Wolves were extinguished in the reign of Edward the Third; it was in the histories, and since then no free wolf has trod the soil of England; only menagerie captives. Of course there may be _escaped_ wolves! Now the gate!—sharp through it and slam it behind you, and a little brisk run and so into this plantation that slopes down hill. This is a sort of path; vague, but it must be a path. Let us hope it is a path. _What was that among the trees?_ It stopped, surely it stopped, as Bealby stopped. Pump, pump—. Of course! that was one’s heart. Nothing there! Just fancy. Wolves live in the open; they do not come into woods like this. And besides, there are no wolves. And if one shouts—even if it is but a phantom voice one produces, they go away. They are cowardly things—really. Such as there aren’t. And there is the power of the human eye. Which is why they stalk you and watch you and evade you when you look and creep and creep and creep behind you! Turn sharply. Nothing. How this stuff rustled under the feet! In woods at twilight, with innumerable things darting from trees and eyes watching you everywhere, it would be pleasanter if one could walk without making quite such a row. Presently, surely, Bealby told himself, he would come out on a high road and meet other people and say “good-night” as they passed. Jolly other people they would be, answering, “Good-night.” He was now going at a moistening trot. It was getting darker and he stumbled against things. When you tumble down wolves leap. Not of course that there _are_ any wolves. It was stupid to keep thinking of wolves in this way. Think of something else. Think of things beginning with a B. Beautiful things, boys, beads, butterflies, bears. The mind stuck at bears. _Are there such things as long grey bears?_ Ugh! Almost endless, noiseless bears?... It grew darker until at last the trees were black. The night was swallowing up the flying Bealby and he had a preposterous persuasion that it had teeth and would begin at the back of his legs.... § 2 “Hi!” cried Bealby weakly, hailing the glow of the fire out of the darkness of the woods above. The man by the fire peered at the sound; he had been listening to the stumbling footsteps for some time, and he answered nothing. In another minute Bealby had struggled through the hedge into the visible world and stood regarding the man by the fire. The phantom wolves had fled beyond Sirius. But Bealby’s face was pale still from the terrors of the pursuit and altogether he looked a smallish sort of small boy. “Lost?” said the man by the fire. “Couldn’t find my way,” said Bealby. “Anyone with you?” “No.” The man reflected. “Tired?” “Bit.” “Come and sit down by the fire and rest yourself. “I won’t ’urt you,” he added as Bealby hesitated.