He half shut his eyes, plucked sharply at the stalk, and the flower
remained in his hand. All became still. Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, all
blue like a corpse. He moved not so much as a finger. His eyes were
immovably fixed on something visible to him alone: his mouth was half
open and speechless. All about, nothing stirred. Ugh! it was horrible!--
But then a whistle was heard, which made Petro's heart grow cold within
him; and it seemed to him that the grass whispered, and the flowers
began to talk among themselves in delicate voices, like little silver
bells; the trees rustled in waving contention;--Basavriuk's face
suddenly became full of life, and his eyes sparkled. "The witch has just
returned," he muttered between his teeth. "See here, Petro: a beauty
will stand before you in a moment; do whatever she commands; if not--you
are lost for ever." Then he parted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick,
and before him stood a tiny izba, on chicken's legs, as they say.
Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall trembled. A large black
dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine, transforming itself into a
cat, flew straight at his eyes. "Don't be angry, don't be angry, you old
Satan!" said Basavriuk, employing such words as would have made a good
man stop his ears.
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