ubted his senses, and stood
thoughtfully before them, arms akimbo.

"What manner of prodigy is this? why, one can see these weeds ten times
a day. What is there marvellous about them? Devil's face must be mocking
me!"

But behold! the tiny flower-bud of the fern reddened and moved as though
alive. It was a marvel in truth. It grew larger and larger, and glowed
like a burning coal. The tiny stars of light flashed up, something burst
softly, and the flower opened before his eyes like a flame, lighting the
others about it.

"Now is the time," thought Peter, and extended his hand. He saw hundreds
of hairy hands reach also for the flower from behind him, and there was
a sound of scampering in his rear. He half closed his eyes, and plucked
sharply at the stalk, and the flower remained in his hand.

All became still.

Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, quite blue like a corpse. He did not move so
much as a finger. Hi eyes were immovably fixed on something visible
to him alone; his mouth was half open and speechless. Nothing stirred
around. Ugh! it was horrible! But then a whistle was heard which made
Peter'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, while the trees rustled in murmuring
contention;--Basavriuk's face suddenly became full of life, and his eyes
sparkled. "The witch has just returned," he muttered between his
teeth. "Hearken, Peter: a charmer will stand before you in a moment; do
whatever she commands; if not--you are lost forever."

Then he parted the thorn-bushes with a knotty stick and before him
stood a tiny farmhouse. Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall
trembled. A large black dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine
transformed itself into a cat and 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.
Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman all bent into a bow, with a
face wrinkled like a baked apple, and a nose and chin like a pair of
nutcrackers.

"A fine charmer!" thought Peter; and cold chills ran down his back. The
witch tore the flower from his hand, stooped and muttered over it for a
long time, sprinkling it with some kind of water. Sparks flew from her
mouth, and foam appeared on her lips.

"Throw it away," she said, giving it back to Peter.

Peter threw i