and banners of the iris; the air was drowsy with the hum of bees and the sea murmured on the bar; yet the old man noted nothing of it. His thoughts, too, were all of the otter; he was busy trying to reconcile the seemingly contradictory discovery of the tracks in two places so far apart. ''Tes a job to piece 'em together with leagues—iss, leagues—of moor between. Why, look here. 'Tes all eight miles from the revur to the Liddens, and a good three as the hern flies from the Liddens to the ma'sh; a long journey, an unaccountable long journey for a crittur that edn framed for travellin'. On a midsummer night, too, and he more afeard of the glim o' day than a cheeld of the dark. And then to turn his back on the salmin for the pike, and they poor as can be from spawnin'. Why, the thing edn in reason. But, theere, what's the use of wastin' breeth when he's done it? For the prents are hisn and none other, and nawthin' could be fresher.'
The marshman was right: the otter had crossed. At star-peep the creature had slipped from his holt in the side-stream and floated down to Moor Pool, where he killed a grilse, took a slice or two from its shoulder, and left it on the pebbles. Thence, contrary to his habit, he passed downwater, throwing the fish into a panic at every
