leave me! Friar. . . Friar. . . don't let him leave me! Please . . . "

When he had managed to pry her off, at last, she had collapsed into a crumpled, sobbing heap.

"Take Miss Muryet, Master Samuel, " the Friar had urged him, low-voiced, but fierce. "You heard her. Miss Marianne will go along with you - she knows a bit about tending to her - but I can't have her running through the Abbey, shrieking and cackling like an angry ghost! You hear me? "

Samuel was left with no other choice but to address the wailing, quaking squirrelmaid.

"All right - for God's sake!"

In a flash, Muryet was upon her feet, and those great dark eyes, still sodden with tears, were fixed upon his. "You'll take me with you? Have I heard you correctly - have I heard you at all? You've agreed to save my feast-day - to change this hour of horrible, lonely, Abbess-less heartbreak into one of joy and happiness? Truthfully? Oh - thank you, Master Samuel -thank you! "

And she had thrown herself at his feet once more, overtaken by a fit of wild giggling, in spite of the tears that rolled, uninterrupted, down her cheeks.

Marianne had hauled the squirrelmaid off to the dormitory, to change her into clothing that was suitable for strolling, and the Friar, having done his duty as arbitrator, retreated to the dormitory, as well, claiming that culinary duties must wait until Samuel returned with the fuel, and that, meanwhile, he would nap for a bit.

Thus, Salome and Samuel were left alone in the kitchens. Salome, toying with her claws, tried to avoid Samuels gaze, but Samuel stooped down so that he could peer directly into her face.

"Look at me, Salome, and don't try an' duck away from me, like the others have done," he growled. "Was that the squirrelmaid you asked me t' go an see the night before?"

Salome shrugged, hoping that a blithe, nonchalant attitude might cool Samuels anger. "She ain't mad, Samuel, I told you. She's just a bit -queer-ish."

But her tone did not carry as much conviction as she would have liked.

"Besides, " she added hastily, "you can't come blamin' me. You were th' one Friar Jerome you'd take her along in the first place. If you didn't want her with us, why'd you tell him you would?"

She withered beneath his stare. "Because I hadn't got t' see 'ow mad she was yet, an' you an' yore other little squirrelmaid never told me she was like this! An' if I'd seen THIS yesterday eve, before you asked me if you could run off and talk t' her, I would have thought you were as mad as she was for asking! You know that, Salome."

Samuel lowered his voice, remembering that they were in an Abbey full of creatures. "An' for how long have you been foolin' around with her? What was it you said t' me last night - about some sister she'd lost?"

"I only talked t' her once - last evening, " Salome protested, meekly. "I 'avent gone around her much. An' it wasn't my fault - Marianne ought t' have told me what she was like. I didn't know nothin' about it."

Samuel gave a snort of impatience. "Salome, you said somethin' about the sister she 'ad. Hurry an' spill it - there ain't much time."

Already, two pairs of young footsteps - accompanied by the sound of Marianne's "soothing" voice - could be heard, approaching the kitchen. Salome's own voice lowered. "I don't know - I only know what Marianne told me. Some weasel -called Akil or somethin' - sweet-talked his way into the Abbey, then made off with Muryets sister, some seasons ago."

Samuel would have slammed his paw against a tabletop - or, perhaps, against Salomes skull - had it not been for the approaching squirrelmaids. "Salome! God - don't you have any better sense? "

Salome had opened her mouth to protest again, but, at that moment, Marianne and Muryet had entered, and all conversation had been cut short.

And now, this Muryet skipped at Samuels side, singing away, without a tear and without a care in the world.

". . . And if you stroll along that old white path

You'll find that little red brick wall

About which happy Dibbuns used to play

"And when, one day, I happened past I simply had to stop and ask

Though I knew very well what they would say.

"Redwall! Oh, Redwall! A tiny brick Redwall!

"Whats sweeter than an Abbey

"That's only three feet tall?

"Would you rather have a palace you may roam from anyday

"Or a tiny one, to slip into your pocket?

"Would you rather love a heart when you must roam another way

Or a golden one, to hang upon a locket?"