Dax was hemmed in on three sides. He started back for the castle, but the big doorway was filled with onlookers, one of whom stepped forward, aiming a crossbow. There was a clank followed by a hissing in the air, and the bolt thumped into the ground next to him. The bowman cursed and began to wind up his bow with a crannikin. Dax's fur stood out all over him and he made a mad dash towards a group of women who had nothing in their hands but besoms of birch twigs. It was a fortunate choice. Two or three women made abortive swats at him and the others backed away, leaving a clear path. In front of him was an open space and a tall tree. Almost before he knew it he was near its top and the whole village was milling around near its base, looking up with red angry faces. "Fire the tree!" someone shouted. "T'won't burn. It's an elm!" "Well, _I_ shan't climb it!" "I won't have my tree burn!" an indignant voice yelled, but was drowned out. Small children were jumping up and down in excitement, and some teen-age boys threw stones but none of them reached him. Dax spat furiously. Teen-agers were the same through the ages! "Cut it down, then!" "T'will fall on my house!" (A woman's voice.) The shouting died down, and Dax hung on till his claws ached. There seemed to be a conference going on. The castle appeared to have lost interest, which relieved him; if there was to be any more crossbow shooting he stood little chance. After a short while the subject of the conference became apparent as men began arriving with bundles of dry sticks and faggots. To Dax's horror these were piled about the trunk and set alight. Then, as the flames began to rise, green boughs were added and a thick cloud of suffocating smoke came up. * * * * * Desperately he tried to find escape. One of the elm's long branches reached out almost over the roof of one of the houses, but it meant climbing down into the heart of the choking cloud. Beyond the house he suddenly caught sight of his master, Trice, who waved to him beseechingly. It gave him courage. Holding his breath, he began to back down the trunk until he felt the branch under him. Then he twisted round and ran along it with his heart pounding. A cat has small lungs for its size and holding his breath was a torment--but at last he was free of the smoke, and he took a breath of clean air. The roof seemed to be within reach, and the crowd had temporarily lost sight of him in the smoke. He could hear the jester's voice, but for some reason he couldn't understand him--it sounded like gibberish. He crept out until the thinning branch began to bend and, just as shouts went up from the more observant villagers, he leapt.