A sudden bleat made Ivan open his eyes. He was lying on the hillside near his sheep, and the mountain across the valley glowed red in the sunrise.
“And so,” thought Ivan sadly, “it was a dream after all,—the giants, the fountain, the banquet, and dear Costan as well.”
He reached for his crook, and started back in amazement. For though he could feel the handle tightly grasped in his fingers, it seemed to his startled eyes that the crook suddenly rose up of itself and stood clearly outlined against the morning sky. As he stepped back, the crook sprang after him. When he walked forward, the crook bobbed along by his side. He could feel his hand upon it, but when he looked he could see plainly that there was no hand there.
Ivan rubbed his eyes. Was he still dreaming then? But no, everything was just as usual,—the sheep, the hillside and the morning sky. Was it he or the crook that was bewitched? He looked down at himself in alarm,—and saw nothing but the stones and grass of the pasture. There was no Ivan to be seen: no arms nor hands nor legs nor feet.
A sudden thought came over him. He felt of his waist. Sure enough! It was tied about with gauze.
“The invisible belt!” he cried, and pulled it off.
In a twinkling there he was, arms, legs, hands, feet, just the same as ever. He folded up the long, wispy sash and stuck it into his bag. Inside, his hand hit something hard and bulgy. It was the giant’s roll,—the great loaf Costan had given him.
It was past Ivan’s breakfast time, and the sight of the tempting white bread made him hungry. He tried to break off a piece, but the great roll would not so much as bend. He drew out his knife, but the harder he cut, the firmer and sounder the loaf seemed to be. He could not even dent it.
Provoked and impatient, he tried with his teeth. At the first bite, the hard crust yielded. Something cold and slippery struck his tongue and rolled out clinking on the ground.