I was coming back from hunting one evening alone in a droshky. I was six miles from home; my good bravely along the dusty road, up her ears with an occasional snort; my weary dog stuck close to the hind-wheels, as though he were fastened there. A tempest was coming on. In front, a huge, purplish storm-cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; long grey rain-clouds flew over my head and to meet me; the stirred and whispered restlessly. The heat changed suddenly to a damp ; the darkness rapidly thickened. I gave the horse a with the , a steep slope, pushed across a dry water-course overgrown with brushwood, mounted the hill, and drove into the forest. The road ran before me, bending between thick hazel bushes, now in darkness; I advanced with difficulty. The droshky jumped up and down over the hard roots of the ancient oaks and limes, which were continually intersected by deep ruts—the tracks of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A violent wind suddenly began to roar overhead; the trees ; big drops of rain fell with slow tap and splash on the leaves; there came a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The rain fell in . I went on a step or so, and soon was forced to stop; my horse ; I could not see an inch before me. I managed to take refuge somehow in a spreading bush. down and covering my face, I waited patiently for the storm to blow over, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, I saw a tall figure on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the figure seemed to have sprung out of the ground near my droshky.  
'Who's that?' inquired a ringing voice.
 
'Why, who are you?'
 
'I'm the forester here.'
 
I mentioned my name.
 
'Oh, I know! Are you on your way home?'
 
'Yes. But, you see, in such a storm….'
 
'Yes, there is a storm,' replied the voice.
 
A pale flash of lightning lit up the forester from head to foot; a brief crashing clap of thunder followed at once upon it. The rain with redoubled force.
 
'It won't be over just directly,' the forester went on.
 
'What's to be done?'
 
'I'll take you to my hut, if you like,' he said .
 
'That would be a service.'
 
'Please to take your seat'
 
He went up to the mare's head, took her by the bit, and pulled her up. We set off. I held on to the cushion of the droshky, which rocked 'like a boat on the sea,' and called my dog. My poor mare splashed with difficulty through the mud, slipped and stumbled; the forester before the to right and to left like a ghost. We drove rather a long while; at last my guide stopped. 'Here we are home, sir,' he observed in a quiet voice. The gate creaked; some puppies barked a welcome. I raised my head, and in a flash of lightning I made out a small hut in the middle of a large yard, fenced in with . From the one little window there was a dim light. The forester led his horse up to the steps and knocked at the door. 'Coming, coming!' we heard in a little voice; there was the patter of bare feet, the bolt creaked, and a girl of twelve, in a little old smock tied round the waist with list, appeared in the with a lantern in her hand.
 
'Show the gentleman a light,' he said to her 'and I will put your droshky in the shed.'
 
The little girl glanced at me, and went into the hut. I followed her.
 
The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoky, low-pitched, and empty, without curtains or partition. A sheepskin hung on the wall. On the bench lay a single-barrelled gun; in the corner lay a heap of rags; two great pots stood near the oven. A pine splinter was burning on the table up and dying down mournfully. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, suspended from the end of a long horizontal pole. The little girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and with her right hand began swinging the cradle, while with her left she attended to the smouldering pine splinter. I looked round—my heart sank within me: it's not cheering to go into a peasant's hut at night. The baby in the cradle breathed hard and fast.
 
'Are you all alone here?' I asked the little girl.
 
'Yes,' she uttered, hardly audibly.
 
'You're the forester's daughter?'
 
'Yes,' she whispered.
 
The door creaked, and the forester, bending his head, stepped across the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, went up to the table, and lighted a candle.
 
'I dare say you're not used to the splinter light?' said he, and he shook back his curls.
 
I looked at him. Rarely has it been my fortune to such a creature. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and in marvellous proportion. His powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under his wet homespun shirt. A curly, black beard hid half of his stern and face; small brown eyes looked out boldly from under broad which met in the middle. He stood before me, his arms held lightly akimbo.
 
I thanked him, and asked his name.
 
'My name's Foma,' he answered, 'and my nickname's Biryuk' (i.e. wolf). [Footnote: The name Biryuk is used in the Orel province to denote a , man.—Author's Note.]
 
'Oh, you're Biryuk.'
 
I looked with redoubled curiosity at him. From my Yermolaï and others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire. According to them there had never been such a master of his business in the world before. 'He won't let you carry off a handful of brushwood; he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even in the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting him—he's strong, and cunning as the devil…. And there's no getting at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no he'll walk into. More than once good folks have planned to put him out of the world, but no—it's never come off.'
 
That was how the neighbouring peasants of Biryuk.
 
'So you're Biryuk,' I repeated; 'I've heard talk of you, brother. They say you show no mercy to anyone.'
 
'I do my duty,' he answered grimly; 'it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing.'
 
He took an from his girdle and began splitting splinters.
 
'Have you no wife?' I asked him.
 
'No,' he answered, with a vigorous sweep of the axe.
 
'She's dead, I suppose?'
 
'No … yes … she's dead,' he added, and turned away. I was silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.
 
'She ran away with a travelling pedlar,' he brought out with a bitter smile. The little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began crying; the little girl went to the cradle. 'There, give it him,' said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding-bottle into her hand. 'Him, too, she abandoned,' he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. He went up to the door, stopped, and turned round.
 
'A gentleman like you,' he began, 'wouldn't care for our bread, I dare say, and except bread, I've—'
 
'I'm not hungry.'
 
'Well, that's for you to say. I would have heated the samovar, but I've no tea…. I'll go and see how your horse is getting on.'
 
He went out and slammed the door. I looked round again, the hut struck me as more than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke choked my breathing unpleasantly. The little girl did not stir from her place, and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle, and timidly pulled her slipping smock up on to shoulder; her bare legs hung motionless.
 
'What's your name?' I asked her.
 
'Ulita,' she said, her mournful little face more than ever.
 
The forester came in and sat down on the bench.
 
'The storm 's passing over,' he observed, after a brief silence; 'if you wish it, I will guide you out of the forest.'
 
I got up; Biryuk took his gun and examined the firepan.
 
'What's that for?' I inquired.
 
'There's in the forest…. They're cutting a tree down on
Mares' Ravine,' he added, in reply to my look of .
'Could you hear it from here?'
 
'I can hear it outside.'
 
We went out together. The rain had ceased. Heavy masses of storm-cloud were still in the distance; from time to time there were long ............