One day, however, something occurred which looked rather as though this millennium were at an end. A wolf broke into the manor sheep-fold one winter night, and stole a young lamb. The lord heard the news, and grew grave and thoughtful, but decided to let the matter pass, out of consideration for his favourite, the hunter Volkitch. But when, a few nights later, a second lamb was taken, its haughty owner lost his temper and sent hurriedly for the wolfman.
"Volkitch," began the barin, when the latter appeared, "you have heard the news. What is to be done?"
"I will pay for the two lambs," said the hunter, "and I will watch by night and see that your fold is not robbed again."
"You shall neither pay for the lambs nor watch," said the young lord; "but it is time this nonsense about wolves was ended. You shall go out and rid me of this thief, Volkitch."
"I?" said the horrified hunter. "Would you have me slay my own foster-mother or a relative?"
"Nonsense," said the other. "Your foster-mother, as you call her, and her children and grandchildren have died out long before this. You have shown your devotion to her pious memory long enough. Go out and shoot this beast, as I command you, or—or—well—yes, I will go and rid the world of the infernal thief myself."
Volkitch looked wolfish and wicked, but he kept his temper.
"I will not go, your mercifulness," he said; "and if you will believe my honest word, it were better that you did not slay this wolf either. A worse thing may happen to Dubina than the loss of two lambs."
"I have said that I will slay the thief if I come across it," the barin insisted. "Now go to your work. Stay; come back here at twelve o'clock with your gun. I have a fancy to track a hare or two with you this afternoon."
Volkitch sighed, crossed himself before the ikon, and left the room.