Kiril was still narrating and still drinking when summoned to put in the horses and start homewards. By this time he was far from sober.
On the way home he slept peacefully, the clever little horses knowing the road homewards and keeping faultlessly to the track.
The priest had been left at his house and there remained but four or five miles to drive when the astute little animals suddenly shied with one accord, sending the sledge skidding across the road and bringing it up violently enough against a pine-tree.
Maximof was rudely awakened from his sleep. His wife uttered a cry of alarm, the boyar swore loudly and thumped Kiril on the back. Young Sasha cried out incoherently and pointed among the trees on the right.
Kiril's head was sunk upon his breast; he snored in a drunken stupor and took no notice of the Barin's blows, which did not want for energy.
"See, father, wolves!" cried Sasha excitedly. "I have seen six, there is a seventh—oh—eight—nine!"
Maximof looked about. "It is true," he said, "they follow us."
"Husband, is there danger? Whip up the horses, Kiril!"
"Kiril is drunk and useless, he will not wake," replied the Count; "I will try other means." He took the whip and stood up to belabour the wretched sleeper about the neck, face and shoulders.
Kiril awoke with a roar of pain and drunken rage; he turned in his seat and struck savagely at his master, swearing horrible oaths.