“Here, your Excellency,” replied a voice from above.
I glanced up at the loft, and saw a black beard and two sparkling eyes.
“Well, friend, are you cold?”
“How could I be otherwise than cold in only a thin tunic! I had a fur coat, but why should I hide my fault?—I pawned it yesterday with a brandy-seller; the cold did not seem to be so severe.”
At that moment the host entered with a smoking tea-urn; I offered our guide a cup of tea; the peasant came down from the loft. His exterior seemed to me somewhat remarkable. He was about forty years of age, of middle height, thin and broad-shouldered. In his black beard streaks of grey were beginning to make their appearance; his large, lively black eyes were incessantly on the roll. His face had something rather agreeable about it, although an expression of vindictiveness could also be detected upon it. His hair was cut close round his head. He was dressed in a ragged tunic and Tartar trousers. I gave him a cup of tea; he tasted it, and made a wry face.
“Your Excellency,” said he, “be so good as to order a glass of wine for me; tea is not the drink for us Cossacks.”
I willingly complied with his request. The landlord brought a square bottle and a glass from a cupboard, went up to him, and, looking into his face, said:
“Oh! you are again in our neighbourhood! Where have you come from?”
My guide winked significantly, and made reply:
“Flying in the garden, pecking hempseed; the old woman threw a stone, but it missed its aim. And how is it with—you?”