rs? There are
hundreds, and tens of hundreds of Mulgars in my forest, of more kinds
and tribes than I have hairs on my scut. How should old Mishcha raise an
eyelid at only three? Olory mi, my third-gone grandmother used to tell
me many a story of you thieving, gluttonous Mulgars, all alike, all
alike. It's sad when one's old to remember, but it's sadder to forget."

Clouds had stolen again over the moon, and snow was falling fast. Let
these evil-smelling Minimuls chatter but a little longer, she thought;
not a hoof-print would be left.

"Listen, old hare," said the chief of the Minimuls. "Have you seen three
Mulgars pass this way, two in red jackets, and one, a Nizza-neela, in a
sheep's coat, and all galloping, galloping, on three Little Horses of
Tishnar?"

Mishcha gazed at him stonily, with hatred in her eyes. She was grey with
age, and now a little peaked cap of snow crowned her head, so still she
had sat beneath the drifting flakes. "I am old--oh yes, old, and old
again," she said. "I have ruled in Munza-mulgar one hundred, two
hundred, five hundred years, but I never yet saw a Mulgar riding on a
Little Horse of Tishnar. Tell me, Wise One, which way did they
sit--_with_ the stripes, or cross-cross?"

"Answer us, grandam," squealed one of the Minimuls in a fury, "or I'll
stick a poisoned dart down your throat."

Mishcha smiled. "Better a Minimul's dart than no supper at all," she
said. "Swallow thy tongue, thou Mulgar!" she said; and suddenly her lips
curled upward, her two long front teeth gleamed, her hair bristled.
"Hobble off home, you thieving, flesh-eating, sun-hating earth-worms!
Hobble off home before ears and nose and thumbs and toes are bitten and
frozen in Tishnar's snows! Away with you, moon-maggots, grubbers of
sand!" She stamped with her foot, her old eyes greenly burning under
the bush.

The Minimuls began angrily chattering again. At last the first who had
spoken turned mousily and said: "To-day you go unharmed, old Quatta, but
to-morrow we will come with fire and burn your Dragon-tree about your
ears."

Mishcha stirred not one hair. "It's sad to burn, but it's sadder still
to freeze." Her round eyes glared beneath her snow-cap. "A long march
home to you, Minnikin-mulgar! A long march home! And if I should smell
out the Sheep's-jacket on his Little Horse of Tishnar, I will tell him
where to find you--burnt, bitten, brittle, baked hard in frozen snow!"
She turned and began to hop off slowly be