In England, I say, there are no grey wolves.
Wolves were extinguished in the reign of Edward the Third; it was in the histories, and since then no free wolf has trod the soil of England; only menagerie captives.
Of course there may be escaped wolves!
Now the gate!—sharp through it and slam it behind you, and a little brisk run and so into this plantation that slopes down hill. This is a sort of path; vague, but it must be a path. Let us hope it is a path.
What was that among the trees?
It stopped, surely it stopped, as Bealby stopped. Pump, pump—. Of course! that was one’s heart.
Nothing there! Just fancy. Wolves live in the open; they do not come into woods like this. And besides, there are no wolves. And if one shouts—even if it is but a phantom voice one produces, they go away. They are cowardly things—really. Such as there aren’t.
And there is the power of the human eye.
Which is why they stalk you and watch you and evade you when you look and creep and creep and creep behind you!
Turn sharply.