"But, oh, if only Stepan could have come with us, it would have been such a comfort," said Bert.
"Yes, but how could he, when he was so anxious about his brother? And he told me yesterday that some of the prisons in those small towns here in the interior of Russia are such dreadful holes that prisoners often die of cold and want and disease, and no one ever hears of them any more."
While the boys were talking, the pony was going steadily forward, picking his way carefully where the road was uneven and the snow frozen into rough ridges; but quickening his pace to a canter whenever the way was smooth enough.
But now—suddenly—he stopped short, his head turned to meet the wind, his nostrils evidently receiving a scent that startled and alarmed him.
The lads felt him stiffen and grow rigid under the saddle, and their hearts beat quick with fear.
Full of horror of what might be coming, they looked round, half-expecting to see Red-scar striding after them on his snow-shoes; but no human foe was in sight. They saw, however, against the white background, two or three black shadows skulking along at some little distance behind, and stopping when Sharik stopped. And in a moment the young riders understood what had thrilled their brave little steed with fear.
"Wolves?" questioned Bert in a husky voice.
"Yes," replied Alf; "but not many of them yet; not enough to be dangerous. We may be able to get to some place where we can be safe before there are more of them. They haven't sounded their hunting-cry yet."
"Oh, Alf!" sighed poor Bert, "I never thought of such a thing as this! It's too dreadful."
"Go on, Sharik!" cried Alf, pressing his heels against the pony's fat sides. "You can gallop when you choose, and you, Bert, sit tight!"