"Will you tell me the loveliest dream you've ever dreamt, Master Samuel? " Muryet inquired, as they trudged their way along the forest path.
Samuel's voice was gruff, full of a sort of terse politeness. "I don't remember dreams, Miss. "
At this, the already-overlarge dark eyes seemed to double in size.
"You - don't REMEMBER dreams? Why - how could ANYONE fail to REMEMBER dreams? Dreams are - why, they're the loveliest things a creature could ever have! "
Rising on tiptoe, she peered up into his face, though he made a great show of failing to return her gaze.
"Come now, Master Samuel -" here she adopted a tone of motherlike compassion -"surely you must remember ONE lovely dream - only one! "
A smile tugged at the corners of Samuels mouth; he didn't hurry to stifle it.
"I remember a handful o' dreams, now t' think of it - but I wouldn't call 'em lovely or beautiful, Miss."
Muryet nodded, the image of understanding and sympathy. "Yes, I see. Brawls in taverns, wicked, cruel parents, corpses stabbed through with cutlasses, death, villainy and foul language. Goodness, how do you vermin endure it all? I would have taken my own life before long. What brave creatures you are! And you'll make fine Redwallers, when the vermin days and the vermin ways have been washed away from your poor minds! " And, as a further gesture of sympathy, she gave Samuel a gentle pat on the back.
Samuel shoved Muryets paw away. Any appearances of diplomacy that he had maintained had vanished completely - as had the trace of a smile he had worn.
"No need t' pity me, Miss, " he retorted. "Nothin' worries me about my past, or my family. Now if I was a book-readin' hermit that got drunk off eatin' I suppose I'd have somethin' t' pity myself for."
Muryet, of course, comprehended none of Samuel's words, but it was not difficult for her to understand the curtness of his tone.
Immediately she panicked - for the third time that day, the wetness began to gather at the rims of her eyes.
"Have I offended you, Master Samuel? . . . Well? Have I? Oh, tell me - tell me! I never MEANT to offend you! Say I haven't offended you. Say it! "
"Devil's egg, miss! " This tearful display was sending Samuel into a panic of his own. "No - you never offended me. I'm a grown creature, not a weepy Dibbuns."
The panic ended instantly, and Muryet gave her eyes a brisk dabbing, as blithely as if she were swatting a gnat who had interrupted her conversation.

"Oh, yes, and where was I?"
Salome struggled to stifle her laughter, but Marianne, with a particularly venomous glance, ended the struggle for her. She passed the wheelbarrow's towing rope to Salome, who fell back by a few yards, so as to be out of Muryet's hearing range.

"Is she still drunk off those sweetmeats, Marianne, or is she always like this? "
Marianne nudged her sharply; she nearly yelped, but caught herself, not wishing to attrcact Samuels attention.
"There, " Marianne hissed, "that should teach you t' be a bit quieter, wont it? Or, better yet, hush up alt'gether! I've told you - an' yore puddenheaded brother - Muryet ain't mad! "
Salome, still nursing her elbowed ribs with her free paw, flared. "Don't call my brother names! Would you like it if I called you a nutshell-'eaded treeclimber? "
Marianne's fur began to bristle. "You wouldn't dare! "
"Wouldn't I? Huh, see if I wouldn't. Anyhow, I never said nothin' about her bein' mad. I tried t' talk Samuel into thinkin' there was nothin' wrong with her, an' yore th' one who spent a heap o' time tellin' me how queer she is!"
Marianne kicked a twig that was lying in her path, with far more viciousness than a twig deserved. "Now you ARE callin' her mad! Muryets queer, but that don't make her mad. You're as queer as anybeast, Salome - an' when you first came t' th' Abbey I thought so. In fact I thought you were as daft as the Methuselah bell. But I didn't say so, did I? "
If the "puddenheaded brother" remark had stung Salome, this comment was far too much to take. She knew, after all, that Marianne didn't view Samuel as a "puddenhead"; she had only spoken out of annoyance. But this was very different.
Marianne, having taken Salome's reaction, and the look upon her face, in, averted her eyes. For a few moments, feelings of remorse, and her stubbornness, waged a battle upon her own face.
In the end, though, she chose the side of stubbornness. She reached over and confiscated the towing rope, quickly, so that her paw wouldn't brush against that of Salome - and quickened her step. Salome followed, and within moments, they were practically walking beside their companions, which meant that private conversation - and quarrelling - was impossible.
The moods seemed to have been reversed - as Salome and Marianne trudged along, silent and unhappy, Muryet chattered away, and Samuel listened, and allowed himself an occasional smile.

Not long before, Samuel would have thrashed the life out of Salome for straying within paw range of the "queer", supposedly mad squirrelmaid. Now, though, he said not a word of reprimand to her.
Perhaps he was giving too much of his attention to Muryet.- who was relating a tragic tale of a mouse warrior who had been beheaded and robbed of his tail - to pay any mind to Salome.
Salome, observing the two, thought, Samuel's never wanted t' listen t' me like that - if I'd rambled half th' nonsense she's sayin' t' him he'd have told me t' 'old my tongue, or think o' somethin' t' say that made sense. She gave a little shrug. Haply. Marianne's right - I am daft.
At least once in a day, Samuel admonished Salome for "acting daft", or for talking like a daft creature. During every lecture he would insist that Salome had plenty of good sense and brains, and that she neglected to put them to good use. Now, however, Salome was beginning to wonder whether she possessed any "brains" at all. She was accustomed to the scoldings, and had dismissed the Abbess's criticism, but if even good-natured Marianne thought that she was an oaf - if Samuel was more interested in the jabbering of a "queer" Abbey squirrelmaid, than in her - perhaps she was dafter than she'd thought