."

Then it occurred to him to remove the skin of the she-wolf at once, for,
if he left it to cool, the work would be more difficult. He stretched
the fur on poles and left it to dry in the moonlight; the carcass he
dragged to the end of the rick and buried it there; then he made a fire
of rushes, took his seven days' old bread and rancid bacon from his
greasy wallet and ate. As the darting flames threw a flickering light
upon his face, he looked no more peaceful than that wild creature, whose
hollow he had usurped.

It was just a sagacious, courageous, wily, resolute--_animal_ face.

"Either you eat me, or I eat you." That was its meaning. "You have, I
have not; I want, you don't:--if you give, you give; if you don't, I
take."

At every bite with his brilliant white teeth into the bread and bacon,
you could see it in his face; his gnashing teeth, and ravenous eyes
declared it.

That bacon, and bread, had surely cost something, if not money.

Money? How could the gypsy purchase for money? Why, when he took that
bright dollar from his knapsack, people would ask him where he got it.
Should he show one of those red-eyed bank-notes, they would at once
arrest, imprison him: whom had he murdered to obtain them?

Yet he has dollars and bank-notes in plenty. He gathers them from his
leathern purse with his hands, and scatters them around him on the
grass.

Bright silver and gold coins glitter around him in the firelight. He
gazes at the curious notes of the imperial banks, and fears within
himself that he cannot make out the worth of any of them. Then he sweeps
them all together in one heap, along with snail shells and rush-seeds.
After a while the man enters the hollow interior of the rick, and draws
from the hay a large, sooty copper vessel, partly moldy with the mold of
money. He pours the new pile in with two full hands. Then he raises the
cauldron to see how much heavier it has become.

Is he satisfied with his work?

He buries his treasure once more in the depths of the rick; he himself
knows not how much there might be. Then he attacks anew the hard, stale
bread, the rancid bacon, and devours it to the last morsel. Perhaps some
ready-prepared banquet awaited him on the morrow. Or perhaps he is
accustomed to feasting only every third day. At last he stretches
himself out on the grass, and calls to Farao.

"Come here, graze about my head, let me hear you crunch the grass."

And quickly he fell asleep beside