will be my dwelling; the dark blue clouds my roof-tree. The eagle will
claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash the Cossack's bones, and the
whirlwinds will dry them. But what am I? Of whom, to whom, am I
complaining? 'T is plain, God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so
be it!" and he went straight to the tavern.

My late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised on seeing Petrus in
the tavern, and at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and she
stared at him as though in a dream, when he demanded a jug of brandy,
about half a pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his
woe. The vodka stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter
than wormwood. He flung the jug from him upon the ground. "You have
sorrowed enough, Cossack," growled a bass voice behind him. He looked
round--Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like a brush, his eyes
like those of a bull. "I know what you lack: here it is." Then he
jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle, and smiled
diabolically. Petro shuddered. "He, he, he! yes, how it shines!" he
roared, shaking out ducats into his hand: "he, he, he! and how it
jingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such shiners."--
"It is the Evil One!" exclaimed Petro: "Give them here! I'm ready for
anything!" They struck hands upon it. "See here, Petro, you are ripe
just in time: to-morrow is St. John the Baptist's day. Only on this one
night in the year does the fern blossom. Delay not. I will await thee at
midnight in the Bear's ravine."

I do not believe that chickens await the hour when the woman brings
their corn with as much anxiety as Petrus awaited the evening. And, in
fact, he looked to see whether the shadows of the trees were not
lengthening, if the sun were not turning red towards setting; and the
longer he watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was!