“Well, and the bullet?” “I cannot find it.” “I have been luckier than you, then, for I have found it.” “What, you found it?” “Right about and come behind me.” I did as I was told, and the huntsmen having come up, Mocquet pointed out a line to them beyond which they were not to pass. The keepers Mildet and Moynat now joined us. “Well?” said Mocquet to them in their turn. “Missed,” they both answered at once. “I saw you had missed him in the open, but when he had reached covert ...?” “Missed him there too.” “Are you sure?” “Both the bullets have been found, each of them in the trunk of a tree.” “It is almost past belief,” said Vatrin. “Yes,” rejoined Mocquet, “it is almost past belief, but I have something to show you which is even more difficult to believe.” “Show it us, then.” “Look there, what do you see on the snow?” “The track of a wolf; what of that?” “And close to the mark of the right foot--there--what do you see?” “A little hole.” “Well, do you understand?” The keepers looked at each other in astonishment. “Do you understand now?” repeated Mocquet. “The thing’s impossible!” exclaimed the keepers. “Nevertheless it is so, and I will prove it to you.” And so saying, Mocquet plunged his hand into the snow, felt about a moment or two, and then, with a cry of triumph, pulled out a flattened bullet. “Why, that’s my bullet,” I said. “You recognise it, then?” “Of course I do, you marked it for me.” “And what mark did I put on it?” “A cross.” “You see, sirs,” said Mocquet. “Yes, but explain how this happened.” “This is it; he could turn aside the ordinary bullets, but he had no power over the youngster’s, which was marked with a cross; it hit him in the shoulder, I saw him make a movement as if to try and bite himself.” “But,” I broke in, astonished at the silence and amazement which had fallen on the keepers, “if my bullet hit him in the shoulder, why did it not kill him?” “Because it was made neither of gold nor of silver, my dear boy; and because no bullets but those that are made of gold or silver can pierce the skin of the devil, or kill those who have made a compact with him.” “But, Mocquet,” said the keepers, shuddering, “do you really think ...?” “Think? Yes, I do! I could swear that we have had to do this morning with Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf.” The huntsman and keepers looked at one another; two or three of them made the sign of the cross; and they all appeared to share Mocquet’s opinion, and to know quite well what he meant by Thibault’s wolf. I, alone, knew nothing about it, and therefore asked impatiently, “What is this wolf, and who is this Thibault, the sabot-maker?” Mocquet hesitated before replying, then, “Ah! to be sure!” he exclaimed, “the General told me that I might let you know about it when you were fifteen. You are that age now, are you not?” “I am sixteen,” I replied with some pride.