“Thou art a little orphan, that is bad for thee! Over orphans there is a yamyol. He is good. Here are ten groshes for thee. Even if thou wert to start on foot to Leschyntsi, thou couldst go there, for he would guide thee.”
The second old woman began to sing:
“In the shade of his wings he will keep thee eternally,
Under his pinions thou wilt lie without danger.”
“Be quiet!” said Kulik. And then she turned again to the child,—
“Knowest thou, stupid, who is above thee?”
“A yamyol,” said, with a thin voice, the little girl.
“Oh, thou little orphan, thou precious berry, thou little worm of the Lord! A yamyol with wings,” said she, with perfect tenderness, and seizing the child she pressed her to her honest, though tipsy, bosom.
Marysia burst into weeping at once. Perhaps in her dark little head and in her heart, which knew not yet how to distinguish, there was roused some sort of perception at that moment.
The innkeeper was sleeping most soundly behind the counter; on the candle-wicks mushrooms had grown; the man at the organ ceased to play, for what he saw amused him.