He placed the child carefully on the ground and crept among the reeds and bushes. The thorns scratched his face and hands, but he had something more important to think about. He lay flat and kept a sharp look-out. Were it not for his eyes, his grey shaggy head might frighten one. In order to heighten the illusion, he gnashed with his teeth. Anjuta played the part of the hare, sprang hither and thither, pulled at the grasses, and waved her hands to and fro above her head, to represent long ears. She pretended not to notice the old man.
"I don't see you. Grandfather, really I don't!"
Then the wolf sprang out of his hiding-place; the hare fled to the stream, crossed over, and climbed the opposite bank. But the wicked wolf came creeping nearer and nearer and seized the poor little animal by the throat with his great jaws.
"Were you very frightened?" the old wolf asked good-humouredly.
"Not a little bit. Grandfather, why does the wolf eat hares?"
"He can't eat grass. He wants flesh—hares, dogs, fowls, little children like you—it is all the same to him. He seizes them so, you see, and tears them in pieces."
"Does it hurt them?" asked Anjuta.
"Oh, you stupid, stupid thing! Of course it hurts them. Death is never pleasant."
Anjuta became very thoughtful. "Do you know, Grandfather," she said after a pause, "we won't play that game any more. You must not be a wolf. Wolves are wicked and you are good." "I—good? Ah, you...." Ivan made a long pause; something seemed to stick in his throat. "For you perhaps I may be good"—he cleared his throat violently—"You see, Anjuta, when I was little like you, no one said a kind word to me. I was thrashed nearly to a jelly, and always black and blue. Otherwise I would have been good; why should I be wicked without a reason? Oh, you stupid little thing, what do you know about it?"
"Take me on your arm," asked Anjuta, standing on tiptoe.