CHAPTER VIII.
ONE morning, some days later, the first ruddy light of early dawn came in through a heart cut in the window-shutter, and roused me from sleep. Soon after, some one knocked on the shutter; and in the rosy opening appeared, not the face of Mitskewich's Zosia, who in a similar manner roused Tadeush, nor of my Hania either, but the mustached face of Vah, the forester, and his deep voice cried,—
"Panich!"
"What?"
"Wolves are following a wolf bitch in the Pohorovy woods. Shall we go to lure them?"
"Right away!"
I dressed, took my gun and hunter's knife, and went out. Vah was all wet from the morning dew; on his shoulder was a single-barrelled gun, long and rusty, but he never missed aim with this piece. It was early; the sun had not risen yet. People had not gone to their work, nor cattle to pasture. The sky was only colored blue, rosy and golden on the east; on the west it was sombre. The old man hurried in his fashion.
"I have a horse and cart. Let us ride to the Pits," said he.
We took our seats and drove on. Just beyond the granaries a hare, or rabbit, sprang out of the oats, ran across the road and into the meadow, marking with a darker trace the surface silvered over by dew.