“You come from Bogalyovka, don’t you?” he asked the peasant sternly.

“Yes, from Bogalyovka.”

And to while away the time Yergunov began to think about Bogalyovka.  It was a big village and it lay in a deep ravine, so that when one drove along the highroad on a moonlight night, and looked down into the dark ravine and then up at the sky, it seemed as though the moon were hanging over a bottomless abyss and it were the end of the world.  The path going down was steep, winding, and so narrow that when one drove down to Bogalyovka on account of some epidemic or to vaccinate the people, one had to shout at the top of one’s voice, or whistle all the way, for if one met a cart coming up one could not pass.  The peasants of Bogalyovka had the reputation of being good gardeners and horse-stealers.  They had well-stocked gardens.  In spring the whole village was buried in white cherry-blossom, and in the summer they sold cherries at three kopecks a pail.  One could pay three kopecks and pick as one liked.  Their women were handsome and looked well fed, they were fond of finery, and never did anything even on working-days, but spent all their time sitting on the ledge in front of their houses and searching in each other’s heads.

But at last there was the sound of footsteps.  Lyubka, a girl of twenty, with bare feet and a red dress, came into the room. . . .  She looked sideways at Yergunov and walked twice from one end of the room to the other.  She did not move simply, but with tiny steps, thrusting forward her bosom; evidently she enjoyed padding about with her bare feet on the freshly washed floor, and had taken off her shoes on purpose.

Kalashnikov laughed at something and beckoned her with his finger.  She went up to the table, and he showed her a picture of the Prophet Elijah, who, driving three horses abreast, was dashing up to the sky.  Lyubka put her elbow on the table; her plait fell across her shoulder—­a long chestnut plait tied with red ribbon at the end —­and it almost touched the floor.  She, too, smiled.

“A splendid, wonderful picture,” said Kalashnikov.  “Wonderful,” he repeated, and motioned with his hand as though he wanted to take the reins instead of Elijah.

The wind howled in the stove; something growled and squeaked as though a big dog had strangled a rat.

“Ugh! the unclean spirits are abroad!” said Lyubka.

“That’s the wind,” said Kalashnikov; and after a pause he raised his eyes to Yergunov and asked: 

“And what is your learned opinion, Osip Vassilyitch—­are there devils in this world or not?”