Fill us, fill us, fill us!
They fell on the ground in convulsions, with foaming mouths, like madmen; they prophesied, but for the most part it was impossible to make out what they meant. Some stopped short in exhaustion, their faces either crimson or deadly white. Sweat poured down them in streams; they mopped themselves with towels, wrung their drenched tunics out, making pools on the floor. And after a brief rest they recommenced their dance.
Suddenly the dancers stopped, and fell with their faces to the ground. A dead silence ensued, and again, as before the Queen’s entry, a reverent whisper passed through the room.
“The King, the King!”
In came a man, of about thirty, arrayed in a long white semi-transparent gown. He had a feminine face, like that of Akoulína Makejevna. It was not Russian, yet of singular and winning beauty.
“Who is this?” asked Tichon.
“Christ, the Lord,” answered Mitka, who lay next to him.
Tichon learnt afterwards that he was a runaway Cossack, Averian by name, the son of a Cossack and a captive Greek woman.
The King went up to the Queen, who respectfully rose before him, and embraced and kissed her three times.