". . . But never fear, Master Samuel, " Muryet was saying. "Do you think that the vile, villainous, verminous - vermin, who took the life of that brave warrior, would escape Justice? Never! For Alsana rallied the bodies, minds and hearts of the defeated Redwallers, and set them on a quest for Vengeance.

"Only one creature resisted - the adoptive father of the slain warrior, the old squirrel Belter. 'This snivelling little fool,' he said, 'who, only days before my son lost his life in her defense and in defense of all the creatures in this Abbey, was cowering in a corner, terrified, whimpering for her nursemaid - this little ninny stands here now and demands the right to lead what remains of our troops?'
"But Alsana remained calm, cool and crisp as steel, defiant as a blade thrust out into the sunlight. 'I do not demand the right to lead,' she said, 'only to advise the leaders, to draw up and put forth the plan that I've imagined.'

"So desperate were the Redwallers, so eager for even a glimpse of hope, that, save for Belter, not one of them opposed Alsana. And, after days of valiant clashing, struggling, attacking, killing, and. . .and. . .battling in general, Alsana and the Redwallers brought every one of the enemy to his knees - the few that had not been slain.
"It is the custom of the Abbey to grant amnesty to its war prisoners. Enslaving, vengeance and the taking of lives holds no appeal for them. Not so for Alsana. She proclaimed to the prisoners, 'You will be tied together, before the garbage trench. The tail of the warrior whose life you took will be roasted, chopped into bits - enough that each of you may have a share - and you will eat it, and like it. Then - then you will be beheaded, and your heads will be cast away and burnt with the rubbish. . . Master Samuel? Aren't you all right? "
Samuel steadied himself, and inwardly prayed that Salome had not seen the bout of shaking. He did not glance back to assure himself, though, or give any vocal or bodily indication that Muryet's iinquiry had been anything other than unfounded. Pale though he was, he replied, with a forced blitheness, "All right? Why wouldn't I be? "
"Are you certain? Did I. . .frighten you? Come now, confess - I know that malebeasts hate to admit when they're frightened, but I wouldn't laugh. I frighten myself sometimes - at night, lying in bed, sending myself to sleep with dreadful, spooky thoughts. It's quite pleasurable, really.
"The vermin never ate the roasted tail, in any case. The Redwallers went into an uproar, and old Belted shouted out against it. And so, Alsana had to rescind her order, and excuse herself, saying that she was mad with grief. By the Abbot's orders the prisoners were freed, with a warning. Alsana insisted upon escorting them herself, away from the Abbey, along with a band of Guosim shrews. Because she seemed to be calm and level, the Abbot granted her permission. They travelled quite a distance, and at night, a bit before the shrews gathered to address the vermin and send them away, Alsana asked to return to the Abbey alone, before the others did, saying that she had started to remember the warrior and her fallen friends , and couldn't bear to hear the speech or to be in the presence of the vermin any longer. And so she stole off - and, when morning came, and the vermin were well on their way out of Mossflower, Alsana appeared. She had never gone back to the Abbey at all, but had concealed herself amongst the trees, somewhere near the vermin and shrews, and had followed the departing vermin quietly.
"Armed with a sword, she charged them, yelling battle cries, laughing, speaking of vengeance. There were only around a dozen of the cowardly, terror-stricken vermin. None were armed, for they'd been relieved of their weapons at Redwall; none could duel with her. Tails fell from backsides; ears flew; blood gushed.
"But, as Alsana stood before a weasel who was trapped between a tree and her blade, tickling his throat, giggling in the face of his fear, a rat gathered his wits and crept behind her. By taking her by surprise - jumping onto her, bringing her to the ground - he captured her, pinning her sword beneath her. And every one of those vermin pelted her with stones and branches and kicks and blows - until she was dead."

The stroll, for all of the time that followed, was silent, save for the sounds of Muryet's chattering, storytelling, exclaiming, questioning and speculating, and the occasional comment from Samuel. At last, they came upon a clearing, and Samuel interrupted Muryet to call a halt. The wheelbarrow was left to rest beneath a tree; Samuel, trailed by Muryet, retreated to the shade of another.
Despite her feud with Marianne, Salome's spirits began to rise, our in those Woods. , with the cloud-crested ocean of blue sky above, the green foliage alight with golden sun, and the birds flitting from branch to branch, trilling the late-morning news, all seemed to wear a far more festive air.

Rising on tip-toe and peering up, over the heads of the trees, Salome could just make out the rooftops of the Abbey - a faint, russet-colored fringe,, wreathed all around with grey mist-clouds.
Marianne edged over, to stand beside her. Against the greenery, the pretty squirrelmaid looked for all the world like a flower in her blue, daffodil-speckled frock. Salome glanced down at her own attire - a plain green Abbey pinafore, faded from years of wearing and laundering.
The young maids stood there, feeling awkward, saying nothing.
Muryet wandered over, then, and took Marianne's paw in one of hers, Salome's in the other. Although she was the oldest of all three, she was not much taller than Salome was, and she was so frail of figure that, standing beside Marianne, she looked almost childlike.
Together, they swept their surroundings with their eyes.
After a moment, Marianne remarked, soft-voiced, "God's name! I don't believe I've ever seen anything prettier!"
"I've never seen anything more beautiful, either," Muryet piped up. "Ive. . .never come out into the Woods before - ever. When we were Dibbuns the elders said that we were far too little. . . Why. ..this reminds me of the day when Martin came to Mossflower!"
Salome removed her eyes from the scenery long enough to say, "Martin? You mean th' mouse on that tapestry wot th' Abbess was tellin' yarns about - th' one who was supposed t' 'ave 'ad a sword made from a star?" She kept her eyes fastened upon Muryet, now that she had torn them from the sky; she would not look in Marianne's direction.
Muryet immediately plunged into her own colorful description of the day of Martin's arrival.

