hich old Wenzel was one of the bearers. The
unanimous determination we expressed to bring him to justice as a
murderer, was silenced when Emerich shewed us in confidence a letter
from the Russian minister, and a paper with all our names in a list of
the disaffected in Upper Lithuania, which he had found in Theodore's
pocket-book. After that, we all affirmed that Wenzel's gun had gone
off by accident; and on the same good Christmas-day, Count Emerich,
with a body of his retainers, escorted the Lady Juana to a convent at
the other end of the province, the superior of which was his aunt.
There she became a true Catholic, professed, and, as I was told,
turned to a great saint. There is a wooden cross with his name, and a
Latin inscription on it, marking Count Theodore's grave, by our old
church on the edge of the forest. No one ever inquired after him, and
the company of that terrible night are far scattered. My uncle and his
sons all died for the poor country. The young cousins are married to
German doctors in Berlin. Constanza and her brother are still single,
for aught I know, but they have been exiles in America these fifteen
years. Father Cassimer went with them, after being colonel of a
regiment which saw hard service on the banks of the Vistula; and it
may be that he is still saying mass or hunting occasionally in the Far
West.

The last time I saw Wenzel and Metski was in the trenches at Minsk,
where they had a tough debate regarding our adventure in the forest:
the woodman insisting it was the Finn's spell that brought the wolves
in such unheard-of numbers, and the peasant maintaining that it was a
judgment on our desecration of Christmas-eve. For my own part, I think
the long storm and a great scarcity of food had something to do with
it, for tales of the kind were never wanting in our province. The
wolf-gathering, however, saved us a journey to Siberia: thanks to old
Wenzel. And sometimes yet, when any strange noise breaks in upon my
sleep even here in England, I dream of bei

William Babington Maxwell (18661938) was a British novelist. He was a son of novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Though nearly 50 years old at the outbreak of the First World War, he was accepted as a lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers and served in France until 1917.

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