“Grandfather, the giants!” Yegorushka shouted to him in tears.

But the old man did not hear.  Further away walked Emelyan.  He was covered from head to foot with a big mat and was triangular in shape.  Vassya, without anything over him, was walking with the same wooden step as usual, lifting his feet high and not bending his knees.  In the flash of lightning it seemed as though the waggons were not moving and the men were motionless, that Vassya’s lifted foot was rigid in the same position. . . .

Yegorushka called the old man once more.  Getting no answer, he sat motionless, and no longer waited for it all to end.  He was convinced that the thunder would kill him in another minute, that he would accidentally open his eyes and see the terrible giants, and he left off crossing himself, calling the old man and thinking of his mother, and was simply numb with cold and the conviction that the storm would never end.

But at last there was the sound of voices.

“Yegory, are you asleep?” Panteley cried below.  “Get down!  Is he deaf, the silly little thing? . . .”

“Something like a storm!” said an unfamiliar bass voice, and the stranger cleared his throat as though he had just tossed off a good glass of vodka.

Yegorushka opened his eyes.  Close to the waggon stood Panteley, Emelyan, looking like a triangle, and the giants.  The latter were by now much shorter, and when Yegorushka looked more closely at them they turned out to be ordinary peasants, carrying on their shoulders not pikes but pitchforks.  In the space between Panteley and the triangular figure, gleamed the window of a low-pitched hut.  So the waggons were halting in the village.  Yegorushka flung off the mat, took his bundle and made haste to get off the waggon.  Now when close to him there were people talking and a lighted window he no longer felt afraid, though the thunder was crashing as before and the whole sky was streaked with lightning.

“It was a good storm, all right, . . .”  Panteley was muttering.  “Thank God, . . . my feet are a little softened by the rain.  It was all right. . . .  Have you got down, Yegory?  Well, go into the hut; it is all right. . . .”

“Holy, holy, holy!” wheezed Emelyan, “it must have struck something . . . .  Are you of these parts?” he asked the giants.

“No, from Glinovo.  We belong to Glinovo.  We are working at the Platers’.”

“Threshing?”

“All sorts.  Just now we are getting in the wheat.  The lightning, the lightning!  It is long since we have had such a storm. . . .”

Yegorushka went into the hut.  He was met by a lean hunchbacked old woman with a sharp chin.  She stood holding a tallow candle in her hands, screwing up her eyes and heaving prolonged sighs.

“What a storm God has sent us!” she said.  “And our lads are out for the night on the steppe; they’ll have a bad time, poor dears!  Take off your things, little sir, take off your things.”