id in the silence of the mountains. And again broke out,
hollow and mournful, Thumb's voice calling him. Nod hobbled and hid
himself behind a tree. Then from tree to tree he scurried in, hiding
under great ropes of Cullum and Samarak, until at last, as if he had
been wandering in the forest, he came out from behind Thumb.

"What is it, my brother?" he asked softly. "Why do you call me? Here is
Nod."

Thumb's eyes gladdened, but his face looked black and louring. "Why do
you play such Munza tricks," he said--"hiding from us in the night? How
am I to know what small pieces you may not have been dashed into on this
slippery Arakkaboa? What beasts may not have chosen Mulla-skeeto for
supper? Come back, foolish baby, and have no more of this creeping and
hiding!"

Nod burned with shame and rage at his jeers, but he felt too miserable
to answer him. He followed slowly after his brother, his small, lean,
hungry hand thrust deep into his empty pocket. "O Midden, Midden!" he
kept saying to himself; "why were you false to me? What evil did I do to
you that you should have stolen my Wonderstone?"

A thick grey curtain hung over the night, though daybreak must be near.
A few heavy hailstones scattered down through the still branches. And
athwart M[=o][=o]t and Mulgarmeerez a distant thunder rolled. "Follow
quick, Walk-by-night," said Thumb; "a storm is brewing."

The men of the Mountains were all awake, squatting like grasshoppers,
and gossiping together close about their watch-fire. Wind swept from the
mountain-snows, swirling sparks into the air, and streamed moaning into
the ravines. And soon lightning glimmered blue and wan across the
roaring clouds of hail, and lit the enormous hills with glimpses of
their everlasting snows. The travellers sheltered themselves as best
they could, crouched close to the ground. Nod threw himself down and
drew his sheep-skin over his head. His heart was beating thick and fast.
He could think of nothing but his stolen Wonderstone and the dark eyes
of the yellow-haired Water-midden. "Tishnar is angry--Tishnar is angry,"
he kept whispering, beneath the roar of the hail. "She has forsaken me,
Noddle of Pork that Nod is."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXII

When at last day streamed in silver across the peaks, the storm had
spent itself. But Nod did not stir, nor draw near to the fire to drink
of the hot pepper-water the travellers had brewed against the cold.
Thumb came at last and stoop