“Oh, power divine, who clothed me as a wolf,” he sobbed, “you know if ever I felt wicked desires in my heart. However, my lord,” he added, with a bow of resignation towards Luck of the Bean-rows, “it lies with you to dispose of my wretched life. I place it at your mercy without fear and without remorse. If you think it right to make my death atone for the crimes of my race I shall die at your hands without repining; for ever since I fondled you in your cradle with pure delight, when your lady mother was not there, I have ever loved you dearly and truly honoured you. Then you grew so handsome, so stately, that, only to look at you, one might have guessed you would become a great and magnanimous prince, as you have. Only I beg you to believe, before you condemn me, I did not stain these claws in the blood of the doe’s luckless mate. “I was brought up on principles of restraint and moderation; my fell is sprinkled with grey, but through all the years I have never swerved from them. At the time you mention I was abroad among my scattered tribesfolk, proclaiming sound moral doctrines in the hope of leading them by word and example to a frugal standard of living, that high aim of wolfish character. I will go further, my lord; that mountain goat was my good friend. I encouraged promising qualities in him; often we travelled together, discoursing by the way, for he had a bright wit and eagerness to learn. In my absence a sad quarrel for precedence (you know how touchy these rock people are on this point) was the cause of his death, which I have never got over.” The wolf wept—from the very depth of his heart it seemed, as inconsolable as the doe herself. “For all that and all that,” said the Luck of the Bean-rows, who had kept the prongs of his weeding-hook open, “you were stalking me.” “Following you, following you, yes,” replied the wolf in wheedling tones, “in the hope of interesting you in my benevolent purpose, but in some more suitable place than this for conversation. Ah, I said to myself, if my lord Luck of the Bean-rows, whose reputation is spread far and wide, would but share in my scheme of reform, he would have to-day a splendid opportunity. I warrant that one quart measure of those dainty beans hanging from his staff would convert a tribe of wolves, wolflings and cubs to a vegetable diet, and preserve countless generations of bucks, does and kids.” “It is the last of my measures,” thought the Luck to himself, “but what do I want with cups and balls, rubies and humming-tops? And who would put child’s play before something really useful?” “There are your beans,” he said as he took the last measure his mother had given him for his amusement. All the same he did not shut the prongs of his hoe. “It is all that was left of my own,” said he, “but I don’t regret it; and I shall be grateful to you, friend wolf, if you put it to the good use you have promised.” The wolf snapped his fangs on it and bounded away to his den.