"Hey, Mulgar! hey, Slugabones! how come you here? What are you doing here?"
He opened his eyes drowsily, and saw an old grey Quatta hare staring drearily into his face with large whitening eyes.
"Sleep," he said, softly blinking into her face.
"Sleep!" snarled the old hare. "You idle Mulgars spend all your days eating and sleeping!"
Nod shut his eyes again. "Do not begrudge me this, old hare," he said; "'tis Nōōmanossi's."
"Where did you steal that sheep's-coat, Mulgar? And how came you and the ugly ones to be riding under my Dragon-tree on the Little Horses of Tishnar?"
"Why," replied Nod, smiling faintly, "I stole my sheep's-coat from my mother, who gave it me; and as for 'riding on the Little Horses'—here I am!"
"Where have you come from? Where are you going to?" asked the old hare, staring.
"I've come from the Flesh-mounds of the Minimuls, and I think I'm going to die," said Nod—"that is, if this old Quatta will let me."
The old hare stiffened her long grey ears, and stamped her foot in the snow. "You mustn't die here," she said. "No Mulgar has ever died here. This forest belongs to me."