in
whither it would, their quest now happily ended.

'I feel strangely tired, Rat,' said the Mole, leaning wearily over his
oars as the boat drifted. 'It's being up all night, you'll say, perhaps;
but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the week, at this
time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through something very
exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet nothing
particular has happened.'

'Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,' murmured the
Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. 'I feel just as you do, Mole;
simply dead tired, though not body tired. It's lucky we've got the
stream with us, to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun again,
soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the reeds!'

'It's like music--far away music,' said the Mole nodding drowsily.

'So I was thinking,' murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
'Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering.'

'You hear better than I,' said the Mole sadly. 'I cannot catch the
words.'

'Let me try and give you them,' said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. 'Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--Lest the
awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on my
power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget! Now the reeds take
it up--forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a
whisper. Then the voice returns--

'Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall forget!
Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows
each minute fainter.

'Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays I
find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget! Nearer, Mole,
nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk.'

'But what do the words mean?' asked the wondering Mole.

'That I do not know,' said the Rat simply. 'I passed them on to you
as they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and
clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,
simple--passionate--perfect----'

'Well, let's have it, then,' said the Mole, after he had waited
patiently for a few minu