“Give in a little to my tastes, and observe that I do not like those who sing to a tune of fibs.  Thou must have relatives since you have a sister.”

“It is not my sister.”

“It is not your sister?”

“No.”

“Who is it then?”

“It is a baby that I found.”

“Found?”

“Yes.”

“What! did you pick her up?”

“Yes.”

“Where?  If you lie I will exterminate you.”

“On the breast of a woman who was dead in the snow.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Where?”

“A league from here.”

The arched brow of Ursus knitted and took that pointed shape which characterizes emotion on the brow of a philosopher.

“Dead!  Lucky for her!  We must leave her in the snow.  She is well off there.  In which direction?”

“In the direction of the sea.”

“Did you cross the bridge?”

“Yes.”

Ursus opened the window at the back and examined the view.

The weather had not improved.  The snow was falling thickly and mournfully.

He shut the window.

He went to the broken glass; he filled the hole with a rag; he heaped the stove with peat; he spread out as far as he could the bear-skin on the chest; took a large book which he had in a corner, placed it under the skin for a pillow, and laid the head of the sleeping infant on it.

Then he turned to the boy.

“Lie down there.”

The boy obeyed, and stretched himself at full length by the side of the infant.

Ursus rolled the bear-skin over the two children, and tucked it under their feet.

He took down from a shelf, and tied round his waist, a linen belt with a large pocket containing, no doubt, a case of instruments and bottles of restoratives.

Then he took the lantern from where it hung to the ceiling and lighted it.  It was a dark lantern.  When lighted it still left the children in shadow.

Ursus half opened the door, and said,—­

“I am going out; do not be afraid.  I shall return.  Go to sleep.”

Then letting down the steps, he called Homo.  He was answered by a loving growl.

Ursus, holding the lantern in his hand, descended.  The steps were replaced, the door was reclosed.  The children remained alone.

From without, a voice, the voice of Ursus, said,—­

“You, boy, who have just eaten up my supper, are you already asleep?”

“No,” replied the child.

“Well, if she cries, give her the rest of the milk.”

The clinking of a chain being undone was heard, and the sound of a man’s footsteps, mingled with that of the pads of an animal, died off in the distance.  A few minutes after, both children slept profoundly.