I do not remember what happened next.  Pidorka took a vow to go upon a pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few days it was as if she had never been in the village.  Whither she had gone, no one could tell.  Officious old women would have despatched her to the same place whither Petro had gone; but a Cossack from Kief reported that he had seen in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere skeleton, who prayed unceasingly; and her fellow villagers recognized her as Pidorka, by all the signs,—­that no one had ever heard her utter a word; that she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the ikon of God’s mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled at the sight.

But this was not the end, if you please.  On the same day that the Evil One made way with Petrus, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from him.  They knew what sort of a bird he was,—­none else than Satan, who had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young.  That same year, all deserted their earth huts, and collected in a village; but, even there, there was no peace, on account of that accursed Basavriuk.  My late grandfather’s aunt said that he was particularly angry with her, because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried with all his might to revenge himself upon her.  Once the village elders were assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were arranging the precedence at the table, in the middle of which was placed a small roasted lamb, shame to say.  They chattered about this, that, and the other,—­among the rest about various marvels and strange things.  Well, they saw something; it would have been nothing if only one had seen it, but all saw it; and it was this:  the sheep raised his head; his goggling eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black, bristling moustache, which appeared for one instant, made a significant gesture at those present.  All, at once, recognized Basavriuk’s countenance in the sheep’s head:  my grandfather’s aunt thought it was on the point of asking for vodka. . . .  The worthy elders seized their hats, and hastened home.

Another time, the church starost [Footnote:  Elder] himself, who was fond of an occasional private interview with my grandfather’s brandy-glass, had not succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld the glass bowing very low to him.  “Satan take you, let us make the sign of the cross over you!” . . .  And the same marvel happened to his better-half.  She had just begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough, when suddenly the trough sprang up.  “Stop, stop! where are you going?” Putting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the cottage. . . .  You may laugh, but it was no laughing-matter to our grandfathers.  And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the village with holy water, and chase the Devil through all the streets with his brush; and my late grandfather’s aunt long complained that, as soon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her door, and scratching at the wall.