In front of him lay the village of Makhmytka; he had often ridden there in his youth on secret visits to a soldier's wife; but now he would not go to her; no, not for anything in the world! The village lay pressed to the earth and was ornamented with numerous stacks which smelt of straw and dung. On its outskirts the Prince was met by a pack of baying dogs, who flitted over the ground like dark, ghostly shadows as they leapt round him.
At the first cabin he tapped at the little window, dimly lighted within by some smouldering splinters.
"Who is there?" came the tardy response.
"Let me in for the night, good people," called the Prince.
"Who is it?"
"A traveller."
"Well, just a minute," came the grudging answer.
A bare-footed peasant in red drawers came out holding a lighted splinter over his head and looking round.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is you, Prince! So you were too wise to stay, were you? Well, come in."
An immense quantity of straw was spread over the floor. A cricket was chirruping, and there was a smell of soot and dung.