And then he had whirled, and darted headlong for the reeds.  He galloped in an odd, jumpy, sidelong gallop, as if he were a sort of glorified wild dachshund.

It did not take him long to inspect the reed-patch, to search it from end to end with his nose.  His mind was soon made up to the fact that the wretched leverets had vanished, and that no scenting of his keen nose could find them.  They had gone, evidently, quitted, like the pair of obedient children that they were, while their mother was cleverly holding the foe, and making demonstrations in his front.  And now the pair of them were probably far away, lost past all finding among the mazes of the fields.  And there was nothing for him to do but go and dine upon the old hare, which he did, taking, according to his custom, little more than a bite and a sip before passing on.

Then he turned and meandered off on the war-path.  And this was a serious business, and a busy one.  It was downright hard labor, for he worked his ground properly and for all it was worth, having a lot to kill, and not much time to kill it in.

At times he sat bolt-upright, and stared knowingly around—­because his short legs gave him such a limited view otherwise.  At times he climbed a mole-heap.  At other times he hunted head down—­and again one noticed the hound-like manner—­in every possible direction, questing, casting here, casting there, working back, throwing forward, describing circles, and poking into and out of every reed-patch, bramble-heap, furze-clump, or other bit of cover that that coverless land offered.

And then suddenly he stopped.  And then suddenly he ran forward.  And then suddenly, the scent carrying him right smack-bang out into the open, he dropped flat and began to crawl.

He crept and he crept and he crept across that absolutely bare, flat ground, with never a tuft of fur or a feather of a single live thing upon it to be seen, till one might have thought that he had gone mad, and was stalking an illusion—­as many, not beasts, have done before him; only they were men, and blew their brains out—­or went bankrupt instead—­afterwards.

Finally he stopped.  And this was the oddest thing of all, because, if any creature could show intense excitement without showing it—­that is to say, without muscle, eyelid, hair, or limb moving—­that polecat did then.  And yet, stare as one would upon the absolutely bare grass, dotted only here and there with a stone, or a rat’s skull, or a daisy—­all looking alike in their whiteness from a distance—­not a living, breathing thing was to be seen.

And yet there was a living, breathing thing there.  Indeed, there were several.  It was only the eye that was deceived, not the nose—­at least, not the polecat’s nose—­by motionlessness.

Right in front of the polecat, within spring, still as the very ground, the huffish, whitish check of a peewit, lap-wing, or green plover would have been mistaken for one of the many stones; the thin, curving top-knot for a stem of the thin, harsh grass:  the low curve of the dark back, with its light reflections in green, for no more than the natural curve of the close-cropped turf.  And she was on her nest, which was no nest, but a scrape, backing her natural assimilation with her surroundings to see her through.