“Do you see, before you stand three hillocks?  There are a great many sorts of flowers upon them.  But may some power keep you from plucking even one of them.  But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look not round, no matter what may seem to be going on behind thee.”

Petro wanted to ask—­and behold he was no longer there.  He approached the three hillocks—­where were the flowers?  He saw nothing.  The wild steppe-grass darkled around, and stifled everything in its luxuriance.  But the lightning flashed; and before him stood a whole bed of flowers, all wonderful, all strange:  and there were also the simple fronds of fern.  Petro doubted his senses, and stood thoughtfully before them, with both hands upon his sides.

“What prodigy is this? one can see these weeds ten times in a day:  what marvel is there about them? was not devil’s-face laughing at me?”

Behold! the tiny flower-bud crimsons, and moves as though alive.  It is a marvel, in truth.  It moves, and grows larger and larger, and flushes like a burning coal.  The tiny star flashes up, something bursts softly, and the flower opens before his eyes like a flame, lighting the others about it.  “Now is the time,” thought Petro, and extended his hand.  He sees hundreds of shaggy hands reach from behind him, also for the flower; and there is a running about from place to place, in the rear.  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.  Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman with a face wrinkled like a baked apple, and all bent into a bow:  her nose and chin were like a pair of nut-crackers.  “A stunning beauty!” thought Petro; and cold chills ran down his back.  The witch tore the flower from his hand, bent over, and muttered over it for a long time, sprinkling it with some kind of water.  Sparks flew from her mouth, froth appeared on her lips.