quivering legs planted firmly in the
snow. But still Nod, although at every twist and turn he slipped up and
down the sleek and slippery shoulders, managed to cling fast with arms
and legs.

Then the cunning beast chose all the lowest and brushiest trees to run
under, whose twigs and thorns, like thick besoms, lashed and scratched
and scraped his rider. But Nod wriggled his head under his sheep's-coat,
and still held on. At last, maddened with shame and rage, the Zevvera
flung back his beautiful foam-flecked face, and with his teeth snapped
at Nod's shoulder. The Mulgar's wound was not quite healed. The gleaming
teeth just scraped his sore. Nod started back, with unclasped hands, and
in an instant, head over heels he shot, plump into the snow, and before
he could turn to scramble up, with a triumphing squeal of delight, the
little Zevvera had vanished into the deep shadows of the moon-chequered
forest.

[Illustration: HE JUMPED, HE REARED, HE KICKED, HE PLUNGED, HE
WRIGGLED, HE WHINNIED.]

At last Nod managed to get to his feet again. He brushed the snow out of
his eyes, and spat it out of his mouth. The Zevvera's hoof-prints were
plain in the snow. He would follow them, he thought, till he could
follow no longer. His brothers had forsaken him. His Wonderstone was
gone. He felt it even now burning like a tiny fire beneath his
breast-bone. He limped slowly on. But at every step he stumbled. His
shoulder throbbed. He could scarcely see, and in a little while down he
fell again. He lay still now, rolled up in his jacket, wishing only to
die and be at peace. Soon, he thought, the prowling Minimuls would find
him, stiff and frozen. They would wrap him up in leaves, and carry him
home between them on a pole to their mounds, and pick his small bones
for the morrow's supper. Everything he had done was foolish--the fire,
the wild pig, the Ephelantoes. He could not even ride the smallest of
the Little Horses of Tishnar. The languid warmth of his snow-bed began
to lull his senses. The moon streamed through the trees, silvering the
branches with her splendour. And in the beautiful glamour of the
moonbeams it seemed to Nod the air was aflock with tiny wings. His heavy
eyelids drooped. He was falling softly--falling, falling--when suddenly,
close to his ear, a harsh and angry voice broke out.

"Hey, Mulgar! hey, Slugabones! how come you here? What are you doing
here?"

He opened his eyes drowsily, and saw an old grey Q