'That's what the ogre says; I was translating."

       Oh. Of course. "No! I need my hands! He can't eat them." Though he was uncertain how the ogre could be stopped from eating anything he wanted. Ogres were great bone-crunchers.

       The ogre growled again. "Me not eat whelp; me seek for help," Grundy said. Then the golem did a double take. "Crunch!" he cried. "The vegetarian ogre!"

       "Then why does he want to eat my hand?" Dor demanded.

       The monster smiled. The expression most resembled the opening of a volcanic fissure. Gassy breath hissed out "You little loudmouthed twerp, hardly bigger than a burp."

       "That's me!" Grundy agreed, answering his own translation. "Good to see you again, Crunch! How's the little lady, she with hair like nettles and skin like mush, whose face would make a zombie blush?"

       "She lovely as ever; me forsake she never," the ogre replied. Dor was beginning to be able to make out the words directly; the thing was speaking his language, but with a foul accent that nearly obliterated meaning. "We have good bash, make little Smash."

       Dor was by this time reassured that the spell of the path had not failed. This ogre was harmless-well, no ogre was harmless, but at least not ravening-and therefore able to mix with men. "A little smash?"

       "Smash baby ogre, "bout like you; now he gone and we too few."

       "You smashed your baby?" Dor asked horrified, Maybe there was something wrong with the path-spell after all.

       "Dodo! Smash is the name of their baby," Grundy explained. "All the ogres have descriptive names."

       "Then why is Smash gone?" Dor demanded nervously. "Troll wives eat their husbands, so maybe ogres eat-"

       "Smash wandered away in drizzle; now we search for he fizzle."

       This recent storm was a mere drizzle to the ogres? That made sense.