it, and all did their best in firing, especially Count
Theodore; but his shots had little effect, for his hand shook, and I
know not if any but myself saw the looks of terrified intelligence
which he exchanged with his sister. Still, she and the Lady Constanza
kept up their courage, though the young cousins were as white as snow,
and our ammunition was fast decreasing.

'Yonder is a light,' said Constanza at last, as the poor horses became
unmanageable from fright and weariness. 'It is from the cottage of old
Wenzel, the woodman.'

'If we could reach that,' said Father Cassimer, 'and leave the horses
to their fate: it is our only chance.'

No one contradicted the priest's arrangement, for his last words were
felt to be true--though a pang passed over Constanza's face at the
thought of leaving our brave and faithful horses to the wolves: but
louder rose the howls behind us, as Metski urged on with all his
might, and far above all went the shout of Father Cassimer (he had the
best lungs in that province): 'Ho, Wenzel! open the door to us for
God's sake!'

We heard the old man reply, sent one well-aimed volley in among the
wolves, and as they recoiled, man and woman leaped from the
sledge--for our Polish girls are active--and rushed into the cottage,
when old Wenzel instantly double-barred the door. It was woful to hear
the cry of pain and terror from our poor horses as we deserted them;
the next instant the wolves were upon them. We saw them from the
window, as thick as ever flies stuck on sugar. How we fired upon them,
and with what good-will old Wenzel helped us, praying all the time to
every saint in the calendar, you may imagine! But still their numbers
were increasing; and as a pause came in the fearful din, we plainly
heard through the still air the boom of our own great bell, ringing
for the midnight mass. At that sound, Father Cassimer's countenance
fell for the first time. He knew the bellman was a poor half-witted
fellow, who would not be sensible of his absence; and then he turned
to have another shot at the wolves.

Shots were by this time getting scarce among us. There was not a man
had a charge left but old Wenzel, who had supplied us as long as he
could; but at length, loading his own gun with his last charge, he
laid it quietly in the corner, saying one didn't know what use might
be for it, and he never liked an empty gun.

Wenzel was the son of a small innkeeper at Grodno, but after his
father's d