He landed on the thatch—and almost lost his hold, but he was just able to scramble to the rooftree, and ran along the ridge. There was more shouting. Either these ones spoke a dialect or the excitement had put Middle English out of his head: he could barely understand them. Something about Widow Aelthreda's cottage—something about a witch....
He slithered down the far side of the thatching and landed on a window box of late purple daisies. The parchment-covered window next him was open and he slipped inside just as the crowd turned the corner.
He found himself in a small, bare upstairs room, insufficiently lit by the single window, but he could easily see into the most profound shadows. Under a chest in the corner was a mouse, frozen with terror. Dax was still out of breath, but he crept toward it, and as it ran out along the baseboard he intercepted it. He ate it—all.
As he washed his face he wondered with diminishing nervousness what all the shouting and noise outside meant.
In a little while he heard footsteps and a woman came into the room. When she saw him she made some noises with her mouth, and Dax ran to her. She picked him up and began to stroke him very pleasantly. Then there were more noises from below and presently there were a lot of people in the room. The woman dropped him for some reason.
He ran under a big, low wooden thing, but a big iron thing was pushed at him. It had a sharp point, and he had to come out. This time the man with the bill-hook did not miss, but the pain lasted only for an instant.
And ... and ... he was more conscious of the sound made by the hypodermic as it fell on the floor and broke.
He looked at it with annoyance, and felt the slight prick on his arm. He got up and went to his bathroom, where he dabbed it with antiseptic. He saw that he'd better shave before going to the meeting. Well, the drug hadn't worked. What a waste of time. What a pity.
Perhaps a larger dose? He must experiment some more.
He started shaving.