"Wait, wait," exclaimed the man in the sledge, who seemed struck with a new idea. "They said there," he pointed to the village, "that he had not been seen in this neighbourhood. Of course, you don't know your grandfather's name; how should you?"
"Yes, I know it quite well," she laughed. "It is Ivan."
"Ah, but he did not tell you what other name he had. That ought to have occurred to him."
"Yes, but he did," said the child merrily. "And I remember it well."
"You are joking."
"He is called Ivan the Runaway. That's it. And my name is Anjuta."
"That's just the man we want," laughed the official with great satisfaction. "Look out, you rascals"—he made a threatening gesture towards the village—"you shelter escaped convicts. Where is your grandfather?"
"He is in bed."
"What? Out there in the wood?"
"Yes; he is ill since the bear attacked him. He can hardly crawl round our hut."