Our
hunting-gear was donned in a trice; and with my uncle's most trusty
man, Metski, to assist in driving, away we went at full speed to the
forest.
Father Cassimer was an experienced general in expeditions of the kind;
he knew the turns of the woods where the wolves scented best; and when
we had got fairly among the tall oaks, down went his pork. For some
time it dragged on without a single wolf appearing, though the odour
came strong and savoury through cords and straw.
'If I were a wolf myself, I would come for that,' said old Metski. The
priest quickened his speed, vowing he would not say mass without a
skin that night; and we got deeper into the wilderness of oak and
pine. Like most of our Lithuanian forests, it had no underwood. There
was ample space for our sledge among the great trees, and the
moonlight fell in a flood of brightness upon their huge white trunks,
and through the frost-covered branches. We could see the long icicles
gleaming like pendants of diamond for miles through the wide woods,
but never a wolf. The priest began to look disappointed; Metski
sympathised with him, for he relished a hunt almost as well as his
reverence; but all the rest, with the help of the Russians, amused
themselves with _making_ game.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25