"That's a damned lie!" Councillor Mustard aimed a kick which this time connected, although Campion never felt it. But neither his tone nor the blow carried conviction.

No-one else moved. However much they might plot and skirmish amongst themselves, the Council's loyalty was unquestioned, their feelings for Woundwort, tough as they were, bordered on worship. They were stunned rather than grief-stricken, as they would have been if the sun had fallen. They were also afraid.

"If my authority goes, where will yours be in half a day?" That was what the General had jeered at his quailing officers in the closing moments of his last fight. It didn't matter that none of the Council had been present, then, to hear him. None of them had ever needed to be told.

Even Feverfew, momentarily, was dismayed - his reaction surprised him - but he recovered with speed. The few seconds before he knew what to say even helped his purpose, as the sense of panic amongst the other councillors spiralled higher. When he spoke, he sounded not just calm but quite offensively matter-of-fact, shocking them out of their terror and fixing their attention on himself in cold sober outrage at his lack of concern.

"I don't see why it's bad that General Woundwort stopped running," he said. "I confess, I find it harder to understand why he was running at all. But then, I am not a military rabbit. Perhaps he was trying to confuse the enemy, or lure them into a trap? Naturally, it must have been a very effective tactic if the General was doing it. In any case, he was running, then he stopped."

"That's not what he meant!" Mustard almost shouted.

Feverfew regarded him blandly. "Really, Councillor? I can't imagine what else can have been meant. The General ran back a short way, stopped to ... re-group? Is that the word? And these - " he allowed his own emotion a brief outlet as he indicated the prone body of Captain Campion, "these traitorous crawling cowards kept running. But even without them to back him up, the General - stopped."

He had their full attention now. Stonecrop was watching him carefully, grimly approving. Mustard and one of two others looked almost as it they believed it.

"The General must have gone off on a solo patrol: a reconnaisance, perhaps, or playing some deeper game. He could be back by morning, or not for several turns of the moon. Or he could be coming through the trees towards us even now. In the meantime I don't deny things will be difficult for us here without him. The General is Efrafa. We must take care not to allow any wild rumours to circulate regarding his absence. The important thing for the warren to understand is that we - the Council - are here to govern in the General's name, and to keep everything running smoothly according to his orders until he gets back."

Before he finished speaking he could smell the relief rolling off them, like a bank of morning mist from a wood. If they had not been so thoroughly agitated before, some of the wiser minds might have wondered just what Feverfew thought his own role would be in an Efrafa ruled by a council of Regents. As it was, they were too glad to have been shown a clear path in front of their noses. Those who could recognise the threat of future snares probably thought they would be strong or clever enough to escape them. Or else they were already planning doomed, feeble snares of their own.

Everyone knew that if they could keep up the fiction of the General's return for perhaps one month, after that time the ordinary, warren rabbits would have forgotten there was ever any other government in Efrafa, except an all-powerful Council ruling in the name of an unseen General - and headed by a strong Chief Councillor. Whoever that might turn out to be.

"What about the Owsla?" asked Stonecrop.

Feverfew fought an impulse to growl. It was a pity about Captain Campion. In so far as the General had ever tolerated such a thing besides himself, Campion was what a human politician might have called the poster boy of the Efrafan regime. He should have died on the retreat. As it was, Corporal Moss and half a dozen more had seen him, dead beat and at the end of his tether, but otherwise unharmed. Nor was Feverfew sure enough of his fellow councillors yet to suggest killing a rabbit who was so obviously one of his own main rivals for the Owsla's loyalty.

"The Owsla," he said, more sharply than he intended, "have not lived up to the standards expected of them. In due course we should conduct a full investigation - rout out the bad officers, review the training procedures. In the meantime, naturally, Captain Campion is under arrest for desertion. He's to be closely guarded - and not by Corporal Moss. Find someone who's never served with him. And make sure he speaks to no-one. No-one," Feverfew emphasized. "There may well be more serious charges."

For a moment that puzzled them. Under normal circumstances, desertion from Efrafa carried a death penalty. No-one could imagine what could be worse than deserting the General himself, in the face of the enemy, and taking your patrol with you.

"A rabbit who can imagine defeat can plot a defeat," said Feverfew. "I intend we make it an Act of Treason for anyone to spread lies claiming Efrafan rabbits retreated from Watership Down. It is Treason to deny the truth of General Woundwort's victory. The General is always victorious. In everything he does he is both right and successful, and to suggest or even hint otherwise is Treason. And since the Council were appointed by the General it must also be Treason to hint that they are not right and successful."

Far away down the bridle path he could just make out the forlorn figures of Corporal Moss and two others half-dragging, half-bullying the condemned rabbit to his execution ground beyond the borders. It was a beautiful evening.

"And this," thought Feverfew, "is what it feels like to fly."

Over everything, the blackbird sang.