Ivan raised his hand to dash its head against the plough, but the Devilkin squealed, “Don’t kill me, and I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
“What can you do?”
“Tell me what you want.”
Ivan scratched his head.
“My stomach aches,” he said; “can you make it well?”
“I can.”
“Do it, then.”
The Devilkin bent down, rummaged about with his nails in the furrow and pulled out three little roots, grown together.
“There,” he said; “if any one swallows a single one of these roots all pain will pass away from him.”
Ivan took the three roots, separated them and swallowed one. His stomach-ache instantly left him.