CHAPTER VIII.

TRICKING THE WOLVES—THE HUT IN THE FOREST.

"I'M so buttoned up in this tight coat that I can't get at anything in my vest or trouser pockets. Have you a pocket-knife, Bert, or some copper coins, or metal things of any sort?" asked Alf, keeping the pony well in hand, and patting the shaggy neck, now bathed in sweat.

"Yes, I've my old knife, and some three and five copeck pieces; will that do?" questioned Bert.

"If I hold the kettle, can you put the things into it?" inquired Alf.

"Yes, I can hold on to you with one arm. There! Now they're in!"

"Does the lid fit tight?"

"Yes, very tight indeed. But, oh, Alf, the wolves are nearer!"

"Never mind," rejoined the elder boy. "Now I'm going to pull Sharik up for a minute, and you must quickly tie this end of the string to the handle of the kettle, and mind and tie the right kind of knots."

There was a pause. The pony had stopped, panting heavily, his head drooping, his mouth all foam. The line of wolves—closer now—had stopped too, ears pricked inquiringly, tails out.

"Have you done it? Then give me the ball of string, and you hold on to my waist, for I'm going to start again. Don't bother about the kettle, let it drop behind, and I'll pay out a long line, and let the thing come bumping and clattering after us. It may puzzle the wolves, and make them afraid of catching us up, and so we shall perhaps gain time for Sharik to get his wind again."

Alf's good idea was at once acted upon, and as the bright tin kettle descended to the road, and came pounding and bumping along, clattering and ringing and jingling with the tumbling and shifting of its metal contents, the wolves began, with common consent, to lag behind.

For here, undoubtedly, they seemed to think, was a trap or snare of some weird and deadly nature, and they dared not pass it, but loped along some way behind, looking dejected and well-nigh despairing.

Seeing this, Alf suffered Sharik to go his own pace, and presently the good little steed got his wind again, and galloped on bravely.

"Hark!" exclaimed Bert, clutching his brother in his excitement. "What's that!"

Alf pulled up—no easy matter, for Sharik was going his best. Both boys shuddered, as a loud, hoarse cry of horror and fear came towards them on the following wind. It was the cry of some strong man in mortal peril and deadly terror, and as it rang out again and again on the frosty air, both the boys turned sick with sympathetic fear and a dreadful understanding of the truth.

For, strange to say, the long line of pursuing wolves had broken, and those that had been nearest to the young riders had turned, and were cantering back as though scenting another and an easier quarry.

As the lads waited, listening spellbound, two shots rang out sharply, followed by dismal howling and snarling. Then there was a pause and another shot, more yells, and one last despairing call for help that was not at hand.

The eyes of the two boys met, and the same thought flashed into the minds of each.

"Yes," said Alf, in a hushed, awe-struck voice, "it is, I truly believe, Gavril of the Red-scar. He had come after us on his snow-shoes, but God did not suffer him to overtake us. Oh, Bert, do you remember what dad was reading at prayers the other morning? The words of a bit of a verse have been haunting me ever since we started to-day. The enemy said, 'I will pursue,' but the enemy didn't overtake the Israelites, nor our enemy us. Now, Sharik, go on, and get us quickly to the wood."

The tardy light of the winter morning was just beginning to glimmer grey-white in the east as the young riders reached the wood which, for all the last part of their way, had been the goal of their hopes.

The road, such as it was, narrow and ill-defined, led through the heart of the forest; and—anxious to find some safe place where they could rest—the boys rode slowly along, eyeing with eager glances every little clearing for signs of a woodman's hut or peasant's cottage, or even a shed, so that it had walls and a roof.

For some time, however, nothing was to be seen but the thickly-growing, snow-clad pines and firs. But at last Bert's quick eyes spied out among a mass of saplings a small building, made apparently of split pine logs, the round side turned outwards.

Nothing could well have been poorer in the way of a house, nothing more uninviting. Yet never was the sight of a king's palace so welcome to anyone as this hovel to our tired young travellers, for at least it promised safety and a place where they could lie down and sleep off some of their great weariness.

The door was fast closed, but there were sounds within, and they could see a light through the little bottle-glass window. Leading the pony, the boys stopped at the door and knocked.

"Go not to the door, Sonia, open it not!" cried a man's voice within. "Who knows but it may be the police?"

"Nay," replied a woman's sweet tones, "the police will not come hither. Have no fears, my dear. I will see who knocks."

The door opened, and a young woman asked:

"Who are you, my children, and what do you alone in the heart of the forest at this early hour?" she said gently.

And her face was so kind and true, and her voice so sweet, that Alf at once resolved to tell her all and enlist her sympathies.

"Wilt thou, in thy goodness of heart," he said, "suffer us children to enter your cottage, and sleep for an hour or two in some corner? We are chilled to the bone and spent with weariness, for we have ridden for hours in the bitter cold, and been chased by wolves, so that it is only of God's mercy that we have come through at all. But we will tell thee our whole story if we may but come in."