With happy, exhausted faces, they laid the old wolf, alive, on a shying and snorting horse and, accompanied by the dogs yelping at her, took her to the place where they were all to meet. The hounds had killed two of the cubs and the borzois three. The huntsmen assembled with their booty and their stories, and all came to look at the wolf, which, with her broad-browed head hanging down and the bitten stick between her jaws, gazed with great glassy eyes at this crowd of dogs and men surrounding her. When she was touched, she jerked her bound legs and looked wildly yet simply at everybody. Count Ilyá Andréevich also rode up and touched the wolf.

“Oh, what a formidable one!” said he. “A formidable one, eh?” he asked Danílo, who was standing near.

“Yes, your excellency,” answered Danílo, quickly doffing his cap.

The count remembered the wolf he had let slip and his encounter with Danílo.

“Ah, but you are a crusty fellow, friend!” said the count.