"The master," replied the stranger curtly, resting his elbows on the hearth.
"Possibly you may suppose this house to be an inn because it lies at the extreme end of the town?"
"I think nothing of the sort, my pretty mistress. I know that here dwells Master Zudár, the worthy ferry-master."
"Ferry-master?"
"Yes, ferry-master! Does he not transport men from this world to the next?"
"How come you to know the master?"
"I have never seen him, yet I know him well for all that. It is not possible to speak to him now because he is a-praying. He prays regularly for a whole hour at a time, and then it is not well then to disturb him. That is why you two are crouching in the kitchen here. You, my pretty mistress, are Master Zudár's wife, and this young man is his 'prentice. I know you very well also."
"But who are you yourself then? Speak! What do you want?" asked the woman much puzzled.
"I shall tell that to the master himself, inside there, when he has quite finished his devotions. It is his habit every night, before he lies down, to fire off his gun, then I will approach him. Meanwhile sit down beside me! Look ye, this bench can very well hold the pair of us, let us have a little talk together."
The stranger thereupon doffed his little round furred cap and his long black trussed-up locks fell in curling ringlets about his shoulders.