I shall present thee and my lover shall kiss me.
O Khustina, bright with my painting.
I am unplaiting my hair,[[45]] I walk with my lover—
(O my Fate! My Mother!)
The people will wonder in the morning
That an orphan should give this kerchief—
Fine-broidered and painted kerchief.”
So worked she at her stitching, and gazed down the road
To listen for the bellowing of the curved-horned oxen,
To see if her Tchumak comes homeward.