"Where are his eyes?" whispered the Fox Cub.
"In his head," chuckled the Stoat.
"His head's a puzzle," said the Fox Cub—which, indeed, it was. Seen from above, and swinging to and fro, its clean-cut symmetries of black and white foreshortened in confusion.
"Wait till he fronts you," said the Stoat, and presently this happened. The head stopped motionless. A broad white stripe divided it; on either side were triangles of black; beneath was white again, and white tricked out the outline of each ear.
"He's black beneath," said the Stoat, "and grey behind—now you can see him."
Badger had backed a pace or two and craned his neck to snuffle. Ebon-chested he was and ebon-footed.
"Still I can't see his eyes," muttered the Fox Cub, but, even as he spoke, he saw them—steadfast, watchful, gimlet eyes, as black as their black setting.
"And now we all have seen you," said the Stoat. "Marten has seen you; Polecat has seen you; Weasel has seen you; I have seen you; and Badger has seen you. Fox Cub, you yet have much to learn in stealth. Go, make your peace with Badger."