"Oh, it was a summer day, I believe - the brightest summer day that Mossflower has ever seen, in sun was as golden as a pan of melted butter - dripping its lovely rays all over the treetops, which were as lush and green as fresh broccoli. The clouds floated through the blue sky, as fluffy and white as little meadowcream cakes -more cream than cake, of course, which makes them sound delicious and repulsive at the same me, I've grown rather hungry!"

The other two young maids burst into laughter.

Samuel appeared, the picnic basket tucked beneath one arm, the chopping axe slung over his shoulder."If yore hungry, come on an' take this basket, I'm past tired o' carryin' it. I'm goin' off to look for a good tree - a fallen one."

Muryet hurried over to Samuel, but Salome and Marianne lingered for a while, watching. Samuel laid his axe across the wagon that had been brought along for carrying fuel, and opened the basket.

"The Friar packed turnovers with vegetables an' gravy inside, Miz Muryet," they heard him saying, "but if you don't care for yours, somebeast'll be glad t'eat it."

"Thank you, Master Samuel.I'll just have this fruit and cheese."

Samuel gave her the sort of smile that he gave to Abbeybabes who pestered him, and went off, eating his pastry. Muryet sat down before the basket.
Salome and Marianne sat with Muryet, being certain to sit on opposite sides of tge basket, and each avoided the gaze of the other.
Muryet, who had polished off her portion of fruit and cheese, was far from being full, but she said nothing to her companions.
"Will you tell me another of those queer stories, Muryet? " Salome asked.
Marianne shot Salome a look that she might have given to a smashed snail. "Muryet's tired, " she stated flatly. "She ain't in the mood."
Muryet did not protest.
"Here, Muryet, " Marianne said gently. "I don't want my apple slices. When we're back at th' Abbey I'll ask Friar Jerome if you might have a plate of strawberries. "
Muryet gnawed at the apple hungrily, and silence returned to the clearing.

Salome hesitated, considering the had warned her to keep her snout out of these woodlanders' business - but these things weren't quite like bread, were they? Of course not - and even Marianne had to agree that Muryet had to be mad, to pass up a woodlander-made turnover. In any case it couldn't do any harm, to tempt Muryet a , she had never seen a woodlander "getting drunk." A squirrelmaid, drunk off of turnovers - what a sight that would be, if it happened!

Stifling her laughter, Salome glanced at Marianne, who was singing a hymn, now, and paying no mind to the other two. Salome bit into her turnover, making noises of exaggerated relish.

"Mmm - this gravy's the best! What are these vegetables called, Muryet? Oh, I forgot you never 'ad 'em , you wouldn't know -you don't eat pastries. Mmmm . . .carrots an' onions!"

Muryet swallowed, but, otherwise, pretended to be deaf. Salome took another bite.

"Hope th' Friar teaches me t' make crust like this - fluffy an' golden. I could eat an Abbeyful o' these!"
Marianne glanced up, just in time to see Muryet, reaching for the heap of turnovers. Her brown eyes widened.
"Why, Muryet! What. . ."
Muryet was already devouring the pastry.
"Salome! " Marianne shouted. "What in heavens name are you doing? Have you lost your God-given mind? "
Salome's face was aflame, and she avoided Marianne's eyes, even as she shot back, "Its daft, anyhow. Why wont she stop being so queer and eat like everybeast else? "
"You know very well why! " Marianne yelled. "Are you tryin' to make her sick?" She scrambled to her feet, and kicked the now-empty basket, sending it flying. "Friar Jerome's going to 'ave my 'ide. . .he'll never let me go anywhere near Muryet again! "
"This is about you, right? " Salome challenged. "Goin' along with th' Friar's silly orders just 'cos you want him t' think nice of you. This aint about Muryet at all - for all your carryin' on."
Marianne flushed as deeply as Salome had. "That's a load of rubbish! " she exclaimed. "And I'm goin' t' tell the Friar you called him silly! "
The thought horrified Salome. Dear, kindly, fat old Friar Jerome - "I never called him silly! Don't you dare, Marianne! "
"You said his orders are silly! Its th' same thing! "
"They're worlds different! You rotten little liar of a squirrel! If you tell tales on me I'm goin' t' tell Samuel what you called 'im earlier! "
"See if I care, you - you - trashy little -"

"Oh, will you both hush up! " Muryet snapped, startling her companions into silence. "I can't listen to either of you for a moment longer. My head is infernal! "
Her voice grew unsteady, of a sudden, and her eyes dampened.
"Im so. . .tired."
The quarreling ended there.
Marianne led Muryet off to lie in the shade, beside the wheelbarrow. She covered her with the picnic quilt.
"Close your eyes, Muryet, " she said, trying to adopt her "motherly" tone. "You'll be sleepin' before you know it, an' when Master Samuel's finished with th' wood, he'll carry you back to Redwall."
Muryet did not stir. After a moment, Marianne retreated to their eating spot and sat. Neither she nor Salome spoke another word, for both were afraid.