“May the dogs devour you, may your skins be torn off, may the Jews wear you in their collars!”
Genuine despair was in the voice of Zagloba.
“What has happened?” inquired Helena.
“The wolves have eaten our horses.”
“Jesus, Mary! both of them?”
“One is eaten, the other is maimed so that he cannot stand. They didn’t go more than three hundred yards, and are lost.”
“What shall we do now?”
“What shall we do? Whittle out sticks for ourselves and sit on them. Do I know what we shall do? Here is pure despair. I tell you, the devil has surely got after us,--which is not to be wondered at, for he must be a friend of Bogun, or his blood relation. What are we to do? May I turn into a horse if I know,--you would then at least have something to ride on. I am a scoundrel if ever I have been in suc
