The horse followed them.

Presently behind them they heard a splash which broke the murmur of the stream.

“The fool! She slipped into the stream,” said Hopeful.

Jig-Leg snorted angrily, but said nothing.

In the darkness and the morose silence of the ravine, resounded the gentle cracking of twigs; the sound floated from the spot where the red heap of embers shone on the ground like a monstrous eye, malicious and mocking.

The moon rose.

Its transparent radiance filled the ravine with a smoky gloom; there were shadows everywhere, making the forest all the denser, and the silence fuller and more severe. The white stems of birches, silvered by the moon, stood out like wax candles against the dark background of oaks, elms, and brushwood.

The chums walked along the bottom of the ravine in silence. It was hard going; sometimes their feet slipped, or sank deep in the mud. Hopeful frequently breathed fast, and a whistling, wheezing, rattling sound came from his chest, as though a large clock that had not been cleaned for a long time were hidden there. Jig-Leg walked ahead; the shadow of his tall, straight figure fell upon Hopeful.

“Going, are we?” he broke out, in a hurt, petulant tone. “Where to? What are we looking for? Eh?”

Hopeful sighed, and said nothing.

“And these nights are shorter than a sparrow’s beak. It will be dawn before we get to the village.…And how are we walking? Like ladies…taking a stroll.”

“I don’t feel well, brother,” said Hopeful quietly.

“Don’t feel well!” exclaimed Jig-Leg ironically. “And why?”

“I have trouble breathing,” replied the sick thief.

“Breathing? Why do you have trouble breathing?”

“It’s the sickness, I suppose.”

“You’re wrong! It’s your foolishness.”

Jig-Leg halted, turned his face to his comrade, and wagging his finger under his nose, added:

“It’s because of your foolishness that you have trouble breathing. Yes.…Yes! Understand?”

Hopeful bowed his head low and said guiltily:

“You’re right!”

He wanted to add something, but a fit of coughing seized him. He clasped a tree-trunk with his trembling hands, and coughed for a long time, stamping about on one spot, tossing his head, opening his mouth wide.

Jig-Leg looked attentively at his face, which stood out haggard, earthy, and greenish in the moonlight.

“You’ll wake up all the wood-sprites,” he said at last in a surly tone.