on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms
on the table in front of us. The firelight flick-
ered on the hewn logs that supported the
thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound
when he breathed, and he kept moaning. We
waited. The wind shook the doors and win-
dows impatiently, then swept on again, sing-
ing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it
bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off
like the others. They made me think of de-
feated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who
were trying desperately to get in for shelter,
and then went moaning on. Presently, in
one of those sobbing intervals between the
blasts, the coyotes tuned up with their whin-
ing howl; one, two, three, then all together --
to tell us that winter was coming. This sound
brought an answer from the bed, -- a long
complaining cry, -- as if Pavel were having
bad dreams or were waking to some old misery.
Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting
on the floor by the kitchen stove. The coy-
otes broke out again; yap, yap, yap -- then
the high whine. Pavel called for something
and struggled up on his elbow.

"He is scared of the wolves," Antonia whis-
pered to me. "In his country there are very

[[60]]

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v?