The sun was low behind the fence. The shadow of it lengthened out towards him and, in between its clefts, crept dazzling gold-red rays. For full ten minutes Bartimæus' head swayed nodding side to side. Now and again he twitched one hand impatiently. He fought for a clear vision. Each time he faced the dazzling streams of light, his head fell worsted sideways, and minutes passed before he could look up again.
At last their brilliance faded, and, somewhat to the right of him, a stunted bush took shape.
The stem of it loomed dark in the fence shadow; the leaves were darker still—and there was something queer about the leaves. They were too large, too black, too solid.
The breeze could hardly stir them, and, when they stirred, it was as though they spun.
No more could be determined certainly. He left his run bent on a closer vision.
It was no bush at all. It was a thick-stemmed alder-branch staked in the soil. The leaves were moles—moles like himself, or rather moles which had been like himself. For all were dead. Their bodies dangled pitifully, or, with poor shrivelled outstretched hands, spun as the breeze compelled them.
It was too much for Bartimæus' nerves. He turned about and fled, crashed luckily through his own tunnel's roof, and ran as though mole-ghosts were at his heels.
And something ran ahead of him, and reached the thistle half a yard in front.
The Harvest Mouse drew herself up indignant