lf a werst, one behind the other, like huge steps leading to the
table-land above. In some places the rocks are completely hidden from
the view by a thick fence of trees, which take root at their base, while
each level is covered by a minute forest of firs, in which grow a
variety of herbs and shrubs, including the English whitethorn, and wild
strawberries.

It was to gather the latter that Savanich and his seven-year-old son,
Peter, came one afternoon early in summer. They had filled two baskets
and were contemplating returning home with their spoil, when Caspan, the
big sheepdog, uttered a low growl.

"Hey, Caspan, what is it?" Peter cried. "Footsteps! And such curious
ones!"

"They are curious," Savanich said, bending down to examine them. "They
are larger and coarser than those of Caspan, longer in shape, and with a
deep indentation of the ball of the foot. They are those of a wolf--an
old one, because of the deepness of the tracks. Old wolves walk heavy.
And here's a wound the brute has got in its paw. See! there is a slight
irregularity on the print of the hind feet, as if from a dislocated
claw. We must be on our guard. Wolves are hungry now: the waters have
driven them up together, and the cattle are not let out yet. The beast
is not far off, either. An old wolf like this will prowl about for days
together, round the same place, till he picks up something."

"I hope it won't attack us, father," Peter said, catching hold of
Savanich by the hand. "What should you do if it did?"

But before Savanich could reply, Caspan gave a loud bark and dashed into
the thicket, and the next moment a terrible pandemonium of yells, and
snorts, and sharp howls filled the air. Drawing his knife from its
sheath, and telling Peter to keep close at his heels, Savanich followed
Caspan and speedily came upon the scene of the encounter. Caspan had
hold of a huge grey wolf by the neck, and was hanging on to it like grim
death, in spite of the brute's frantic efforts to free itself.

There was but little doubt that the brave dog would have, eventually,
paid the penalty for its rashness--for the wolf had mauled it badly, and
it was beginning to show signs of exhaustion through loss of blood--had
not Savanich arrived in the nick of time. A couple of thrusts from his
knife stretched the wolf on the ground, when, to his utmost horror, it
suddenly metamorphosed into a hideous old hag.

"A werwolf!" Savanich gasped, crossing himself. "Get