The narrative told, that on her return homeward with her marketing, she had
been chased by wolves, and barely escaped by flying at her utmost speed,
from time to time retarding, as she did so, the pursuit, by throwing, piece
by piece, the contents of her basket, in her wake, to be devoured and
fought for by the famished beasts of prey.
This print had seized my imagination. I looked with a curious interest on
the print: something in the disposition of the trees, their great height,
and rude boughs, interlacing, and the awful shadow beneath, reminded me of
a portion of the Windmill Wood where Milly and I had often rambled. Then I
looked at the figure of the poor girl, flying for her life, and glancing
terrified over her shoulder. Then I gazed on the gaping, murderous pack,
and the hoary brute that led the van; and then I leaned back in my chair,
and I thought--perhaps some latent association suggested what seemed a
thing so unlikely--of a fine print in my portfolio from Vandyke's noble
picture of Belisarius. Idly I traced with my pencil, as I leaned back, on
an envelope that lay upon the table, this little inscription.
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