He heard at that moment a slight, dry rustling in the grass by the side of the road. Inquisitive to know what it was, he went over, and, stooping down, fumbled with his hand among the entangled weeds. A scent of camomile hit his nostrils; but then⁠—with an exclamation of distress⁠—he drew his hand away.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “Thorns!” And he thought vaguely, “How odd that there should be a bramble-bush so low down!”

Once more he heard the rustling; and once more, though with more caution, he stretched out his hand. This time he knew what it was; and repressing an instinct to hook the hedgehog with the handle of his stick and drag it out into the road, he straightened his own back and walked on.

“Another version of reality!” he said to himself. “And a bit more armoured even than mine!” And then he remembered what Jason had said with regard to the prickly quills of God. “I must tell him about this hedgehog,” he thought. “It’s just the sort of thing that’ll please him, especially as it’s made my finger bleed.”