, or he
must have received the full charge. The bear-slayer was now in close
quarters, and fired off his revolver within a short distance of the
other's head. The shot took effect, and he fell in a heap stunned and
senseless. At first they thought he was dead, and it is marvellous that
the well-aimed discharge did not kill him. His skull must have been
uncommonly thick. This fellow was known to be the leader. The rest of
the gang had probably escaped into Moldavia, from whence they came.

My friends at St Miklos were kind enough to promise to get up a
bear-hunt for me, and it was arranged that I should go and see the
baths of Borsek, and return on Saturday night, so as to be ready for the
bear-hunt on Sunday. The "better observance of the Sabbath" is always
associated with bear-hunting in these parts.

I left St Miklos in a snowstorm, though it was only the 16th of
September--very early for such signs of winter. I was not prepared for
wintry weather. It frustrated my plans and expectations a good deal. I
was disappointed, too, in the climate, for I had always heard that the
late autumn is about the finest time for Transylvania.

I have invariably remarked that whenever I go to a new country it is the
signal for "abnormal meteorological disturbances," as they call bad
weather in the newspapers. My own notion is that weather is a very mixed
affair everywhere.

For three mortal hours I rode on through a blinding snowstorm. At length
I espied the ruin of an unfinished cottage by the wayside, and here I
bethought me I would take shelter and see after my dinner; for whatever
happens, I can be hungry directly afterwards--I think an earthquake
would give me an appetite.

My unfurnished lodgings were in as wild a spot as imagination could
picture. No wonder that the builder had abandoned the construction of
this solitary dwelling; why it had ever been commenced passes my
comprehension. It was just at the entrance of a mountain valley,
treeless, stony, and rugged, through which there were at intervals the
semblance of a track--a desolate, God-forgotten-looking place. On
consulting the map I found that the "road" led to Moldavia. I resolved
it should not lead me there. Here then, in this dreary spot, with its
gable-end to the road, and turning away from the prospect--and no
wonder--stood the carcass of a cottage. My horse and I scrambled over
the breach in the wall, where a garden never had smiled, and got into
the roofless