grew dark before Peter, and he flew headlong out of the place.

So there was an end of their kissing. Sorrow fell upon our turtle
doves; and a rumour grew rife in the village that a certain Pole,
all embroidered with gold, with moustaches, sabre, spurs, and pockets
jingling like the bells of the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes
through the church every day, had begun to frequent Korzh's house. Now,
it is well known why a father has visitors when there is a black-browed
daughter about. So, one day, Pidorka burst into tears, and caught the
hand of her brother Ivas. "Ivas, my dear! Ivas, my love! fly to Peter,
my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow. Tell him all: I would have
loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his fair face, but my fate
decrees otherwise. More than one handkerchief have I wet with burning
tears. I am sad and heavy at heart. And my own father is my enemy. I
will not marry the Pole, whom I do not love. Tell him they are making
ready for a wedding, but there will be no music at our wedding:
priests will sing instead of pipes and viols. I shall not dance with my
bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling of
maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof."

Peter stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent
child lisped out Pidorka's words to him. "And I, wretched man, had
thought to go to the Crimea and Turkey, to win gold and return to thee,
my beauty! But it may not be. We have been overlooked by the evil eye. I
too shall have a wedding, dear one; but no ecclesiastics will be present
at that wedding. The black crow instead of the pope will caw over me;
the bare plain will be my dwelling; the dark blue cloud my roof-tree.
The eagle will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash my Cossack
bones, and the whirlwinds dry them. But what am I? Of what should I
complain? 'Tis clear God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so be
it!" and he went straight to the tavern.

My late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised at seeing Peter at the
tavern, at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and stared at him
as though in a dream when he called for a jug of brandy, about half a
pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his woe. The vodka
stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter than wormwood. He
flung the jug from him upon the ground.

"You have sorrowed enough, Cossack," growled a bass voice behind hi