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. 24, 1863.] us make up a fair bag of partridges and the black game of the swamps, but we were tyros in sylvan lore, never having slain bear or wolf, whereas the old Scot had once been famous for his skill as a hunter of large game, and had heaps of grey wolf-skins and brown bearskins in his possession.

Paul manifested much pleasure when I agreed to accompany him in quest of the bear; but I could not help thinking that he wasted a great deal of time in preparation. What with getting out the kibitka, harnessing the horses, and fetching the rifles and hunting-knives, the ammunition and the basket which contained the provisions, the quass-jar and the brandy-flask, he passed away a good deal of the afternoon, and it was late when we started.

I felt my own spirits revive when Paul chirruped to his wiry nags, and we went off at a gallop under the dark pine-boughs.

“Twenty roubles, Paul, if we kill him!”

“Ah! ah! lord Count—pardon me, sir, I know you always forbid me to call you Count, but it comes so natural—we will reckon finely with grandpapa bear, the sly old thief. So, so,—jump, horses—dear ones—quick, my pigeons!—ho! ho!”

And the young man broke out into one of those wildly sweet Muscovite airs which seem to exercise a magic power over the brute creation, while the horses dashed gaily along, for many a mile, through wood and waste. In quite a remote part of the woodland region we stopped before the door of a solitary hovel, over the door of which hung a withered fir-branch.

“They sell good vodka here!” said my guide, dropping the reins and springing out.

“But the bear?”

“Ah, Count, he is not far off. There, look you, is the melon-garden he robbed—there, before your eyes. I must ask the peasant if any news has been heard of him.”

And he went into the hut and came back, wiping his lips, to announce that the bear had been heard growling in the coppice, four hours ago, and that we had better put up the horses and cart, and plunge at once into the thickets. This was done; we shouldered our rifles, buckled the heavy hunting-knives to our belts, to which were already suspended the powder-horns and ball-pouches, and set off on foot into the forest. I own that my heart beat quicker than usual, as I approached the bear’s presumed haunt, and that I inwardly hoped my double-barrelled English rifle, which Paul had carefully loaded, would not miss fire or vibrate over much at the moment of encounter. But to give up the pursuit now would have covered me with ridicule for ever, and I pushed stoutly on. A pretty dance Paul led me, all the time professing to perceive traces of the bear’s passage, quite invisible to my eyes. Hours passed, twilight came to deepen the gloom of the woods, and still the quarry appeared as unattainable as ever. We plodded on, hot and tired, until after dusk, and then the suspicion that I was the object of a trick came upon me with such force that I taxed Paul with purposely misleading me. The young woodsman stopped short, and let the butt-end of his piece fall with a thud upon the moss at his feet, but he did not reply, and a pause ensued, only broken by the sorrowful hoot of the owl.

“Is there a bear at all?” I asked, peremptorily, but was startled by the cool reply:

“No, Count, there is no bear.”

No bear! I was the dupe of a hoax, then, and had been deluded into trotting for hours among swamps and brushwood for the amusement of my precious guide. I caught him roughly by the collar, but he never flinched from the expected blow.

“Englishman,” said he very quietly, “you have no reason to be angry with poor Paul Gregovitch. He deceived you, but it was for your own good. He owed a debt of kindness, and he has paid it. Better be here, in the forest, than in the grand stonehouse at Batschuvatz, to-night!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Paul shook himself free from my grasp, folded his arms, and confronted me. When he spoke again there was a stern solemnity in his tone, quite unlike his usual voice.

“This is a cold, sad land, our poor Russia. Our peasants are ignorant and oppressed, our nobles are locusts; their foreign stewards are leeches that come from afar to fatten on our blood. But Russia will no longer be the milch cow of noble and foreigner. Thank the happy fate that made a Moskov peasant save you—you only. A night in the forest will do no harm.”

And he turned, sprang away, and in a moment would have been lost among the thickets, when his foot caught on a projecting root; he stumbled and fell; I ran instantly forward, and secured him.

“I will do you no harm;” said I, as I grasped my prisoner, whose struggles ceased when he found I was the stronger of the two; the“the [sic] rather that I gather from your hints that it is to benefit me that you have led me away from Batschuvatz. But I insist on your guiding me at once out of the wood, and on a full explanation of your dark meaning. Does peril beset my friends; if so, speak out.”

This, however, Paul refused to do. No threats or persuasions could elicit a word from him, beyond a vague assurance that he had risked his own life, already, to save mine. But he consented to lead me out of the forest, and so he did, though I suspect he made the route a purposely circuitous one, for it was black night long before we were in sight of the tavern where the cart had been left. Slowly, in spite of my impatience, the horses were harnessed, but when they were ready, Paul obstinately declined to accompany me.

“If you are wise,” he cried, “you will cut across into the Moscov road, and never see Batschuvatz again. In any case, I have done my part, and you are warned.”

So saying, he turned into the tavern, slammed the door, and barred it. I sprang into the kibitka, and lashed the active horses into a gallop that soon bore me, through a cloud of dust, homewards.