lightened of the load of its rear carriage, whose coupling had snapped under the strain. Abbleway was alone, or almost alone, with a derelict railway waggon, in the heart of some Styrian or Croatian forest. In the third-class compartment next to his own he remembered to have seen a peasant woman, who had entered the train at a small wayside station. ‘With the exception of that woman,’ he exclaimed dramatically to himself, ‘the nearest living beings are probably a pack of wolves.’

Before making his way to the third-class compartment to acquaint his fellow-traveller with the extent of the disaster Abbleway hurriedly pondered the question of the woman’s nationality. He had acquired a smattering of Slavonic tongues during his residence in Vienna, and felt competent to grapple with several racial possibilities.

‘If she is Croat or Serb or Bosniak I shall be able to make her understand,’ he promised himself. ‘If she is Magyar, heaven help me! We shall have to converse entirely by signs.’

He entered the carriage and made his momentous announcement in the best approach to Croat speech that he could achieve.

‘The train has broken away and left us!’

The woman shook her head with a movement that might be intended to convey resignation to the will of heaven, but probably meant non-comprehension. Abbleway repeated his information with variations of Slavonic tongues and generous displays of pantomime.

‘Ah,’ said the woman at last in German dialect, ‘the train has gone? We are left. Ah, so.’

She seemed about as much interested as though Abbleway had told her the result of the municipal elections in Amsterdam.

‘They will find out at some station, and when the line is clear of snow they will send an engine. It happens that way sometimes.’

‘We may be here all night!’ exclaimed Abbleway.

The woman looked as though she thought it possible.

‘Are there wolves in these parts?’ asked Abbleway hurriedly.

‘Many,’ said the woman; ‘just outside this forest my aunt was devoured three years ago, as she was coming home from market. The horse and a young pig that was in the cart were eaten too. The horse was a very old one, but it was a beautiful young pig, oh, so fat. I cried when I heard that it was taken. They spare nothing.’

‘They may attack us here,’ said Abbleway tremulously; ‘they could easily break in, these carriages are like matchwood. We may both be devoured.’

‘You, perhaps,’ said the woman calmly; ‘not me.’

‘Why not you?’ demanded Abbleway.

‘It is the day of Saint Maria Kleophä, my name-day. She would not allow me to be eaten by wolves on her day. Such a thing could not be thought of. You, yes, but not me.’

Abbleway changed the subject.

‘It is only afternoon now; if we are to be left here till morning we shall be starving.’