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 from his belt grasping it in both hands. When the bear feeling blindly for the familiar opening between the logs appeared there, he swung the axe down on its head with all his might, splitting the skull in half, its bloody brain spattering him; and the still beast’s carcass fell to the ground with a thud.

Joyously the horns announced their first victory. They dragged the beast out into a clearing, skinned him and then pressed further into the jungle. The sun had risen high into the heavens, diffusing its rays between the branches like skeins of golden silk. The huntsmen proceeded now in a more confident manner, complimenting themselves upon their intrepidity, strength and prowess.

“Although I am just a wolf, one of the lesser beasts,” joked Tuhar boastfully, “I can still do justice to a Tukholian bear.”

Maxim, listening to this ostentatious speech, could not understand himself why all at once he should feel so sorry for the Tukholian bear.

“Very stupid of the bears,” he remarked at last, “to defend themselves singly. Now if only a few of them got together, it’s doubtful whether even a whole pack of wolves could do anything to them.”

Tuhar glanced at him angrily, but made no attempt to answer. The huntsmen pressed on, climbing over fallen timber, leaping from stump to stump, often falling into piles of heaped up, dusty dry branches and touchwood.

In the middle of this primeval fastness of giant forest growth, piled up brushy tangles and rock fragments, they found the bear trails, narrow but well trodden from centuries of use, thickly strewn with the bleached bones of sheep, goats and other domesticated animals.

Maxim now kept to the rear of the company of boyars, constantly making sure that each man maintained his position, examining the narrow paths for signs of fresh tracks, urging