of hushed tranquillity; dreamy mists enveloped the dark green, pointed crowns of the pine trees. Drops of dew hung like acorns among dense, many-pointed leaves; on the ground trailing garlands of climbing vines twisted and twined themselves around the roots of storm-uprooted trees, among the brambles of wild raspberry and blackberry bushes and intertwined themselves with the thick and fibrous shoots of wild hop vines. From the steep, darkly yawning gorges, rose a thick, grayish vapor, indicating that at their base flowed swift mountain currents. The air was oppressive with the mist and pungent odor of pine cones forcing their lungs to expand to their fullest capacity to catch a breath.
Wordlessly, the company of huntsmen pushed their way through the pathless jungle growth, over fallen timber and treacherous ravines. Maxim Berkut led the company followed by Tuhar Wolf, his daughter, the other boyars and the Tukholian youths in the rear. They proceeded cautiously, ears alert to every sound.
The woodland began to awaken to daytime activity. A woodpecker perched on the top of a giant pine a moment, slid down and pecked upon its bark his announcement of the sunrise. From a distance came the roars of bison and the yowls of jackals. The bears, having fed upon their kill, were drowsing away lolling on the soft, mossy beds of their dens at the bottoms of ravines and gorges, hidden beneath the screens of forest debris. A tribe of wild boars grunted at the bottom of a gulch, no doubt cooling their snouts in some icy torrent.
The company had made its toilsome way for an hour or more along the tangled thickets of the primeval forest. Their breathing was labored and difficult, they wiped their brows constantly of the trickling rivulets of perspiration, doing their best to keep up with their guide, Maxim, who kept glancing backward. At first he had objected to allowing Tuhar’s daughter to accompany them on this most dangerous trip, but
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