CHAPTER V 
WHERE THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG 
IN March the nights are long and winds are cold ; 
food is scarce, yet hunters must live. 
Grimalkin passed down the palings at the wood- 
side, and stole on noiseless feet among the grass- 
tufts under the stormy dawn. 
Four summers have passed over Grimalkin's 
head since we saw him last ; four years of unin- 
terrupted supremacy in the woods. His own kind 
feared him ; the lesser Fur Folk fled from him ; the 
gamekeeper hated him. He was the patriarch of 
his race, a Prince among his people. But these 
four years, while raising Grimalkin to the height 
of his fame, had taken their toll. His coat already 
showed a suspicion of grey along the spine and 
jowl ; his eyes were keen as ever, but many kills had 
blunted the mighty claws and teeth ; and his whiskers 
had fallen in. Nevertheless the Spring Longing 
danced as gladsomely in his blood as when he had 
been a kitten. 
March mornings are stormy. The wind woke 
at daybreak and sighed up the valley. The trees 
of Knockdane swept a stately arpeggio in answer 
as the steely south-easter roared louder through 
the organ pipe of the woods, and bent the tasselled 
